“What’s going on?” Diggs asked, staring. “What do you mean, you’re not Christ any more? Ever? You can’t heal?”

Window grinned, shaking his head from one side to the other with relief. “I know what I experienced,” he said. “You’ll have to fill me in on what I don’t remember. But anyhow, when it was over, I knew that I’ve always been able to heal, and that unconsciously I formed the Christ personality to make the whole thing reasonable—as crazy as it seemed to others. But there’s so much more.”

Seven felt Cyprus somewhere at the outskirts of his own consciousness, and it seemed to him that there was psychological motion all about; so powerful that he wanted to join it, and leave his body … which he kept forgetting now and then, not that anyone noticed. He said quickly, “Tell us what happened as far as you’re concerned, Window.”

Window grinned again. “I’m just getting used to being … myself,” he answered. “And what I’m going to say does sound crazy, I guess. But I know it isn’t.”

George shook his own head. He knew that whatever Window would say was true. But how did he know?

Window began: “I used to speak for a personality called Monarch—as you know. Well, suddenly that consciousness and mine merged. I knew Monarch’s life, and he knew mine. But his was a world that makes ours really look sick. I’ve never been so happy in my life as when I glimpsed pictures of that world through his mental images. And his world was based on completely different ideas than ours is….”

While Oversoul Seven was so concerned with finding the Codicils, the words “the Codicils” kept sounding through Josephine’s mind. She sensed some odd familiarity, as if she herself had run across that particular phrase in some significant way before. That is, she thought, the words meant “appendages to a will.” Yet suppose in this connotation, they meant “appendixes to the will”—to man’s will?

With no particular destination in mind, she walked up the stairs to her small study and found herself examining the piles of books stacked so neatly on the bookshelves. “The Codicils,” she muttered angrily, anxiously. As if by themselves, her hands began rummaging through the books, fingering the pages. Yet she had the odd feeling that her fingers knew what they were doing, that she had in mind some particular goal beyond her conscious knowing.