Because it is so hard to see the obvious, it had been months before he realized the true cause of his discomfort. The Torrington Clinic was more like a luxury hotel than a world-famous center for the treatment of psychological disorders. Nobody died here; trolleys never rolled from wards to operating theaters; there were no white-robed doctors making Pavlovian responses to their beepers; and even the attendants never wore uniforms. But it was still, essentially, a hospital; and a hospital was where the fifteen-year-old Donald had watched his father gasping for breath, as he slowly died from the first of the two great plagues that had ravaged the twentieth century.

“How is she this morning, Dolores?” he asked the nurse after he had checked in at Reception.

“Quite cheerful, Mr. Craig. She asked me to take her shopping—she wants to buy a new hat.”

“Shopping! That’s the first time she’s even asked to go out!”

Donald should have been pleased, yet he felt a twinge of resentment. Edith would never speak to him; indeed, she seemed unaware of his presence, looking through him as if he did not even exist.

“What did Dr. Jafferjee say? Is it okay for her to leave the clinic?”

“I’m afraid not. But it’s a good sign: she’s starting to show interest in the world around her again.”

A new hat? Thought Craig. That was a typically feminine reaction—but it was not at all typical of Edith. She had always dressed…well, sensibly rather than fashionably, and had been quite content to order her clothes in the usual fashion, by teleshopping. Somehow, he could not imagine her in some exclusive Mayfair shop, surrounded by hatboxes, tissue paper, and fawning assistants. But if she felt that way, so be it; anything to help her escape from the mathematical labyrinth which was, quite literally, infinite in extent.