4:46 P.M.

The cat lay warmly indolent beside her. Its body throbbed with purrs as Florence stroked its neck.

When she'd come upstairs, she'd found it cowering outside her door and, despite her wretchedness, had picked it up and carried it inside. She'd held it in her lap until its trembling had stopped, then had put it on the bed and taken a hot shower. Now she was lying in her robe, the bedspread pulled across her.

"Poor puss," she murmured. "What a place to bring you." She ran the edge of a finger along the front of its neck, and the cat raised its head with a languid movement, eyes still closed. Barrett had said that he needed it as an additional verification of

"presence" in the house. It seemed a harsh measure, though, merely to acquire a slight scientific validation. Maybe she could get it taken away by the couple who brought their meals. She'd ask Barrett to let her know the moment the cat had served its purpose.

Florence closed her eyes again. She wished she could sleep, but things kept nagging at her mind. Mrs. Barrett's strained embarrassment - the way she'd jerked around, as though someone were looking at her; Barrett's overzealous safeguards against fraud; the onset of physical mediumship in herself; her inability to go inside the chapel; her concern for Fischer; her feeling of dissatisfaction with herself; her fear that she was giving more importance to Belasco's son than he warranted. After all -

She jolted, gasping, as the cat leaped from the bed. Sitting up, she saw it rushing to the door and crouching there, back arched, fur on end, its pupils expanded so completely that its eyes looked black. Hastily she stood and crossed to it. The instant she opened the door, it darted out into the corridor and disappeared.

Something flapped behind her, and she whirled, to see the spread and blankets landing on the rug.

There was something underneath the sheet.

Florence stared at it. It was the figure of a man. She started toward the bed, tightening as she saw that the figure was nude.

She could make out every body contour, from the swelling broadness of the chest to the bulge of genitals. She felt a stir of sensual awareness in her body. No, she told herself; that's what he wants. "If you're here only to impress me with your cleverness again, I'm not interested," she said.

The figure made no sound. It lay immobile underneath the sheet, chest expanding and contracting in a perfect simulation of breath. Florence peered at its face. "Are you Emeric Belasco's son?" she asked. She edged along the side of the bed. "If you are, you said that nothing changes. Yet, with love, all things are possible. This is true of life, and true of life beyond life." She leaned across him, trying to make out his features. "Tell me who you are," she said.

"Boo!" the figure shouted. Florence jumped back with a cry. Instantly the sheet collapsed, and there was nothing on the bed.

The air began to ring with mocking laughter. Florence tightened with resentment. "Very funny," she said. The laughter rose in pitch, taking on a frenzied quality. Florence clenched her hands. "If practical jokes are all you're interested in, stay away from me!" she ordered.

For almost twenty seconds, it was deathly still inside the room. Florence felt her stomach muscles slowly tightening.

Suddenly the Chinese lamp was pitched to the floor, shattering its bulb; only the light from the bathroom kept the room from total darkness. Florence twitched as footsteps thudded across the rug. The door to the corridor was flung open so hard that it crashed against the wall.

She waited for a while before she crossed the room to shut the door. Switching on the overhead light, she moved to the fallen lamp and picked it up. Such anger, she thought. Yet it wasn't only anger; that was clear.

It was a plea as well.

6:21 P.M.

Florence walked into the dining hall. "Good evening," she said.

Fischer's smile was cursory. Florence sat down. "Have you seen this couple yet?" she asked, gesturing toward the table, which was set for supper.

"No."

She smiled. "Funny if there wasn't any couple."

Fischer showed no sign of amusement. Florence glanced toward the great hall. "I wonder where the Barretts are," she said.

She looked back at him. "Well, what have you been doing?"

"Scouting." Fischer lifted the cover from one of the serving dishes and eyed the heap of lamb chops. He replaced the cover.

"You should eat," she said.

He pushed the dish toward her. "Maybe we should wait," she said.

"Go ahead."

Florence waited a few more seconds. Then she said, "I'll have some salad." She served her plate and looked at him. He shook his head. "A little?" Fischer shook his head again.

