"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." Her laughter brimmed over, laced in delight. "John, dinner's ready." She called into three rooms, empty rooms. Crossing to the terrace, she opened a door on the night. Snowflakes rode in on an icy draft. "Well?" "John! What are you doing out there? I can't even see you." "That seems to be one of your habits recently." She drew him inside, and leaned against the door, closing. "Is it going to be like that tonight?" "Maybe." His face was steeped in cold. "Please. Not the day before you go." The white crystals on his hair melted into drops, and a sudden warmth strained all harshness from his voice. "No, you're right, Mary. Not the day before I go." Pushing him toward the fire, Mary took his cloak. "Didn't you notice?" "What?" "The table, silly. It's 'Happy Homecoming' tonight!" "Leavestaking, you mean." "No, homecoming. It's not December. It's August. You've just opened the front door and said, 'Mary, I'm home!' And all the time in between hasn't been. It never will be." He smiled for the first time. "Now that's better." The woman handed John Hastings a goblet, plump with yellow liquid. "To August, dear," she said, and raised her glass. "To the moment your foot touches Earth again. And to the wine ... warm and golden, like our life together." "Let's eat," he said. "Let's not ask questions." He faltered in a lack of direction. "Wait a minute." "For what?" "For the questions you can't ask." The gaiety was gone. It was real now. "I think it's time we swept out the corners." John nodded, his face slack. "You've been strange lately." "Oh that!" he shrugged. "Let's say it's the getting ready ... the heart plunge just before you jump into space."