As usual when she came out of “it” she didn’t know what had happened. Lawrence was still driving, and listening to the radio. Then she hadn’t called out, or he hadn’t heard if she had. The book was still beside her. She felt dizzy, that was all. She … but who was she? Panic splashed over the frightened surfaces of her mind. How could she forget? How could the body forget its name? The body’s name? Did the body have a name? Oh Lord. She closed her eyes, feeling as if tiny islands of knowledge were crumbling away, falling into endless oceans of oblivion.

So quickly that he hardly realized what he was doing, Oversoul Seven leapt from Ma-ah to Lydia’s body. With all-knowing finesse he quickened her blood, thinned it, gave orders to the body consciousness to increase circulation, filled in with the commands necessary. “Count, Lydia. Remember. Remember. Count,” he directed.

She suddenly recalled a trick that sometimes worked. Quickly she found the name for the first number, one. She saw it in her mind and concentrated on it visually. Then two. Then three, continuing in order until finally the panic cleared and her own name, Lydia, floated back to her between fifteen and sixteen.

Oversoul Seven returned, again without knowing how he did so, to Ma-ah. He thought triumphantly: he wasn’t trapped inside Ma-ah for good, then. He’d left, if only momentarily. Still, his distance from his personalities was vanishing. He must have agreed. No experience was ever thrust upon a soul—or a personality, for that matter. But when had he agreed? And what else had he agreed to? Seven felt petulant. Already Ma-ah was getting restless again. What was she so upset for? Lydia could have lost her life right then—and he knew she wasn’t ready. The thought intrigued him. If she wasn’t ready, she wouldn’t lose it, of course.

Actually, Lydia was thinking the same thing. Here she was. The attack was over. She was alive, and as far as she could tell, she was still sane enough. She forced herself to concentrate on Lawrence, and away from herself. How close he was, yet how far away! She watched the back of his head … like a big bleached walnut, she thought, the brown-white hair so alive, bristly; the cords on the back of his neck so responsive. Oh, the ease with which his neck shifted as he watched the road!

“You’re awfully quiet back there,” Lawrence called cheerfully.

“Am I?” Her first spoken words after the attack were so bright, her voice so crystal clear and lovely, and sane and normal, that she wanted to shout out with joy. Oh God, how great life … consciousness … was! “It’s such a great day. A shame to read and not pay attention,” she said. “So I’ve been looking out the window.”

“We’ll stop soon, for supper,” he said.