“Where are we?” Josef demanded. “How did we get here?” He spoke so quickly that he nearly stuttered because he looked down at his mental body (thinking it was his physical one) to see fine sun-bronzed limbs, small beads of perspiration running between the merry thigh hairs, as his legs flashed in and out of a brown walking robe. “And look. There’s someone else,” he shouted.

It was Lydia, still looking like Joan of Arc, only somewhat wearier than before. She gasped when she saw Josef. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t even know where here is,” Josef said agreeably. “And I don’t know you, either.” Then, perplexed: “Or do l?”

Lydia looked at Seven, incredulously. “He doesn’t remember who I am?” she asked Seven.

“No, and I’d rather you didn’t remind him right now,” Seven replied quickly. “I have some excellent and important reasons—”

“What are they?” Lydia interrupted. “I really do believe in honesty above all. And as a Soul, l don’t know if you have the right to hide important information from Josef.”

Lydia made a fascinating picture, and Josef was staring at her with open admiration. He was in excellent spirits now, completely involved in this new adventure, his miseries and danger forgotten. (And Seven wanted to keep it that way for a while.) But Lydia indignantly put down the sword that went with her outfit and said, “I really think you owe Josef an explanation.”

“That’s the spirit!” Josef cried. “You tell him. He always intimidates me. I just see him when I’m drunk or dreaming, and right now I’m not sure of anything.”

Lydia frowned. “I know one thing,” she said. “I’m sick of looking like Joan of Arc, and I’m tired of changing images all the time. I’d like to stick to one image and one environment. Why can’t we camp here for the night and explore the land of the gods tomorrow? If it is the land of the gods.” She was tired, and peevish, and Seven sighed. The environment about them darkened. The sun was sinking; purple shadows filled a nearby meadow of flowers. And just then, above on the hillside, the lights splashed on in all the palaces and shone from the balconies. Josef stared: He’d never seen so many lights in his life.

Lydia laughed out loud, “The streetlights of the gods.” She sobered instantly. “The gods don’t really live on any mountain, or anywhere else, for that matter. I know that. I must have picked up the whole idea from mythology.” She was her twenty-year-old self now, nervously smoking a cigarette; and critical. She eyed Josef: “You’re real enough. I’ve met you before, even though you’ve forgotten. And Oversoul Seven is real, even though I used to think he wasn’t.”