George was quite taken aback. “You don’t sound crazy to me,” he said. “You sure as hell sound strange. But you make it sound as if there’s sense there someplace.”

“I’ve considered all of this often,” Window said, looking at George. “It’s a peculiar position to be in particularly since I think that Christianity has done as much harm as good. It’s seen its time. So why would anyone want to be Christ in this day and age?”

“You tell me,” George said, a trifle embarrassed. Window’s eyes never left George’s face. Finally George blew his nose.

They’d all heard John Window speak at least briefly before, but now all of them at the same time were struck by a clear transparent quality in his voice, as if each word he spoke was somehow inevitable, and meant for them alone. Josephine struggled to maintain her professional, superior stance. “Very good, John,” she said, in a condescending voice.

George muttered, “Damn.”

Gregory Diggs said to all of them, “What did I tell you?”

John Window wore jeans, a sportshirt, and sandals. George stared at him: He didn’t look any different from any other male in the room. Indeed, looking at the male patrons, then back to Window, George had the weird feeling that something in each of the other men’s faces was somehow reflected in Window’s. Yet Window had his own features; light blue eyes, medium complexion, rather thinnish lips; and the proportions were all normal. Yet granting this, George thought stubbornly, Window’s face still had a quality he’d never seen before—and that was why he couldn’t get a handle on it.

Window was saying, “I know when I think I’m Window, and I know when I think I’m Christ. What really gets me thinking, though, is this: Who is the me that thinks I’m either Christ or Window?”

“Probing question, John!” Josephine said in a bubbling voice. But it was no use to pretend; whoever or whatever he was, John Window was beyond today’s psychology. It couldn’t explain him. She frowned. Something else was odd, too. They’d finished their suppers. Usually a waitress would come over, but their table seemed isolated in some fashion that she couldn’t explain. She almost wanted to pinch the table to see if it was alive.

“Another thing,” Window said. “Christ is able to heal people—but he’s paranoid. He really believes he’ll be crucified. Window can’t heal, but he knows that somehow he has access to that ability through Christ. And Window is sane enough. He’s scared, but he isn’t paranoid.”

“Who’s speaking now?” Oversoul Seven asked quickly before anyone could interrupt. “You spoke of Christ and Window. So who are you?”