The psychiatrist flicked off the intercom. For a moment he stared out the window at the sky and the building tops. Then he went to the door, knelt, and saw a small amount of red sand, just a few grains that might have been kicked under the door by someone in a hurry. He returned to Freud on the shelf, located the bottle and the glass, and poured himself a stiff one without waiting to transport the equipment to the desk. Then he went to the desk, and flipped on the intercom again. "Miss Austin, do you like chicken farms?" he said. "I love them, doctor," the honey voice answered. "But--" "Never mind," he told her. "Just come in here. I've got a question to ask you." He poured himself another drink.