Waiben was well into his third bourbon, stumbling drunk around the kitchen, kicking a back of coffee about the warped linoleum singing softly to himself, tripping on a ripple in the floor and sprawling flat on the floor only to look up and see a pair of very dark, expensive looking leather shoes had somehow gotten through the back door. As he looked closer he noticed that the shoes appaeared to have feat in them and legs even, which were encased in black pants and led upward past an equally black suit coat to a familar and chill inducing face that was smiling down at him Did I come at a bad time? Christ. Have you ever come at a good time? How did you find me? Come now doctor, this is no time for obvious questions. Jesus. What do you want? To save you from yourself. Again? Yes Waiben. I fail to see why you insist on continuing this charade... I know. But what you fail to see could fill a book. Fuck you. Well, it would be a significant improvement over your current situation. The man extended his arm down and helpt Waiben up to the kitchen table which he balanced on momentarily before easing into a chair. The main sat down opposite him, kicking the back door closed with his foot. I suppose if you found me, that means they are close behind... Yes. So are we on to something then? Am I close? The man smiled. Waiben, what you don't know could fill a book. What about what you don't know? Already in print. Ha. Good one. Waiben rubbed his eyes and tried to focus. The man slid an envelop across the table, Waiben met his eyes briefly, he gestured for him to open it. Waiben pulled a string off the clasp and bumped the contents onto the table, a series of black and white photos grainy and out of focus but Waiben already knew the faces. That was yesterday at LaGuardia. Waiben looked closer, looking at the people in the background, a set of legs, a blurry skirt. How much time do we have? Well, they know you're here, but they're still in New York, meeting, figuring out the best way to procede. Maybe a week. Maybe two. How did they? Does it really matter? Waiben pushed the photos away. Okay, what do we need to do? Get rid of the girl. What? Claire. Get rid of her. What do you mean get rid of her? Like kill her? Waiben you're an idiot. And you're certainly not going to kill anyone. No, I mean break it off, distance yourself from her and destroy all the files you have, the tapes, everything. Why? when the back door fell shut with a click and Waiben nearly fell over It was the first warm day in ages when Sil rode down to the campus. He parked the bike outside the science library and as he walked over toward the administrative building he took in all the girls dressed prematurely in their summer clothes and tried to remember why it was he had dropped out of college so many years ago. He lingered outside the double door for a minute listening the Waiben's voice, trying to gauge the reaction before he opened them slowly and slipped in without a sound. He stood against the wall in the back and eyed the panel, three men and two women sat majesterial at long table directly in front of Waiben who was talking about pyscology and the breakdown of the bicameral mind, the dislocation of the voice, the I from the position of external, the internalizing of the self and creation of the ego was an evolutionary necessity, but there is much that can be learned about consciousness by stepping backward..." Sil could tell the panel was unimpressed, the large man in the center who Sil thought would have looked more fitting in mutton chops, was pouring himself a glass of water. The woman on the end tapped her Parker on a legal pad and constantly pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her slender and apparently ineffective nose. Sil slipped out again and sat down on a folding chair in the hall. Waiben emerged with a clearly beaten look on his face. "Syris," Sil called out as he walked out into the desert warmth. "Sil. Was that you I heard come in?" "Yeah." "At least I can finish out the semester. I'm not going to, but I still get the money." "That's good. How have you been?" "I'm tired. And hungry, would you join me for lunch?" The walked across campus to a small diner that served breakfast all day and Waiben ordered an omlette. Sil watched him eat and sipped a warm beer. "Do you remember Von Hock at Cambridge?" "Was that the nut job that thought Yuri Gellar was visionary mystic?" No. That was Von Statler, you're confusing your Germans. Von Hock was the one that thought Alexandrian Library was actually saved and squirreled away in the vault in Venice or something." "Oh yeah. With the grad student..." "Corrinne. Yeah. She spoke seven languages, did you know that?" Waiben raised his eyebrows. "Well, I did hear she was quite talented with her tongue, but to be honest I didn't take it that way." "Very funny. No. She was brilliant." Sil temporarily drifts. "But the reason I ask is that." He stops to take a sip of beer. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. "You can't smoke in here." "No, you can't get caught smoking in here." Sil lit his cigarette, holding it between his thumb and forefinger the rest of his hand curled over it. He took a drag and thrust his hand under the table. He exhaled down to his left and waved his hand to clear the smoke. "This is going to sound a bit crazy, which is why I'm telling you." Waiben noticed for the first time that Sil looked slightly different, exhausted perhaps. There were dark rings around his eyes, his cheeks slightly sunken, his hand shook slightly when he reached for his beer. Waiben watched him as he talked thinking of the day, several weeks past that he had taken off his headphone and stood up from his desk to retrieve a book from his shelf and he had heard grunting and moaning. Waiben had been in academic setting long enough to know that the best course of action was to put on his headphones and go back to work, but he'd also been in academic settings long enough to not need to do anything more than that. Sil knew he realized, had probably known a lot longer than Waiben given Sil's preternatural intuition. But as he listened to Sil's story he slowly began to doubt that his sleeplessness had anything to do with Claire. At some point a familar chill passed down his spine the likes of which he had not felt in years, probably since Paris. "You think it's him?" Waiben said finally. "Yes I do."