I told him what they said about _yage_, that some South American croaker had isolated from it a fix he called telepathine. How it was supposed to be some kind of miracle dope that you could take when you wanted it without actually _needing_ it, and it would open up the world for you so you'd be close, really close, to others like you. So your mind would be their mind. A union more terrific than any other kind--as far beyond even the ideal sexual climax, for instance, as sex is beyond a bow or a handshake. So there'd be a togetherness you couldn't achieve any other way. So you wouldn't be so ... alone. I felt embarrassed after talking like that, even though Jones listened as sympathetically as anybody could, so I got up to get another cup of coffee at the counter. "Okay," I said defensively as I spooned in the sugar. "I've told you about me. Now what about that stuff of yours--what do you call it again?" "_Uru_," he said. "It is what _yage_ is said to be, but is not. You would like it. But you tell me you are 'off the stuff'." "Off the old stuff. It's no good and I've licked it. Off with the old," I said, beginning to feel a little high already, "and on with the new. _Uru_, eh?" This might be it. The most. The big fix. I had to have it. "You shall try it," Jones said. "You shall judge for yourself. Then if you want more I will provide it for you. There will be no charge." Right away I got suspicious. Nobody gives anything away. It could be a come-on. Jones might figure I'd like it so much I'd have to have more and then I'd pay and pay. But on the other hand maybe he figured wrong. Nothing is habit-forming once. I didn't know anything about this _uru_, but I knew all there was to know about everything else. "Okay," I said. "When?" "I will call you," Jones said. I gave him my number. * * * * * He had a place on East 45th, a ratty old brownstone. It didn't look as if he'd lived in it long. But that was to be expected; if you were a pusher you had to keep on the move. After a while a landlady got suspicious about all the queer characters visiting this one guy and the next step was the cops. Jones had called me the day after our talk in the cafeteria, setting up a meet for that afternoon. I'd had a dream about _uru_, a wild and wonderful dream that made it impossible for me not to go. I'm a hunch-player, anyway. So I went. But I was cautious enough to leave my money home and not to wear my best clothes. Then if it turned out that Jones was pulling a lush-worker switch, feeding junkies a knockout fix and rolling them, I wouldn't lose much. He was wearing the same black suit. His closet door was open and I could see that there were no clothes hanging in it. Maybe he hadn't unpacked yet, though I didn't see a suitcase anywhere.