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His
name
was
Pascow
,
Victor
Pascow
,
and
how
desperate
is
the
situation
now
,
Rachel
?
How
bad
is
this
?
What
in
the
name
of
God
is
happening
?
Her
hands
were
trembling
so
badly
that
it
took
her
two
tries
to
redeposit
her
quarter
.
This
time
she
called
the
infirmary
at
the
university
and
got
Charlton
,
who
accepted
the
call
,
a
little
mystified
.
No
,
she
had
n't
seen
Louis
and
would
have
been
surprised
if
he
had
come
in
today
.
That
said
,
she
offered
her
sympathies
to
Rachel
again
.
Rachel
accepted
them
and
then
asked
Charlton
to
have
Louis
call
her
at
her
folks
"
house
if
he
did
come
in
.
Yes
,
he
had
the
number
,
she
answered
Charlton
's
question
,
not
wanting
to
tell
the
nurse
(
who
probably
knew
anyway
;
she
had
a
feeling
that
Charlton
did
n't
miss
much
)
that
her
folks
"
house
was
half
the
continent
away
.
She
hung
up
,
feeling
hot
and
trembly
.
She
heard
Pascow
's
name
somewhere
else
,
that
's
all
.
My
God
,
you
do
n't
raise
a
kid
in
a
glass
box
like
a.
.
.
a
hamster
or
something
.
She
heard
an
item
about
it
on
the
radio
.
Or
some
kid
mentioned
it
to
her
at
school
,
and
her
mind
stored
it
away
.
Even
that
word
she
could
n't
say
--
suppose
it
was
a
jawbreaker
like
"
discorporated
"
or
"
discorporeal
,
"
so
what
?
That
proves
nothing
except
that
the
subconscious
is
exactly
the
kind
of
sticky
flypaper
the
Sunday
supplements
say
it
is
.
She
remembered
a
college
psych
instructor
who
had
asserted
that
under
the
right
conditions
,
your
memory
could
play
back
the
names
of
every
person
to
whom
you
had
ever
been
introduced
,
every
meal
you
had
ever
eaten
,
the
weather
conditions
which
had
obtained
on
every
day
of
your
life
.
He
made
a
persuasive
case
for
this
incredible
assertion
,
telling
them
that
the
human
mind
was
a
computer
with
staggering
numbers
of
memory
chips
--
not
16K
,
or
32K
,
or
64K
,
but
perhaps
as
much
as
one
billion
K
:
literally
,
a
thousand
billion
.
And
how
much
might
each
of
these
organic
"
chips
"
be
capable
of
storing
?
No
one
knew
.
But
there
were
so
many
of
them
,
he
said
,
that
there
was
no
need
for
any
of
them
to
be
erasable
so
they
could
be
re-used
.
In
fact
the
conscious
mind
had
to
turn
down
the
lights
on
some
of
them
as
a
protection
against
informational
insanity
.
"
You
might
not
be
able
to
remember
where
you
keep
your
socks
,
"
the
psych
instructor
had
said
,
"
if
the
entire
contents
of
the
Encyclopedia
Britannica
was
stored
in
the
adjacent
two
or
three
memory
cells
.
"
This
had
produced
dutiful
laughter
from
the
class
.
But
this
is
n't
a
psych
class
under
good
fluorescent
lights
with
all
that
comforting
jargon
written
on
the
board
and
some
smartass
assistant
prof
cheerfully
blueskying
his
way
through
the
last
fifteen
minutes
of
the
period
.
Something
is
dreadfully
wrong
here
and
you
know
it
--
you
feel
it
.
I
do
n't
know
what
it
has
to
do
with
Pascow
,
or
Gage
,
or
Church
,
but
it
has
something
to
do
with
Louis
.
What
?
Is
it
--
Suddenly
a
thought
as
cold
as
a
handful
of
jelly
struck
her
.
She
picked
up
the
telephone
receiver
again
and
groped
in
the
coin-return
for
her
quarter
.
Was
Louis
contemplating
suicide
?
Was
that
why
he
had
gotten
rid
of
them
,
nearly
pushed
them
out
the
door
?
Had
Ellie
somehow
had
a.
.
.
a.
.
.
oh
,
fuck
psychology
!
Had
she
had
a
psychic
flash
of
some
sort
?
This
time
she
made
the
call
collect
to
Jud
Crandall
.
It
rang
five
times
...
six
...
seven
.
She
was
about
to
hang
up
when
his
voice
,
breathless
,
answered
.
"
H'lo
?
"
