"I didn't have an appointment. I just came."
"I understand."
"Maybe I had better go."
"I won't hear of it."
I could have pulled loose from him, but somehow I felt that if I did
try to pull away, the grip would tighten and I would never get away.
I looked up into that long, hard, blank face that seemed so recently
familiar.
"I'm Dr. Sergeant," he said. "I'm taking care of Dr. Rickenbacker's
practice for him while he is on vacation."
I nodded. What I was thinking could only be another symptom of my
illness.
He led me inside and closed the door.
The door made a strange sound in closing. It didn't go _snick-bonk_; it
made a noise like _click-clack-clunk_.
"Now," he said, "would you like to lie down on the couch and tell
me about it? Some people have preconceived ideas that I don't want
to fight with at the beginning. Or, if you prefer, you can sit
there in front of my desk and tell me all about it. Remember, I'm a
psychiatrist, a doctor, not just a psychoanalyst."