“Well, that’s something,” Seven replied, a bit mollified. “I mean, birth implies such a commitment.” Then as an afterthought, he asked, “What kind of a doctor is Brainbridge anyhow? A surgeon? General practitioner? A neurologist? A—”

“He’s a dentist,” Cyprus said.

“A dentist! I dislike dentists most of all,” Seven cried. “They’re butchers. In the twelfth century, a visit to the dentist is practically a death sentence, in just about every country of the world. The same applies to the seventeenth century, for that matter. Once my personality Josef almost died in a dentist’s chair, though it was a filthy stall more than anything else, and—”

“Dr. Brainbridge lives in the late twentieth century,” Cyprus said. “I checked medical histories in connection with time periods just to make sure you’d have the information you’ll need. In this era, dentists are very, very respectable. And they are not considered butchers.”

“They still pull teeth out,” Oversoul Seven said, shivering slightly. “They don’t use sound to dislodge them yet. Or to heal tissue, or—”

Cyprus couldn’t help smiling. “See, you know a lot more about dentistry than you realized,” she said. “Come now. Let’s take a look at Dr. Brainbridge…. He’s treating a patient inside. This is the Community Medical Building Psych Center, of Riverton, New York. George works there three mornings a week.”

“Psych Center? What’s that?” Seven asked.

“You’ll find out. Watch—” Cyprus answered.

At first glance George hardly looked predisposing. He was stocky, brown haired, with a flushed face and large lips and, Seven noticed, lots of white teeth.

“Haven’t done any work on your teeth at all, have I? Well, today will take care of that,” George Brainbridge said, and laughed. “Up in the chair, there.”

“Verily,” said the patient.

“Verily?” replied George, who was busily rearranging his tools of torture (thought Seven to Cyprus, who stood to one side, invisible).

The institution attendant, Mrs. Much, leaning against the door, said, “This one thinks he’s Christ,” and lifted her shoulders. She was dark haired, full in body, motherly.

George grinned at her and said, “Uh, oh. His appointment card says John Window, but that’s okay.”

“Here we go,” he said to the patient, who was now ensconced in the dental chair, his undistinguished face surrounded like a halo by the swivel lamp that glared almost in his eyes. “It’s the molar,” George said. “Just a little nitrous oxide here,” he added, more to himself than to the patient. Then, “That’s laughing gas. You won’t feel a thing.” He got out the round canister from his bag, saying, “You just squeeze this. You can regulate how much you need. If anything begins to hurt, squeeze. Got it?” He was peering into the patient’s face; some could regulate their own doses and some couldn’t. “I think you’ll do okay,” he said.