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yellowed human crania, suggesting to Jocundra that he was the latest in a succession of psychologist-kings, and that his own brain case would someday join those of his predecessors.

'During a voodoo ritual,' Edman continued, 'the celebrants experience tremors, convulsions, and begin to exhibit a different class of behaviors than previously. They may, for example, show a fondness for gazing into mirrors or eating a particular food, and the houngan then identifies these behaviors as aspects belonging to one of the gods.'

'There is a rough analogue...' Jocundra began.

'Bear with me a moment!' Edman waggled a finger, summoning a thought. 'I prefer to regard this so-called spirit possession as the emergence of the deep consciousness. A rather imprecise term, easily confused with Jung-ian terminology, but generally indicative of what I'm after: the raw force of the identity to which all the socialized and otherwise learned behaviors adhere, barna-cling it with fears and logical process and so forth, gradually masking it from the light and relegating it to a murky existence in the...' He smacked his head, as if to dislodge an idea. 'Ah! In the abyss of forethought.' He scribbled on his notepad, beaming at Jocundra. 'That ought to wake up the back rows at the next convention.' He leaned back again. 'My thesis is that we're stimulating spirit possession by microbiological means rather than hypnogogic ones, elevating the deep consciousness to fill the void created by the dissipation of learned behaviors. But instead of allowing this new and unfocused identity to wander about at will for a few hours, we educate and guide it. And instead of a houngan or a mama loi to simply proclaim the manifestation, we utilize trained personnel to maximize their potential, to influence their growth. Of course if we had a mama loi on the staff, she'd say we had conjured up a god.' He chuckled. 'See what I'm after?'

'It's hardly a scholarly viewpoint.' Jocundra found the idea of playing voodoo priestess to Donnell's elemental spirit appealing in the manner of a comic book illustration.

'Not as such! Still, a case might be made for it. And wouldn't it be a surprise package if we learned there were exact correlations between personality types and the voodoo pantheon!' Edman pursed his lips and tapped them with his forefinger. 'You must be familiar with anthropological studies in this area... Any input?'

'Well,' said Jocundra, unhappy at having to supply grist for Edman's mill, 'the voodoo concept of the soul has some resonance with your thesis. According to doctrine all human beings have two souls. The ti bon ange, which is more or less the conscience, the socialized part of the mind, and the gros bon ange, which is the undying part, the immortal twin. It's been described as the image of a man reflected by a dark mirror. You might want to read Deren or Metraux.'

'Hmm.' Edman bent to his notepad. 'Tell me, Ms Verret. Do you like Donnell?' He cocked an eye toward her, continuing to write. 'You must have some personal reaction.'

Jocundra was startled by the question. 'I think he's brilliant,' she said. 'You've seen his work.'

'It seems quite competent, but that's not what I'm driving at. Suppose Donnell wasn't your patient, would you be attracted to him?'

'I don't believe that's relevant,' she said defensively. 'Not to the project or...'

'You're right, of course. Sorry.' Edman took another note and favored her with a paternal smile. 'I'm just an old snoop.'

'I'm concerned for him, I'm not happy he's going to die.'

'Please! Your private concerns are just that. Sorry.'

Edman opened a file drawer and rummaged through it, leaving Jocundra a little flustered. The sun was going down, staining the faceted panes to ruby, empurpling the shadows along the wall, and these decaying colors -augmented by the glutinous sound of Edman's breath as he bent over the file, taxed by even this slight exertion - congealed into a perverse atmosphere. She felt soiled. His question had not been idle curiosity; he was constantly prying, hinting, insinuating. Her opinion of him had always been low, but never so low as now. She pictured him alone in the office, entertaining fantasies about the therapists, fondling himself while watching videos of the patients, feeding upon the potential for sickness which the project incorporated.

At last he unbent, his pale face mooning above the desk. 'The microbiology people think Magnusson's the key...' He paused, his attention commanded by a clipping in a manila folder; he clucked to himself and closed it. 'Did you know they've been