“Get out of here!”

“Take your argument somewhere else!”

“We don’t want the police in here, you drunken bastards!”

The angry coarse dialects of Marseilles rose over the cacophonous sounds of Le Bouc de Mer.

The patient was hemmed in; he watched as his would-be killer threaded his way through the crowd, holding his groin, forcing a path to the entrance. The heavy door swung open; the man raced into the darkness of rue Sarrasin.

Someone who thought he was dead--wanted him dead--knew he was alive.

4

The economy class section of Air France’s Caravelle to Zurich was filled to capacity, the narrow seats made more uncomfortable by the turbulence that buffeted the plane. A baby was screaming in its mother’s arms; other children whimpered, swallowing cries of fear as parents smiled with

tentative reassurances they did not feel. Most of the remaining passengers were silent, a few drinking their whiskey more rapidly than obviously was normal. Fewer still were forcing laughter from tight throats, false bravados that emphasized their insecurity rather than disguising it. A terrible flight was many things to many people, but none escape the essential thoughts of terror. When man encased himself in a metal tube thirty thousand feet above the ground, he was vulnerable. With one elongated, screaming dive he could be plummeting downward into the earth. And there were fundamental questions that accompanied the essential terror. What thoughts would go through one’s mind at such a time? How would one react?

The patient tried to find out; it was important to him. He sat next to the window, his eyes on the aircraft’s wing, watching the broad expanse of metal bend and vibrate under the brutalizing impact of the winds. The currents were clashing against one another, pounding the manmade tube into a kind of submission, warning the microscopic pretenders that they were no match for the vast infirmities of nature. One ounce of pressure beyond the flex tolerance and the wing would crack, the lift-sustaining limb torn from its tubular body, shredded into the winds; one burst of rivets and there would be an explosion, the screaming plunge to follow.

What would he do? What would he think? Other than the uncontrollable fear of dying and oblivion, would there be anything else? That’s what he had to concentrate on; that was the projection Washburn kept emphasizing in Port Noir. The doctor’s words came back to him.

Whenever you observe a stress situation--and you have the time--do your damndest to project yourself into it.

Associate as freely as you can; let words and images fill your mind. In them you may find clues.

The patient continued to stare out the window, consciously trying to raise his unconscious, fixing his eyes on the natural violence beyond the glass, distilling the movement, silently doing his “damndest” to let his reactions give rise to words and images.

They came--slowly. There was the darkness again, and the sound of rushing wind, ear-shattering, continuous, growing in volume until he thought his head would burst. His head. ... The winds were lashing the left side of his head and face, burning his skin, forcing him to raise his left shoulder for protection. ... Left shoulder. Left arm. His arm was raised, the gloved fingers of his left hand gripping a straight edge of metal, his right holding a ... a strap; he was holding on to a strap, waiting for something. A signal ... a flashing light or a tap on the shoulder, or both. A signal. It came. He plunged. Into the darkness, into the void, his body tumbling, twisting, swept away into the night sky.

He had ... parachuted!

“Etes-vous malade?”

His insane reverie was broken; the nervous passenger next to him had touched his left arm-– which was raised, the fingers of his hand spread, as if resisting, rigid in their locked position. Across his chest his right forearm was pressed into the cloth of his jacket, his right hand gripping the lapel, bunching the fabric. And on his forehead were rivulets of sweat; it had happened. The something-else had come briefly--insanely--into focus.

“Pardon,” he said, lowering his arms. “Un mauvais rêve,” he added meaninglessly.

There was a break in the weather; the Caravelle stabilized. The smiles on the harried stewardesses’ faces became genuine again; full service was resumed as embarrassed passengers glanced at one another.

The patient observed his surroundings but reached no conclusions. He was consumed by the images and the sounds that had been so clearly defined in his mind’s eye and ear. He had hurled himself from a plane ... at night ... signals and metal and straps intrinsic to his leap. He had parachuted. Where? Why?

Stop crucifying yourself!

If for no other reason than to take his thoughts away from the madness, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out the altered passport, and opened it. As might be expected, the name Washburn had been retained; it was common enough and its owner had explained that there were no flags out for it. The Geoffrey R., however, had been changed to, George P., the eliminations and spaceline blockage expertly accomplished. The photographic insertion was expert, too; it no longer resembled a cheap print from a machine in an amusement arcade.

The identification numbers, of course, were entirely different, guaranteed not to cause an alarm in an immigration computer. At least, up until the moment the bearer submitted the passport for its first inspection; from that time on it was the buyer’s responsibility. One paid as much for this guarantee as he did for the artistry and the equipment, for it required connections within Interpol and the immigration clearing houses. Customs officials, computer specialists, and clerks throughout the European border networks were paid on a regular basis for this vital information; they rarely made mistakes. If and when they did, the loss of an eye or an arm was not out of the question-– such were the brokers of false papers.

George P. Washburn. He was not comfortable with the name; the owner of the unaltered original

had instructed him too well in the basics of projection and association. George P. was a sidestep from

Geoffrey R., a man who had been eaten away by a compulsion that had its roots in escape--escape from identity. That was the last thing the patient wanted; he wanted more than his life to know who he was.

Or did he?

No matter. The answer was in Zurich. In Zurich there was ...

“Mesdames et messieurs. Nous commençons notre descente pour l’aéroport de Zurich.” He knew the name of the hotel: Carillon du Lac. He had given it to the taxi driver without thinking. Had he read it somewhere? Had the name been one of those listed in the Welcome-to-Zurich folders placed in the elasticized pockets in front of his seat in, the plane?

No. He knew the lobby; the heavy, dark, polished wood was familiar ... somehow. And the huge plate-glass windows that looked out over Lake Zurich. He had been here before; he had stood where he was standing now--in front of the marble-topped counter--a long time ago.

It was all confirmed by the words spoken by the clerk behind the desk. They had the impact of an explosion.

“It’s good to see you again, sir. It’s been quite a while since your last visit.”

Has it? How long? Why don’t you call me by my name? For God’s sake. I don’t know you! I don’t know me!

Help me! Please, help me!

“I guess it has,” he said. “Do me a favor, will you? I sprained my hand; it’s difficult to write.

Could you fill in the registration and I’ll do my damndest to sign it?” The patient held his breath.

Suppose the polite man behind the counter asked him to repeat his name, or the spelling of his name?

“Of course.” The clerk turned the card around and wrote. “Would you care to see the hotel doctor?”