“There are no mistakes,” Seven said, more sternly than necessary. “If you remembered that, you wouldn’t still be in this class, and you wouldn’t need me as a private tutor.”

“I wish you’d remember that, Seven!” The voice, heard only by Seven, belonged to Cyprus, who was monitoring Seven’s performance with Will. She was invisible, while Seven had adapted the image of a young man just out of graduate school. Seven said mentally to Cyprus, “Remember that this is my first practice teaching of a dream class, will you? ‘Practical Living: The Formation of Private and World Conditions’—well, that’s a pretty big subject from any point of view.”

Cyprus didn’t answer.

“Again, there are no mistakes,” Seven said to Will. Absent-mindedly, he took a sip of the tea and grinned, despite himself. “Actually the tea is delicious,” he said. “So this is an example of how a seemingly trivial mistake can result in a positive experience if you don’t police your thoughts too rigidly.”

Cyprus groaned, symbolically speaking. “That’s called self-justification, whether or not what you said was true,” she exclaimed.

Will didn’t hear her, of course. He was standing up, leaning rather indolently against his desk. He smiled in a superior fashion (or so it seemed to Seven) and said, “Now you’re justifying yourself again. I think I could teach this class myself if I didn’t dislike the subject matter so much.”

Silence.

“What an impeccable young man!” Cyprus said, but she smiled compassionately at Seven.

Seven sighed. “Will,” he said, “you’ve taken the course three times before, I hear. You can’t even pass it, much less teach it. So sit down.”

Will shrugged angrily and sat down. Seven felt sorry for him then, so he sent over the rest of the tea. The cup sailed smoothly through the air, landing by Will’s right hand. Seven projected a slice of lemon on the china saucer as an accompaniment and said, “Don’t feel too badly. The construction of physical reality is an advanced course by many standards.”

“If I don’t pass this time, I’m going to bow out,” Will grumbled. “I told you that before.”

“You need permission to drop a course once you’ve signed up, and I hate paperwork, so forget it,” Seven replied, quickly.

“Then give me a passing grade and get rid of me,” Will yelled. As he reacted to Will’s anger, Oversoul Seven automatically changed his image.

What Will needed was a father figure, Seven thought, and in a flash he turned into one—an old man wearing a mantle, sandals, and brown robe.

“Ultimately your teacher doesn’t grade you: You grade yourself,” Seven (as the old man) said. “Come now; you’re very creative and filled with energy. Don’t be so impatient with yourself.”