“Super,” Seven said, complimenting himself on making a suitable reply under somewhat confusing conditions.

The conditions became even more confused—and disorganized, Seven thought, as the afternoon progressed. First they searched the Psych Center—as nonchalantly as possible—for Window or for Gregory Diggs. When this failed, they all piled into George’s Porsche and began driving up and down the streets in the hopes of sighting one or the other.

“If we drive up and down past this shopping center one more time, I’ll go crazy,” Josephine said finally. “We’ve been everywhere around town with no sign of either of them. For all we know, they’re on a bus to Timbuktu or somewhere. We don’t even know for sure if they’re together.” She sighed. Her makeup was caking from the heat; her shoes hurt, and she didn’t like being crowded so close to George Brainbridge in the car’s front seat.

From the small back seat, Seven said, “Let’s park and talk a minute. Maybe we can think of a plan of action. Park in front of your place, George, why don’t you? Where it’s cool.” Seven didn’t know why he mentioned parking in front of George’s, but the minute he did, he remembered the odd time-transfers that had happened in the spot where George’s house stood. Follow your impulses, Cyprus had said. Was that what she meant?

“It’s okay with me,” George replied with weary resignation.

Josephine eased one shoe off and rubbed one heel with the other one. They pulled up in front of George’s house. “I don’t see the point of this,” Josephine said with a worried air. “We’re just not getting anyplace.”

Seven was tempted to agree.

“Hell, we’ll find him sometime,” George replied, without conviction. “If he’s in town, that is.”

But Seven was suddenly alert; George’s words made brilliant sense—“We’ll find him sometime”—Seven thought. Of course!

“Your car windows need a good washing,” Josephine said for something to say, and Seven stared at her. Did she realize what else her words meant besides what they were saying? Probably not. But when Josephine said the word “windows” Seven was suddenly reminded of someone he’d entirely forgotten. (“Well, not entirely of course,” he said later to Cyprus.) He remembered another man, one whose name was Window—a personality of his, who was in the twenty-third century, the last time Seven checked. And John Window was like an unclear version of the twenty-third-century Window. He was, Seven thought with sudden inspiration, like a window that needed cleaning because it was distorting a view….

“Yeah, I know. I’ll clean ’em before Jean comes home,” George said. “She always complains about that, too.”