Florence ate some salad before she spoke again. "Were you in contact with Belasco's son when you were here before?"

"All I was in contact with was a live wire."

The sound of footsteps made them look around. "Good evening," Florence said.

"Good evening." Barrett smiled politely; Edith nodded. "Are you feeling better?" Barrett asked.

Florence nodded. "Yes, I'm fine."

"Good," Barrett and his wife sat down, served themselves, and started eating.

"We were talking about Belasco's son," Florence said.

"Ah, yes; Belasco's son."

Something in Barrett's tone made Florence bristle. Suddenly the thought of having been subjected by him to the indignity of a physical examination galled her. The costume, those ridiculous precautions: ropes and nets and infrared lamps, hand and foot plates turning lights on, cameras. She tried to repress a mounting anger but couldn't. How dare Barrett treat her this way? Her position in this project was just as vital as his.

"Will it never end?" she said.

The others looked at her. "Were you addressing me?" inquired Barrett.

"I was." Again she tried to quell her anger, but again the vision of the physical examination flashed across her mind, the costume, the absurd safeguards against fraud.

"Will what never end?" asked Barrett.

"This attitude of doubt. Distrust."

"Distrust?"

"Why should mediums be expected to produce phenomena only under conditions which science dictates?" she demanded.

"We're not machines. We're human beings. These rigid, unyielding demands by science have done more harm than good to parapsychology."

"Miss Tanner - " Barrett looked confused. "What brought this on? Have I - "

"I'm not a medium for the fun of it, you know." Florence cut him off. The more she spoke, the more infuriated she became.

"It's often painful, often unrewarding."

"Don't you think - ?"

"It just so happens I believe that mediumship is God's manifestation in man." She couldn't stop herself. "'When I speak with thee,'" she quoted angrily. "'I will open thy mouth, and thou shalt say to them: Thus saith the Lord.'"

"Miss Tanner - "

"There is nothing in the Bible - not a single recorded phenomenon - which does not occur today, whether it be sights or sounds, shaking of the house, or coming through closed doors: rushing winds, levitations, automatic writing, or the speaking in tongues."

There was a heavy silence. Florence glared at Barrett, conscious of Fischer and Edith staring at her. Somewhere, deep inside her mind, she heard a warning cry, but fury stilled it. She watched Barrett pour himself some coffee, watched him pick up his cup. He looked at her. "Miss Tanner," he said, "I don't know what's bothering you, but - "

He broke off as the cup exploded in his hand. Edith jerked back, gasping. Barrett, frozen, gaped at the shard of handle still in his fingers. Blood was starting to drip from the cut in his thumb. Florence felt a pounding at her temples. Fischer looked around in startlement. "What in God's name - ?" Barrett started.

He was drowned out as the glass beside his plate burst apart, its fragments scattering across the table. Edith jerked her hands back as her plate leaped from the table, flipping over rapidly and dumping food across the floor before it landed, shattering.

She recoiled as the top part of her glass broke off with a cracking noise and jumped across the table toward her husband.

Barrett, pulling out a handkerchief, twisted to the side. The glass top thudded off his arm and tumbled to the floor. Fischer's glass exploded, and he lurched back, flinging an arm in front of his face.

Florence's plate somersaulted, scattering salad over the table. She reached out to grab it, then jolted back as the plate went flying across the table. Barrett jerked his head aside. The plate scaled past his ear and landed on its edge, rolling rapidly across the floor, to break against the wall. Edith cried out as a heavy serving dish began to slide across the table toward him. Barrett jumped up, toppling his chair. He almost fell, then leaned against the table. The serving dish slid off the table edge and crashed to the floor. Mashed potatoes splattered over his shoes and trouser cuffs.

Fischer was on his feet now. He tried to turn from the table, but was slammed against it as his chair lurched hard against his legs. He saw his cup go leaping from the table, gouting coffee over Barrett's shirt front as it struck him in the middle of the chest. Edith's scream choked off as Fischer's plate was catapulted from the tabletop, flying closely over her head. The chair slid back from Fischer, and he crumpled to his knees, his face a mask of shock.

