«So I did,» Richard mused. «I fully intend to keep that promise.»

«Have any more memories returned?»

«No, but I am gradually beginning to understand what's happened to me, by detective work rather than recall. You're a detective of sorts, aren't you?»

«One might say that.»

«Your job is to unearth all your patients' dirty little secrets. That's detective work. You might do well in my line, doctor. I think I'd do well in yours.»

«You don't say. Do you think you could-as you put it-unearth all my dirty little secrets?» Colby had confronted this psychological gambit before. In fact, sooner or later every patient took a turn at trying to switch places with the therapist. They were never very good at it, but the false ideas they came up with were often their own problems projected, and thus worth listening to.

«Nothing profound, of course. Your speech tells me you've lived in London, Scotland and Ireland,» said Blade.

«Well, not bad. You're right so far.»

«You were educated in the USA, or at least went to a university here.»

«Right again. Did you get that from the way I talk?»

«No, but from where I'm lying I can see the books on your shelves. All the college-level texts are from American, not British, publishers.»

«Bravo!» Colby was genuinely amused.

«The books also tell me you have a lasting and deep interest in the occult. It would take time to collect as many occult titles as you have, and some of them are books of considerable rarity and value. You've spent money on those books, doctor, as well as time.»

«Right again!»

«You come from a theatrical family. «

«What? How did you guess that?»

«Your movements. The way you project. The theater-probably the legitimate theater-has left its mark on you, yet you yourself have no greasepaint in the blood. Your library, though it contains works of fiction, does not boast a single collection of plays or book on the theater.»

«Very clever, Mr. Blade.»

«You did not like your father.»

«Now you're simply guessing.»

«No, I'm not. Your profession is so profoundly different from his you could not have chosen it without a violent rupture. Show business is a particularly difficult subculture to escape from, but you appear to have managed it all too well. At the same time your occultism and your stance in your profession is rebellious. I sense in your attitude toward the father-figures of psychology a carried-over hostility toward your own father. A substantial hostility, since it still influences you so much after all these years!»

Colby had become uncomfortable. Richard was hitting much too close to the mark. «That's enough Sherlocking, Richard. Can we get back to you? It is you, not I, who has a problem.»

«I've solved my problem, doctor.»

«You have? How?»

«By forgetting it.»

Colby burst out laughing. When he could speak, he said, «I shall remember that one, Richard. You're a wit, aren't you, as well as a detective and amateur psychotherapist?»

«On your desk is a photo of a little girl. From the fading of the color it must be an old photo. Your daughter?»

«Yes, but…»

«Odd you have no more recent photos. Is she dead?»

«Yes, only I…»

«And no photos of a wife, no photos of the girl's mother.»

«Dammit, I… «

«Anger? Are you angry? The mother's not dead, yet it is obvious neither she nor any other woman is sharing your present life. If she were dead we'd see her photo alongside your daughter's, wouldn't we? And I've seen how you speak to the female members of the staff, of whom there are surprisingly few. I sense a divorce, Dr. Colby, a divorce in which you were deeply hurt, a divorce from which you have not even now recovered, a divorce that poisons your relationship with every woman you meet.»

Colby leaped to his feet. «Stop that! Stop!»

«Am I wrong?» Richard asked mildly.

After a long pause Colby said, «No, you're quite right.» His voice was barely audible. «But I am not the patient here. You are.»

Blade said gently, «Sit down, Saxton.» Colby was about to protest against the undue familiarity, the blatant bossiness, but instead he did as he was told. Blade went on, «I know you want to help me. Believe me when I say you cannot. Each of us has a blind spot. Mine is that I cannot accept the kind of help you offer, even to save my life. I have always made my own decisions, helped myself, and my training has enforced that habit. In the field I have always had to act more or less on my own, and I certainly could never confide in anyone. As I may have told you, I have not been a docile agent, have even deliberately disobeyed orders several times, though thankfully it all turned out right. I have made mistakes, but they have been my own mistakes. I'm rather fond of them, since they've taught me so much. Now, with or without my memory, I intend to continue to make my own decisions, to ask no help from anyone, to reserve for myself all judgments of what is true and false, right or wrong, real or unreal. Do you understand?»

Colby felt a gray hopelessness, which he did not bother to conceal, as he replied, «I understand that there is no point in you and I continuing to work together.»

Richard sat up and turned to look at Colby, saying, «That's not so, Saxton. While I am the sort who, ultimately, can't be helped, you are a different breed of man. You care what people think of you, you listen to advice, you can accept help.»

«From whom?»

«From me, Saxton.»

Saxton considered this for some time, then said softly, «All right.»

When the hour reserved for Richard was up, Colby's secretary said over the intercom, «Time for your next patient, doctor.» Her tone was crisp and businesslike.

Colby answered, his voice oddly hoarse, «Cancel all my appointments for the rest of the afternoon.»

«Yes, sir.» The woman was puzzled but submissive.

Four hours later the door to Dr. Colby's office opened and Colby and Richard Blade emerged. Blade had his arm around the doctor's shoulders and the secretary could not help but notice that Colby's eyes were red, as if he'd been crying.

«Is there something wrong, doctor?» she demanded.

«Not anymore,» Colby answered, a strange peaceful smile lighting up his gaunt features. She had never seen such relief, such calm, such inner stillness in a human face. It actually frightened her.

The two men passed her and entered the hallway, and she could have sworn she heard Dr. Saxton Colby turn to the hulking Richard Blade and say, «Thank you, Blade. Thank you. Thanks.»

She rolled her eyes heavenward, then went on reading her magazine.

After supper, when Zoe and Richard went upstairs, the usual guards trailed along behind them, two husky white-clad men with tranquilizer pistols.

«Do they watch you all the time, Dick?» she asked.

Richard smiled ironically. «When I'm safely locked in my room at night, they are satisfied to only spot-check me at half-hour intervals.»

«They lock you in every night?»

He nodded. «That's right. They either lock me in or watch me. I daresay there was someone outside your door all last night.» He gestured toward a door they were passing. «They keep their weapons in there. Note the combination padlock. That's a mistake.»

«A mistake?»

«On their part.» He blew on his fingertips. «Colby is keeping special services men here, and many of us have a way with combination locks. Dr. Colby is a good man in his field, but MI6 is well rid of him. He's too careless.»

Blade opened the door to his bedroom and ushered her in. When he had closed the door he stood a moment, finger to lips, then relaxed, saying, «They didn't lock us in. That means they'll be standing guard out there.» He crossed to the window. «I should warn you not to say anything obscene. We wouldn't want to shock whoever it is that is on duty at the listening post.»