“Mr. George won’t even be able to see the sides of his fishbowl,” she said.

For some reason this reminded Seven that he’d forgotten to materialize the second cat. Hastily he did so, placing him in the rear of the camper.

“This place I mentioned,” he said. “I know the people will really appreciate you giving a poetry reading. They’re poets too, in their own way.”

“Do keep talking. This tunnel makes me nervous. I guess I’ll take off my sunglasses.”

“We’re coming out of it now. There’s the light at the other end. See?”

“Thank heaven. Poor Mr. George will think he’s gone blind. Greenacre couldn’t care less, of course. Cats can see in the dark.” She broke off. “Oh, Larry, how lovely!”

“She’s gone,” Mrs. Only said to Anna, who started to cry and blow her nose, and look for her kleenex and sinus drops all at once.

“The landscape’s changed. Look at that,” Lydia cried, quite delighted.

Inside Lawrence’s image, Seven grinned; the landscape was an excellent job if he did say so himself—soft hills, early twilight—but now he had to let it merge with the quite real environment, because he knew now where they were, and what he had to do. “I might have to leave you for a minute after I introduce you to these people,” Lawrence said. “I’ll be back shortly though. It’s in the nature of a surprise.”

“A surprise?”

“Yup.” He stopped the camper, got out, dapper and chipper, and opened up the door for her. She stretched and turned around. Lawrence was gone. An old man stood beside her instead. He looked vaguely familiar though she couldn’t place him, and he wore a brown robe that suggested a monk’s garb or an unconventional academic gown.

“Lawrence had to leave for a while. He’ll be back. He turned you over to me, and I’m to take you to the poetry reading. I’m … Oversoul Seven.”

“What an odd name,” she said. “Well, if you’re a friend of Lawrence’s, I’m sure it’s all right.” After all, she thought, Larry knew an awful lot of far-out people; he used to travel around selling his leather goods off-season. She looked around. “Is this a … commune or something? Did you buy leather from Lawrence? I mean, do you know him well?”

“I know you far better,” Seven said, grinning. She was seeing him from a memory in her mind of an aging sophisticated college professor—a roguish sort of would-be philosopher, but a kindly, well-meaning man to whom she’d once been attracted.

“Now what does that imply?” she asked. “I’m sure I don’t know you, though you remind me of someone. At least, I think you do.”

“You’ll remember,” Seven said. “But here is your audience. In a moment the poetry reading can begin.”