That night I knew I had to talk to someone. Only one person came to mind—Ramrod Brail—an older colleague who’d dabbled in fields like hypnosis and parapsychology. Now I wonder what would have happened if I’d chosen someone else to confide in instead. Certainly in the next weeks I wished more than once that I’d never made that phone call.

Chapter Two

Ram-Ram’s Experiment

Thirty-six can sound pretty ancient if you’re in your early twenties, or incredibly young if you’re over fifty. To Ramrod Brail I was a mere youngster—although, because of my educational background, one to be taken seriously. He came over as soon as I called him, his curiosity aroused by the few hints of my experience that I tossed out over the telephone. I had called him for several reasons. Quite frankly, I was shaken not only by my experience itself but by its implications. Also I wanted to discuss the whole affair with someone perceptive but levelheaded, and someone who wouldn’t blab all over campus.

Ram-Ram, as the students and younger professors called him affectionately, was what best can be called a faded campus flower, past retirement age and still teaching in an honorary position. He’d made a name in several specialized fields, from industrial psychology to hypnotic research. It was because of this latter unconventional interest of his that I thought he might be helpful.

His quick nervous cough told me he was outside the door even before he knocked. He held a cigarette in one hand and a half-finished drink in the other. Without preamble, he said, “Mmm. Not on pot or acid or anything, are you, Jeffy-boy?”

“Look, I don’t like to be called Jeffy-boy,” I answered irritably. “And no, I’m not high on anything.”

He ignored my first remark and said, “No, I suppose you aren’t; it’s not your style; but I want to know where we stand. Now suppose you tell me, slowly, exactly what’s been going on here. You weren’t too clear on the phone.”

I showed him to a chair and explained both episodes. He seemed excited, which surprised me somewhat. All the while he sat, chain-smoking, his eyes seldom leaving my face. I paid little attention to his kindly-old-psychologist’s smile. I’d seen him use it too many times. He is kind, but not nearly as kind as he looks, and he’s exceptionally shrewd, or he was until lately.

At one point in particular he interrupted me. “Yes, yes, yes,” he said. “That click you felt at the base of your neck. Explain that part again.” He spoke with exaggerated nonchalance, or so it seemed to me. I wondered if he was on to something, or thought he was. I repeated what I’d told him, and as he didn’t stop me, I continued with my story.