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the limit, Dr. Burke." Martin will have to upgrade his credit with the dealer today. "That's fine, INDA. Tell me what you've found." "I have seven references to Country of the Mind investigations, all of them in cases predating last year's law." The United States Congress, acting in conjunction with Europe and Asia, has passed laws banning two-way psychiatric investigation through the hippocampal juncture, which Martin pioneered. Appeals to the Supreme Court and World Psychiatric Organization have been quietly buried; nobody is currently interested in stirring up this hornet's nest. Emanuel Goldsmith might have been the final poison pill. "No defiance or physician protests?" "A search through available records indicates the procedure has not been openly performed in four years by anybody, in any part of the world." "I mean, has anyone published contrary opinions?" "Liberal Digest's Multiway has posted twelve contrary opinions in the past year, but that makes it a very minor issue. By comparison, they posted four thousand and twenty-one contrary opinions on the Freedom to Choose Individual Therapy decision 'is a vis the requirements of remp agencies and em / SLANT 27
    York and Virginia, bastions of New Federalism, had clearly been intended to put roadblocks in the way of therapy's juggernaut domination of society, but the Supreme Court had voided the rulings, based on contract law, coming down in favor of temp agencies and employers. Liberal Digest had, for once, agreed with the New Federalists that therapy should not be forced on temp
    agency clients, under threat of unemployment. These were strange times. "Any conclusions?"
    "We do not foresee any interest in Country of the Mind investigations, as a social issue, for many years." "We" among INDAs is purely a placekeeper
    for "this machine," and does not imply any self-awareness.
    "It's dead, then."
    "Of no currency," the INDA amends.
    Martin taps his desk. He has moved completely away from the discovery which launched his fame and caused his downfall. He believes strongly that Country of the Mind investigations could be incredibly powerful and useful, but society has rejected them for the time being--and for the foreseeable future.
    "I suppose that's best," he says, but without conviction. His office pad chimes. It's early. "Yes, Arnold?"
    "Sir, there's a gentleman here. No appointment. New. He's very insistent--
    says he'll make it worth your while."
    "What's his problem?"
    "He won't say, sir. He won't accept Kim's evaluation and he looks very edgy."
    Kim joins in, out of the intruder's hearing: "Sir, his name is Terence Crest. The Terence Crest. We've run a check. He is who he says he is."
    It's Martin's day to be approached by influential people. Crest is a billionaire, known for his conservatism and quest for privacy as much as his financial dealings--mostly in Rim entertainment. Martin taps his finger on the desk several times, then says, "Show him in." The day's touches, drifting at apparent arm's length over the office pad, vanish.
    Martin greets Mr. Crest at the door and escorts him to a chair. Crest is in his mid-forties, of medium height, with a thin bland face and large unfocused eyes. He is dressed in dark gray with thin black stripes, and beneath his long coat, his shirt is living sun-yellow, body-cleansing and health-monitoring fabric. His right hand carries three large rings, signs of affiliations in high comb society. Martin cannot read the ring patterns, but he suspects strong New Federalist leanings.
    The way Crest holds his head, the way the light hits his skin, Martin has a difficult time making out his expression. He has the spooky sensation of the man's face losing detail with every glance.
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    this, but I've been told I can rely on you." His voice is clear and crisp. Crest is accustomed to being listened to attentively. He looks dreamily at the ceiling and remains standing. Martin asks him to sit.
    Crest peers down at the chair, as if waiting