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dipped his head in an affirmative, and shouldered the door open. Per—haps the entire encounter had taken only one disconcerting second.
    Eileen followed him, holding lightly to the double-leashed harness. The dog padded soundlessly across the thick rug-head low, as though he were stalking something. His eyes never left Render’s.
    “So this is Sigmund…? How are you, Eileen?”
    “Fine… Yes, he wanted very badly to come along, and I wanted you to meet him.”
    Render led her to a chair and seated her. She unsnapped the double guide from the dog’s harness and placed it on the floor. Sigmund sat down beside it and continued to stare at Render.
    “How is everything at State Psych?”
    “Same as always. May I bum a cigarette, Doctor? I forgot mine.”
    He placed it between her fingers, furnished a light. She was wearing a dark blue suit and her glasses were flame blue. The silver spot on her forehead reflected the glow of his lighter; she continued to stare at that point in space after he had withdrawn his hand. Her shoulder-length hair appeared a trifle lighter than it had seemed on the night they met; today it was like a fresh-minted copper coin.
    Render seated himself on the corner of his desk, drawing up his world-ashtray with his toe.
    “You told me before that being blind did not mean that you had never seen. I didn’t ask you to explain it then. But I’d like to ask you now.”
    “I had a neuroparticipation session with Dr. Riscomb,” she told him, “before he had his accident. He wanted to accommodate my mind to visual impressions. Unfortunately, there was never a second session.”
    “I see. What did you do in that session?”
    She crossed her ankles and Render noted they were well-turned.
    “Colors, mostly. The experience was quite overwhelming.”
    “How well do you remember them? How long ago was it?”
    “About six months ago—and I shall never forget them. I have even dreamt in color patterns since then.”
    “How often?”
    “Several times a week.
    “What sort of associations do they carry?”
    “Nothing special. They just come into my mind along with other stimuli now—in a pretty haphazard way.”
    “How?”
    “Well, for instance, when you ask me a question it’s a sort of yellowish-orangish pattern that I ‘see.’ Your greeting was a kind of silvery thing. Now that you’re just sitting there listening to me, saying nothing, I associate you with a deep, almost violet, blue.”
    Sigmund shifted his gaze to the desk and stared at the side panel.
    Can he hear the recorder spinning inside? wondered Render. And if he can, can he guess what it is and what it’s doing?
    If so, the dog would doubtless tell Eileen—not that she was unaware of what was now an accepted practice—and she might not like being reminded that he considered her case as therapy, rather than a mere mechanical adaptation process. If he thought it would do any good (he smiled inwardly at the notion), he would talk to the dog in private about it.
    Inwardly, he shrugged.
    “I’ll construct a rather elementary fantasy world then,” he said finally, “and introduce you to some basic forms today.”
    She smiled; and Render looked down at the myth who crouched by her side, its tongue a piece of beefsteak hanging over a picket fence.
    Is he smiling too?
    “Thank you,” she said.
    Sigmund wagged his tail.
    “Well then”—Render disposed of his cigarette near Madagascar—“I’ll fetch out the ‘egg’ now and test it. In the meantime”—he pressed an unobtrusive button—“perhaps some music would prove relaxing.”
    She started to reply, but a Wagnerian overture snuffed out the words. Render jammed the button again, and there was a moment of silence during which he said, “Heh heh. Thought Respighi was next.”
    It took two more pushes for him to locate some Roman pines.
    “You could have left him on,” she observed. “I’m quite fond of Wagner.”
    “No thanks,” he said, opening the closet,