—Very good, sir. Tomorrow morning at nine.
The moment he comes to the end of the conversation between Graf and Joubert, the telephone starts to ring, and once again Mr. Blank is forced to interrupt his reading of the typescript. Cursing under his breath as he extricates himself from the chair, he hobbles slowly across the room toward the bedside table, moving with difficulty because of his recent injuries, and so plodding is his progress that he doesn't pick up the receiver until the seventh ring, whereas he was nimble enough to answer the previous call from Flood on the fourth.
What do you want? Mr. Blank says harshly, as he sits down on the bed, suddenly feeling a flutter of the old dizziness whirling around inside him.
I want to know if you've finished the story, a man's voice calmly answers.
Story? What story is that?
The one you've been reading. The story about the Confederation.
I didn't know it was a story. It sounds more like a report, like something that really happened.
It's make-believe, Mr. Blank. A work of fiction.
Ah. That explains why I've never heard of that place. I know my mind isn't working too well today, but I thought Graf's manuscript must have been found by someone years after he wrote it and then copied out by a typist.
An honest mistake.
A stupid mistake.
Don't worry about it. The only thing I need to know is whether you've finished it or not.
Almost. Just a few more pages to go. If you hadn't interrupted me with this goddamned call, I'd probably be at the end by now.
Good. I'll come round in fifteen or twenty minutes, and we can begin the consultation.
Consultation? What are you talking about?
I'm your doctor, Mr. Blank. I come to see you every day.
I don't remember having a doctor.
Of course not. That's because the treatment is beginning to take effect.
Does my doctor have a name?
Farr. Samuel Farr.
Farr… Hmm… Yes, Samuel Farr… You wouldn't happen to know a woman named Anna, would you?
We'll talk about that later. For now, the only thing you have to do is finish the story.
All right, I'll finish the story. But when you come to my room, how will I know it's you? What if it's someone else pretending to be you?
There's a picture of me on your desk. The twelfth one in from the top of the pile. Take a good look at it, and when I show up, you won't have any trouble recognizing me.
Now Mr. Blank is sitting in the chair again, hunched over the desk. Rather than look for Samuel Farr's picture in the pile of photographs as he was instructed to do, he reaches for the pad and ballpoint pen and adds another name to his list:
James P. Flood
Anna
David Zimmer
Peter Stillman, Jr.
Peter Stillman, Sr.