“It must have to do with relativity,” George exclaimed. “Or timewarps. That must be involved. Einstein’s theory of relativity, not that I understand it. Something about time and space being relative. Anyhow, there’s got to be a scientific explanation. Shit, I’m not going to take all of this lying down. I’m going to get to the bottom of it. Weren’t you pretty shaken, Seven, when you saw my grandfather strolling around?”

Seven grinned. “No. I liked him. I take things as they are. That means I’m a pragmatist, doesn’t it? I mean, what happens, happens. It’s silly to try and pretend it away.”

“Super, super,” George said, in a booming voice. “My position exactly. If people don’t like it, they can go to hell.” But then he shook his head again. “That sounds great,” he said. “Only why did this have to happen to me? It’s going to be impossible to explain to anyone else, yet we can’t just ignore it. Particularly Gregory’s healing … I can still see those damn diseased gums as they were—and then whammo, they’re perfectly healthy. I’ve got to see John Window’s therapist.”

“Maybe he won’t let you see Window,” Gregory said, almost hopefully.

But George said, “I’d like to see him stop me. Now that I’m convinced, we’re going to see this thing through.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Gregory. And Oversoul Seven was beginning to feel the same way.

Chapter Ten

Seven and George Meet Dr. Josephine Blithe, and Christ Disappears

George Brainbridge felt at a definite disadvantage. For one thing, he was sweaty and hot. It was his afternoon off, but he’d already gone to the homes of two patients who couldn’t get to the office, and now he was dying for a cold beer. He wore shorts and a short-sleeved sportshirt, plus the old sneakers he always put on the minute his office hours were over.

On the other hand, Dr. Josephine Blithe of the Psych Center obviously went in for appearances. Her blue summer suit was impeccably neat; her black hair didn’t show a spot of perspiration at the temples, and her armpits were dry. Mentally George groaned; she was probably one of those professional women who had to prove that they were, well, professional. Her smile was social, polite, cool, and guarded.

“Dr. Brainbridge? Right on time,” she said, with a hint of a raised eyebrow as she glanced at his rather hairy, almost but not quite pudgy, thighs. “I understand you want to discuss one of the patients, a Mr. John Window.”

She hadn’t said, “Sit down” yet, but George did, sitting in the upholstered chair facing her desk. He crossed his thighs, and grinned engagingly, “Now as a dentist, I know about teeth. No mystery there. The mind’s something else, though. And that’s your field.”