Suddenly she remembered. ‘Gregory! Dr Charles Gregory! Weren’t you — Muriel Bortman, the President’s daughter, she drowned herself at Key West, you were sentenced — ‘ She broke off, staring nervously at the windshield.

‘You’ve got a long memory,’ Gregory said quietly. ‘I didn’t think anyone remembered.’

‘Of course I remember.’ She spoke in a whisper. ‘They were mad what they did to you.’ For the next few minutes she gushed out a long farrago of sympathy, interspersed with disjointed details from her own life. Gregory tried not to listen, clenching the wheel until his knuckles whitened, deliberately forgetting everything as fast as she reminded him.

There was a pause, as he felt it coming, the way it invariably did. ‘Tell me, doctor, I hope you forgive me asking, but since the Mental Freedom laws it’s difficult to get help, one’s got to be so careful — you too, of course…’ She laughed uneasily. ‘What I really mean is—’

Her edginess drained power from Gregory. ‘-you need psychiatric assistance,’ he cut in, pushing the Jaguar up to 95, eyes swinging to the rear mirror again. The road was dead, palms receding endlessly into the night.

The girl choked on her cigarette, the stub between her fingers a damp mess. ‘Well, not me,’ she said lamely. ‘A close friend of mine. She really needs help, believe me, doctor. Her whole feeling for life is gone, nothing seems to mean anything to her any more.’

Brutally, he said: ‘Tell her to look at the pyramids.’

But the girl missed the irony, said quickly: ‘Oh, she has. I just left her in Cairo. I promised I’d try to find someone for her.’ She turned to examine Gregory, put a hand up to her hair. In the blue desert light she reminded him of the madonnas he had seen in the Louvre two days after his release, when he had run from the filthy prison searching for the most beautiful things in the world, the solemn-faced more-than-beautiful 13-year-olds who had posed for Leonardo and the Bellini brothers. ‘I thought perhaps you might know someone He gripped himself and shook his head. ‘I don’t. For the last three years I’ve been out of touch. Anyway, it’s against the MF laws. Do you know what would happen if they caught me giving psychiatric treatment?’

Numbly the girl stared ahead at the road. Gregory flipped away his cigarette, pressing down on the accelerator as the last three years crowded back, memories he had hoped to repress on his 10,000-mile drive… three years at the prison farm near Marseilles, treating scrofulous farm-workers and sailors in the dispensary, even squeezing in a little illicit depth analysis for the corporal of police who couldn’t satisfy his wife, three embittered years to accept that he would never practise again the one craft in which he was fully himself. Trick-cyclist or assuager of discontents, whatever his title, the psychiatrist had now passed into history, joining the necromancers, sorcerers and other practitioners of the black sciences.

The Mental Freedom legislation enacted ten years earlier by the ultraconservative UW government had banned the profession outright and enshrined the individual’s freedom to be insane if he wanted to, provided he paid the full civil consequences for any infringements of the law. That was the catch, the hidden object of the MF laws. What had begun as a popular reaction against ‘subliminal living’ and the uncontrolled extension of techniques of mass manipulation for political and economic ends had quickly developed into a systematic attack on the psychological sciences. Overpermissive courts of law with their condoning of delinquency, pseudo-enlightened penal reformers, ‘Victims of society’, the psychologist and his patient all came under fierce attack. Discharging their self-hate and anxiety onto a convenient scapegoat, the new rulers, and the great majority electing them, outlawed all forms of psychic control, from the innocent market survey to lobotomy. The mentally ill were on their own, spared pity and consideration, made to pay to the hilt for their failings. The sacred cow of the community was the psychotic, free to wander where he wanted, drooling on the doorsteps, sleeping on sidewalks, and woe betide anyone who tried to help him.

Gregory had made that mistake. Escaping to Europe, first home of psychiatry, in the hope of finding a more tolerant climate, he set up a secret clinic in Paris with six other migr analysts. For five years they worked undetected, until one of Gregory’s patients, a tall ungainly girl with a psychogenic stutter, was revealed to be Muriel Bortman, daughter of the UW President-General. The analysis had failed tragically when the clinic was raided; after her death a lavish show trial (making endless play of electric shock apparatus, movies of insulin coma and the testimony of countless paranoids rounded up in the alleyways) had concluded in a three-year sentence.

Now at last he was out, his savings invested in the Jaguar, fleeing Europe and his memories of the prison for the empty highways of North Africa. He didn’t want any more trouble.

‘I’d like to help,’ he told the girl. ‘But the risks are too high. All your friend can do is try to come to terms with herself.’

The girl chewed her lip fretfully. ‘I don’t think she can. Thanks, anyway, doctor.’

For three hours they sat back silently in the speeding car, until the lights of Tobruk came up ahead, the long curve of the harbour.

‘It’s 2 A.M.,’ Gregory said. ‘There’s a motel here. I’ll pick you up in the morning.’

After they had gone to their rooms he sneaked back to the registry, booked himself into a new chalet. He fell asleep as Carole Sturgeon wandered forlornly up and down the verandas, whispering out his name.

After breakfast he came back from the sea, found a big United World cruiser in the court, orderlies carrying a stretcher out to an ambulance.

A tall Libyan police colonel was leaning against the Jaguar, drumming his leather baton on the windscreen.

‘Ah, Dr Gregory. Good morning.’ He pointed his baton at the ambulance. ‘A profound tragedy, such a beautiful American girl.’

Gregory rooted his feet in the grey sand, with an effort restrained himself from running over to the ambulance and pulling back the sheet. Fortunately the colonel’s uniform and thousands of morning and evening cell inspections kept him safely to attention.

‘I’m Gregory, yes.’ The dust thickened in his throat. ‘Is she dead?’

The colonel stroked his neck with the baton. ‘Ear to ear. She must have found an old razor blade in the bathroom. About 3 o’clock this morning.’ He headed towards Gregory’s chalet, gesturing with the baton. Gregory followed him into the half light, stood tentatively by the bed.

‘I was asleep then. The clerk will vouch for that.’

‘Naturally.’ The colonel gazed down at Gregory’s possessions spread out across the bedcover, idly poked the black medical bag.

‘She asked you for assistance, doctor? With her personal problems?’

‘Not directly. She hinted at it, though. She sounded a little mixed up.’

‘Poor child.’ The colonel lowered his head sympathetically. ‘Her father is a first secretary at the Cairo Embassy, something of an autocrat. You Americans are very stern with your children, doctor. A firm hand, yes, but understanding costs nothing. Don’t you agree? She was frightened of him, escaped from the American Hospital. My task is to provide an explanation for the authorities. If I had an idea of what was really worrying her… no doubt you helped her as best you could?’

Gregory shook his head. ‘I gave her no help at all, colonel. In fact, I refused to discuss her problems altogether.’ He smiled flatly at the colonel. ‘I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, would I?’

The colonel studied Gregory thoughtfully. ‘Sensible of you, doctor. But you surprise me. Surely the members of your profession regard themselves as a special calling, answerable to a higher authority. Are these ideals so easy to cast off?’