B: Butterflies.

W: So we go from the stage armor to stagefright. We become the anxious little schoolboy in the wings, about to go on. The gap that exists between that "there" in the wings and here is frequently filled with pent-up energy experienced as anxiety. Okay, Bill, relax. You have a dream that we can work with? Good. Is it a recent dream, or is it recurring?

B: Recurring. About twice a month I dream of this ugly snake, crawling up me. Hey, I know it's pretty trite and Freudian but -

W: Never mind that. Imagine that I am Bill and you are the snake. How do you crawl up me?

B: Up your leg. But I don't like being that snake.

W: It's your dream, you spawned it.

B: All right. I am the snake. I'm crawling. A foot is in my way. I'll crawl over it-

W: A foot?

B: Something, it doesn't matter. Maybe a stone. Unimportant.

W: Unimportant?

B: Unfeeling, then. It doesn't matter if you crawl over unfeeling things.

W: Say this to the group.

B: I don't feel this way toward the group.

W: But you feel that way toward a foot.

B: I don't feel that way. The snake feels that way.

W: Eh? You're not the snake?

B: I am not a snake.

W: Say to us all what you're not. I'm not a snake, I'm not -?

B: I'm not…ugly. I'm not venomous, I'm not cold-blooded.

W: Now say this about Bill.

B: Bill's not venomous, not cold-blooded -

W: Change roles, talk back to the snake.

B: Then why do you crawl on me, you snake?

W: Change back, keep it going.

B: Because you don't matter. You're not important.

– I am important!

– Oh, yeah? Who says?

– Everybody says. I'm important to the community. (Laughs, resumes the affected voice.) Captain Bill the firefighter. Hot stuff.

W: (taking over snake's voice): Oh, yeah? Then why is your foot so cold? (laughter)

B: Because it's so far from my head, (more laughter) But I see what you're getting at, Doctor; my foot is important, of course. It's all me -

W: Have the snake say it.

B: Huh? A foot is important.

W: Now change roles and give Mr. Snake some recognition. Is he not important?

B: I suppose you are important, Mr. Snake, somewhere on Nature's Great Ladder. You control pests, mice and insects and… lesser creatures.

W: Have the snake return this compliment to Captain Bill.

B: You're important too, Captain Bill. I recognize that.

W: How do you recognize Captain Bill's importance?

B: I… well, because you told me to.

W: Is that all? Doesn't Captain Bill also control lesser creatures from up on the big ladder?

B: Somebody has to tell them what to do down there.

W: Down there?

B: At the pumps, crawling around in the confusion… the hoses and smoke and stuff.

W: I see. And how do these lesser creatures recognize you through all this smoke and confusion, Captain Bill, to do what you tell them?

B: By my – by the helmet. The whole outfit. They issue the captain a special uniform with hi-viz striping on the jacket and boots. Sharp! And on the helmet there's this insignia of a shield, you see -

W: There it is, people! Do you see? That same armor he marched onstage with – shield, helmet, boots – the complete fascist wardrobe! Mr. Snake, Captain Bill needs to shed his skin, don't you think? Tell him how one sheds a skin.

B: Well, I… you… grow. The skin gets tighter and tighter, until it gets so tight it splits along the back. Then you crawl out. It hurts. It hurts but it must be done if one is to – wait! I get it! If one is to grow! I see what you mean, Doctor. Grow out of my armor even if it hurts? Okay, I can stand a little pain if I have to.

W: Who can stand a little pain?

B: Bill can! I'm strong enough, I believe, to endure being humbled a little. I've always maintained that if one has a truly strong "Self" that one can -

W: Ah-ah-ah! Never gossip about someone who isn't present, especially when it is yourself. Also, when you write the word "self" you would do better to spell it with a lower-case s. The capital S went out with such myths as perpetual motion. And lastly, Bill, one thing more. What, if you would please tell us, is so important over there -

(lifting a finger to point out the vague place in the air where Bill has fixed his thoughtful gaze)

– that keeps you from looking here?

(bringing the finger back to touch himself beneath an eye, razor-blade blue, tugging the cheek until the orb seems to lean down from his face like some incorruptible old magistrate leaning from his sacrosanct bench)

B: Sorry.

W: Are you back? Good. Can you not feel the difference? The tingling? Yah? What you are feeling is the Thou of Martin Buber, the Tao of Chung Tzu. When you sneak away like that you are divided, like Kierkegaard's "Double Minded Man" or the Beatles' "Nowhere Man." You are noplace, nothing, of absolutely no importance, whatever uniform you wear, and don't attempt to give me a lot of community-spirited elephant shit otherwise. Now, out of the chair. Your time is up.

Woofner's tone was considered by many colleagues to be too sarcastic, too cutting. After class, in the tub with his advanced pupils, he went way past cutting. In these hunts for submerged blubber, he wielded scorn like a harpoon, sarcasm like a filleting knife.

"So?" The old man had slid deeper beneath the girl and the water, clear to his mocking lower lip. "Der Kinder seem to be fascinated by this law of bottled dynamics?" His sharp look cut from face to face, but I felt the point was aimed at me. "Then you will probably be equally fascinated by the little imp that inhabits that vessel – Maxwell's Demon. Excuse me, dear -?"

He dumped the court recorder up from his lap. When she surfaced, gasping and coughing, he gave her a fatherly pat.

"- hand me my trousers if you would be so kind?"

She obeyed without a word, just as she had hours earlier when he'd bid her stay with him instead of leaving with the Omaha Public Defender who had brought her. The doctor toweled a hand dry on a pant's leg, then reached into the pocket. He removed a ballpoint pen and his checkbook. Grunting, he scooted along the slippery staves until he was near the brightest candle.

"About one hundred years ago there lived a British physicist named James Clerk Maxwell. Entropy fascinated him also. As a physicist he had great affection for the wonders of our physical universe, and it seemed to him too cruel that all the moving things of our world, all the marvelous, spinning, humming, ticking, breathing things, should be doomed to run down and die. Was there no remedy to this unfair fate? The problem gnawed at him and, in British bulldog fashion, he gnawed back. At length he felt he had devised a solution, a loophole around one of the bleakest laws on the books. What he did was… he devised this."

Carefully cradling the checkbook near the flame so all could see, he began to draw on the back of a check, a simple rectangular box. "Professor Maxwell postulated, 'Imagine we have a box, sealed, full of the usual assortment of molecules careening about in the dark… and inside this box a dividing partition, and in this partition a door' "

At the bottom of the partition he outlined a door with tiny hinges and doorknob.

" 'And standing beside this door… a demon!' " He sketched a crude stick figure with a tiny stick arm reaching for the doorknob.

" 'Now further imagine,' said our Professor, 'that this demon is trained to open and close this door for those flying molecules. When he sees a hot molecule approaching he lets it pass through to this side' " – he drew a large block H on the right half of the box – " 'and when he sees a cold, slow-moving molecule our obedient demon closes the door, containing it on this, the cold side of the box.' "