The pattern of his manipulation was far from clear, but a few points could be fixed firmly: He had drifted progressively farther from the Artesian locus. Aphasia I was a recognizable analog, Aphasia II not much different. Then, in the swamp, his attempt to find Artesia had misfired, placing him, along with Marv, in an alternate version of Colby Corners, in some ways much like his old home town but grossly different at the geological level—which meant a massive shift indeed. Then the disembodied passage through half-phase, to emerge at Prime, no doubt of another order of reality entirely, quite outside the purview of Central. Then, once again he had made use of the flat-walker ... How clear it was, now that he was pausing to consider matters in depth, that the seemingly innocuous device, outré though it was, was at the bottom of most of his trouble. He put it back in its pocket, fully resolved not to use it again. That last time, he recalled with a shudder, had almost finished him: thinking he was a fish—but not exactly a fish, merely some life form indigenous to half-phase, existing weightless and intangible in the void between worlds, a subjective experience which his mind had automatically rationalized by concluding that he was immersed in a featureless fluid like a fish in water. But somehow, by sheer luck, perhaps, he had been recovered from that eerie environment, too. He remembered the descending scalpel, Fred's immense face, then —nothing, until he woke here, in this hospitallike room, with the view of a sane and normal street in the late spring sunshine.
And now, he told himself firmly, now I'm taking over. I'm not going to be herded anymore, not going to take any more sudden desperate measures. Not even going to try to focus the Psychical Energies, moments at which, he abruptly realized, he was peculiarly susceptible to manipulation. And he would definitely not mess with the flat-walker. Except, he hedged, perhaps to use it to communicate with Ajax.
The decision made, he turned from the window to ponder for a moment his next move—a move he must be quite certain was entirely his own idea, made at his own volition and not under some pressure, subtle or gross.
OK, he agreed firmly. That brings me to the question of what to do now. What do they expect me to do, want me to do? They've left me alone and ambulatory, with my clothes handy. And I'll bet the door is conveniently unlocked. So, they think I'll do a bolt for freedom—but I'll fool 'em. This time I'll play it smart: I'm staying.
At that moment, the door to the big room opened and Doctor Smith appeared, carrying a tray rather awkwardly. Lafayette caught a whiff of poached egg and over-boiled coffee.
"It's time for your lunch, Mr. O'Leary," the woman said in a tone in which he could read no fell intent. She showed no surprise at seeing him up and dressed.
"No, thanks," he said casually. "Not hungry. By the way, what town is this?"
"Why, the Institute is at Caney, Kansas," she replied glibly.
"Why?" Lafayette asked bluntly. "Why did you bring me to Caney, Kansas?"
"You were found, Mr. O'Leary, nearly dead of exposure and alcohol, in an alley only a block east of the Institute. A kindly passerby brought you here, since it was the nearest facility."
"I've never been in Kansas in my life," Lafayette stated more firmly than his certainty warranted. "And I don't drink—just a nice wine with dinner, perhaps, or a cold beer on a hot afternoon."
"Nevertheless, your body shows the ravages of advanced alcoholism," the doctor rebutted equally firmly.
"Uh, where's the men's room?" Lafayette blurted.
"You'll find a facility through that door," she said, pointing to a brown-painted panel Lafayette had not previously noticed. She put the tray on a table and came closer to Lafayette. "Seven P.M. at the YW," she breathed in his ear, and turned away before he could see her expression.
"Thanks, Doc," Lafayette said with a show of casualness. He went to the undersize door and opened it. A glance inside revealed the usual plumbing. He went in and closed the door.
"OK," he told himself. "She expects me to break out of here—probably through the window." He eyed the small square unglazed opening through which a brick wall opposite was visible. " 'Seven p.m. at the Y', he echoed silently. "She must think I'm the original sucker —and why shouldn't she? I've taken every cue, so far— went along like a puppet on strings. But no more. So, I'll just kill a few minutes here and see what they try next."