Two men advanced carrying a mesh complexity between them. Placing it
over the defendant's head they allowed it to fall to his shoulders.
"Are you ready, John Hastings?"
"Yes." It seemed he was already gone from the place.
"Then concentrate. Remember. Permit your mind to have freedom." The
voice washed over him in waves. "It is a day in December ... the
fourteenth.... Take my words and let them carry you...."
The screen above the defendant's head began to cloud and draw in.
"It is cold outside ... the snow is falling. There is a warm room. A
fire is burning...."
The mists opalesced and formed a nucleus.
"There is a pool of light on the desk, unexpected flowers in a bowl,
the odor of duck, roasted brown...."
Something was struggling for existence in the screen.
"There is a brown-haired woman--"
And the image was born....
* * * * *
She bent over a card. "Candlelight, best service for two, white wine,
celebration atmosphere," she wrote and put it into the dining table
selector. Somewhere an orchestra started playing Debussy.
"John," she called. "Almost ready."
A card shot back at her from the mirror as she passed. "Your nose is
shiny," it read. She powdered quickly, taming wisps of hair as an
afterthought.
"Any further comments?" she wanted to know, and held out her hand. A
second card appeared. "I can't whistle."