Barrett tried to twist the handkerchief around his bleeding thumb. The silver pot fell over and began to spin across the table at him, spouting coffee. Barrett lurched aside to avoid it, slipped on the potatoes, flailed for balance, then went crashing onto his right side. The coffeepot fell off the table, bouncing off his left calf. He cried out at the burning impact. Edith tried to stand to help him, but her chair rocked backward, throwing her off balance. A knife and spoon went flying past her cheek.

Florence shrank into her chair as another serving dish began to skid across the table, headed for Barrett. Barrett scrabbled aside with a gasp. The serving dish crashed down beside him, the edge of its cover striking his shin. Edith struggled to her feet.

"Under the table!" Fischer cried. Florence slid from the chair, falling to her knees. Fischer flung himself beneath the table.

Overhead, the hanging lamp began to pendulum, the length of its swings increasing rapidly.

They were barely in the shelter of the table when the objects on the monastery table against the east wall came to life. A heavy silver chafing dish arced across the room and hit their table with a deafening impact. Edith cried out. Barrett started reaching for her automatically, then went back to wrapping his thumb. A silver bowl came hurtling at them, struck a table leg, and spun around in a blur of movement. Florence glanced at Fischer. He was on his knees, eyes staring, face a frozen mask of dread. She wanted to help him but felt too dazed. There was a churning coldness in her stomach.

All of them looked up in shock as the dining table started rocking back and forth. The silver creamer landed nearby, contents splattering across the floor like a gout of ivory paint. The silver sugar bowl fell beside it as the table rocked with mounting violence, legs crashing down like pounding horse hooves. The table shifted suddenly, and Barrett had to jerk his hand away to keep from getting it crushed. The chairs began to overturn, banging one by one against the floor, the noise like rifle shots.

Suddenly the table surged away from them, sliding fast across the polished floor. It smashed against the fire screen and bent it out of shape. Above them, all the sanctuary lamps were swinging violently. One of them tore loose and hurtled sideways, creating a shower of sparks as it collided violently with the stone mantel, then crashed to the tabletop. A silver candelabrum flew across the room and landed on the floor by Barrett, thudding against his side. He fell with a gasp of pain. Florence cried out. " No! "

All movement ceased abruptly, except for the decreasing arcs of the remaining sanctuary lamps. Edith bent over Barrett anxiously. "Lionel?" She touched his shoulder. He managed to nod.

"Ben, you've got to leave this house."

Fischer turned to Florence, startled by her words.

"You aren't up to it," she told him.

" What the hell are you talking about? "

Florence turned to Barrett for support. "Doctor - " she began, then stopped, seeing how he looked at her as Edith helped him to his feet. "Are you all right?" she asked.

He didn't answer, leaning against the table with a groan. Edith looked at him in fright. "Lionel?"

"I'll be all right." He tightened the handkerchief around his thumb. The cut was deep; it stung. There were islands of pain all over his body - his arm, his chest, his shin, his ankle, mostly his side. His leg ached horhbly.

Florence stared at him. Why had he looked at her that way? Suddenly she thought she knew. "I'm sorry I spoke so angrily,"

he said. "But please support me in this. I think it's important that Ben - that Mr. Fischer leave the house."

Barrett clenched his teeth against the pain. "Trying to get us both out now?" he muttered. Florence looked at him in surprise.

"Help me to our room, please?" Barrett asked his wife. Edith nodded faintly, handed him his cane, and took his arm.

Florence didn't understand. "What do you mean, Doctor Barrett?"

He threw a glance around the wreckage of the hall. "I should think that was obvious," he said.

Stunned into silence, Florence watched the Barretts leave. After they were gone, she looked at Fischer. "What is he saying?"

she asked. "That I - ?"

Fischer turned away from her.

"Ben, it isn't true!"

He lurched away. Still moving, he glanced back at her. "You're the one who'd better leave," he said. "You're the one who's being used, not me."