Florence's sudden lunging movement made Edith freeze in her tracks. Florence snatched the crowbar up. Instead of turning back to the Reversor, though, she turned toward Edith and began advancing on her. "Now you," she said, "you lesbian bitch."

Edith gaped at her, as much unnerved by the words as by the sight of Florence stalking her, crowbar raised. "I'm going to smash your fucking skull in," Florence said. "I'm going to beat it into jelly."

Edith shook her head, retreating. She glanced at Lionel desperately. He was writhing on the floor in pain. She started toward him, then jumped back, looking at Florence again, as, with a savage howl, the medium broke into a run at her, brandishing the crowbar. Edith's breath cut off. She whirled and bolted toward the entry hall, her mind washed blank by panic. She heard the driving thud of shoes behind her, glanced across her shoulder. Florence was almost on her! She sprang forward with a gasp, darting across the entry hall and up the stairs.

She knew the moment she'd reached the landing that she couldn't make their room; side vision showed her Florence only several yards behind. Impulsively she raced across the corridor to Florence's room and plunged inside, whirling to slam the door and lock it. A groan of horror tore her lips back as she saw the broken lock. Too late. The door was surging in at her. She stumbled back and, losing balance, fell.

Florence stood across the room from her, panting, smiling. "What are you afraid of?" she asked. She tossed aside the crowbar carelessly. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Edith crouched on the floor, staring at her.

"I'm not going to hurt you, baby." Edith felt a spasm in her stomach muscles. The medium's voice was honeyed, almost purring.

Florence started to remove her coat. Edith tensed as she dropped it on the floor. Florence started to unbutton her sweater.

Edith began to shake her head.

"Don't shake your head," said Florence. "You and I are going to have a lovely time."

"No." Edith started edging backward.

" Yes." Florence removed the sweater, dropped it. Starting across the room, she reached back to unhook her bra.

Oh, God, please don't! Edith kept shaking her head as Florence moved in on her. The bra was off now. Florence began unzipping her skirt, the smile fixed to her lips. Edith bumped against a bed and caught her breath convulsively. She could retreat no farther. Cold and weak, she watched Florence drop her skirt, bend over to remove her panties. She stopped shaking her head. "Oh, no," she pleaded.

Florence dropped to her knees, straddling Edith's legs. Sliding both hands underneath her breasts, she held them up in front of Edith's face; Edith winced at the purplish teeth marks on them. "Aren't they nice?" said Florence. "Aren't they delicious-looking? Don't you want them?" Her words drove a spear of terror into Edith's heart. She stared up frozenly as Florence fondled her breasts in front of her. "Here, feel them," Florence said. She released her left breast, reached down, lifted Edith's hand.

The feel of the warm, yielding flesh against her fingers broke a dam in Edith's chest. A sob of anguish shook her. No, I'm not that way! screamed her mind.

"Of course you are," said Florence, as though Edith had spoken. "We're both that way; we've always been that way. Men are ugly, men are cruel. Only women can be trusted. Only women can be loved. Your own father tried to rape you, didn't he?"

She couldn't know! thought Edith, horrified. She jerked both hands against her chest and pressed them tightly to her body, jammed her eyes shut.

With an animal-like sound, Florence fell across her. Edith tried to push her off, but Florence was too heavy. Edith felt the medium's hands clamping on the back of her head, forcing up her face. Abruptly Florence's lips were crushed on hers, mouth open, tongue trying to force its way inside her mouth. Edith tried to fight, but Florence was too strong. The room began to spin around her, burgeoning with heat. A heavy mantle fell across her body. She felt numb, detached. She couldn't keep her lips together, and Florence's tongue plunged deep inside her mouth, licking at the tender roof. Curls of sensation flickered through her body. She felt one of Florence's hands wrap her fingers around the breast again. She couldn't pull the hand away. There was a pounding in her ears. Heat poured across her.

The sound of Lionel's voice cut through the pounding. Edith jerked her head to one side, trying to see past Florence. The heated mantle vanished. Coldness rushed across her. She glanced up, saw the twisted face of Florence looming overhead.

