“Proteus, you be quiet for a moment, too, so I can help,” Window said. “I’m named Window because I can see things happen in other times or places. But Proteus, you must be like a psychological window. Or looked at from the other way, Ma-ah is. Proteus, this time be quiet, and let Ma-ah speak if I ask any questions. Will you try it?”

Proteus nodded numbly.

“Ma-ah, somehow you got into another reality,” Window said. “I’m very curious about your own environment, but I’m also concerned about my friend here, and this is a tricky situation. I want you to think hard about where you belong. Picture it vividly, and you’ll return safely. Just follow my suggestions. Picture where you want to go.”

“I feel whooshy….” Proteus cried. “Oh—it’s gone, or she’s gone.”

“Are you all right?”

“I guess so. Was it really someone?”

“We’ll talk about that later. You’re sure you feel all right now?”

“Just a little shaky—”

“So am I,” Window said. “To all intents and purposes you seemed to be two different people, and the girl gave some pretty evocative answers—or you did, speaking for her.”

“She lives here, in the past—as this place was,” Proteus said, awed.

“Or maybe she’s … a personification,” Window said. “No, that’s the logical answer, but not the real answer. Still, there must be a connection. No wonder Story felt she was a threat.”

“In a funny way I could almost follow her,” Proteus said. “At least I feel that I could, but I’m too frightened to right now, I guess. But I have the impression that she’s on a couch, opening her eyes.”

The room was there. Ma-ah looked about. She was in her body. Her relief was making her shake. Her real, lovely, physical body! Laughing and crying, she hugged herself. A few minutes later she fell into an exhausted sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Discussions Between Lives — In Which Lydia Doesn’t Believe She’s Dead, but Cromwell Knows

Lydia and Lawrence drove along. Contentedly Lydia polished her sunglasses, put them back on, and lit a cigarette.

“You’ve got to believe me,” Lawrence said desperately. “I tried to tell you on the picnic. We’re both dead. This whole thing—the road, landscape, the trailer—it’s all a hallucination. In, well, greater terms, it doesn’t exist. It just isn’t real.”

Lydia petted Greenacre. “And Greenacre. He’s dead too, I suppose?” She delighted in baiting him.

“No, Greenacre, the real cat, isn’t dead. Or, I don’t know. He may have died. I just don’t know enough to state the mortal status of that particular cat.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you admit that. What is this, anyhow, a new philosophy that you’ve picked up somewhere? It certainly took, I’ll say that. I’ve never heard of anything so—”