Moore rose, smiling. "Fine," he said. "And thanks a lot, doctor. You'll never know how much this means to me."
"Quite all right, quite all right. See you Wednesday."
Moore went to the door, opened it, went through to the outer office.
Well, thank goodness that was over. The psychiatrist breathed a sigh of relief. One of these days that chicken farm was going to be a reality. If this kept up....
He pressed a button on the intercom. "When's the next patient, Miss Austin?"
"Not until tomorrow, Dr. Rawlings," she cooed. "You have plenty of time for Mr. Moore yet."
"Plenty of time for—What are you talking about? He went through that door about a minute ago."
The receptionist was silent for a minute, then she said, "He couldn't have. No one's come out of your office. I've been here all the time."
The psychiatrist flicked off the intercom. For a moment he stared out the window at the sky and the building tops. Then he went to the door, knelt, and saw a small amount of red sand, just a few grains that might have been kicked under the door by someone in a hurry.
He returned to Freud on the shelf, located the bottle and the glass, and poured himself a stiff one without waiting to transport the equipment to the desk. Then he went to the desk, and flipped on the intercom again.