Lionel called her name again. "In here!" she cried. Florence pulled away from her, looking at herself with sickened realization; she lunged to her feet and ran into the bathroom. Edith struggled up and moved across the room unevenly. She fell against Lionel as he ran in, clinging to him, eyes shut, face against his chest. She started crying helplessly.

9:01 A.M.

You'll be all right." Barrett patted Fischer's shoulder. "Just stay in bed awhile; don't move."

"How is she?" Fischer mumbled.

"Asleep. I gave her pills."

Fischer tried to sit up, fell back, gasping.

" Don't move," Barrett told him. "That was quite a blow you took."

"Have to get her out of here."

"I'll get her out."

Fischer looked at him suspiciously.

"I promise," Barrett said. "Now rest."

Edith was standing by the door. Barrett took her arm and led her into the corridor. "How is he?" she asked.

"Unless he has a more serious concussion than I think, he should come around."

"What about you?"

"Just a few more hours," Lionel said. Edith saw that he was holding his right arm against his chest as though it were broken.

There was a stain of fresh blood on the thumb bandage. When he'd wrenched the crowbar out of Florence's hands, he must have torn apart the edges of the cut. She was about to mention it, then gave it up, a sense of utter hopelessness oppressing her.

Lionel opened the door to Florence's room, and they crossed to her bed. She was lying motionless beneath the covers. After Lionel had spoken to her for a long time, she'd emerged from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her. She hadn't spoken, hadn't met their gaze. Eyes downcast like those of a repentant child, she had accepted the three pills, slipped beneath the bedclothes, and in moments closed her eyes and gone to sleep.

Barrett raised her left eyelid and looked at her staring eye. Edith averted her face. Then Lionel was taking her arm again; they crossed the room and went into the corridor. Moving to their room, they went inside.

"Would you get me some water?" he asked.

Edith went into the bathroom and ran cold water into the glass. When she returned, Lionel was on his bed, propped against the headboard. "Thank you," he murmured as she handed him the glass. He had two codeines in his palm. He washed them down his throat. "I'm going to telephone Deutsch's man for an ambulance," he said. Edith felt a momentary burst of hope.

"Have Fischer and Miss Tanner taken to the nearest hospital."

The hope was gone. Edith looked at him without expression.

"I'd like you to go with them," Lionel said.

"Not until you go."

"It would make me feel much better."

Edith shook her head. "Not without you."

He sighed. "Very well. It'll all be over by this afternoon, at any rate."

"Will it?"

"Edith - Barrett looked surprised - "have you lost your faith in me?"

"What about - ?"

" - what happened just before?" He drew in a hitching breath. "Don't you see? It proves my point precisely."

" How? "

"Her attack on my Reversor was the ultimate tribute. She knows I'm right. There was nothing else to do - her very words, if you recall - except to destroy my beliefs before they could destroy hers."

Barrett reached out his left hand and drew her onto the bed. "She's not possessed by Daniel Belasco," he told her. "She's not possessed by anyone - unless it's by her inner self, her true self, her repressed self."

Like I was yesterday, she thought. She stared at Lionel hopelessly. She wanted to believe him, but it wasn't in her anymore.

"The medium is a most unstable personality," he said. "Any psychic worthy of the name invariably turns out to be a hysteric and/or somnambulist, a victim of divided consciousness. The parallel between the mediumistic trance and the somnambulistic fit is absolute. Personalities come and go, methods of expression are identical, as are psychological structures, the amnesia upon awakening, the artificial quality of the alternate personalities.

"What we've witnessed this morning is that part of Miss Tanner's personality she's always kept hidden, even from herself -

her patience turning into anger, her withdrawal into furious expression." He paused. "Her chasteness into wanton sexuality."

Edith declined her head. She couldn't look at him. Like me, she thought.

"It's all right," Barrett said.

"No." She shook her head.

"If there are . . . things to be discussed, we'll discuss them at home."

At home, she thought. Never had a phrase implied such impossibility to her.

"All right," she said. But it was someone else's voice.

"Good," said Barrett. "In addition to my work, then, some extra value has come of this week, some personal enlightenment."

He smiled at her. "Have heart, my dear. Everything will work out."