 How many comanalysis sessions can someone undergo in one day?
The corridor opened at last into a large high-domed room, much like a railway station or an air terminal. It took him only a few seconds to push the case into the compartment, lock it and slide the key along the floor beneath the locker. But the fact that they had been expecting him meant that others would very probably be waiting outside. The floor beneath Zarwell’s feet assumed abruptly the near transfluent consistency of a damp sponge. “When psychiatry was a less exact science,” his voice went on, seeming to come from a great distance, “a doctor had to spend weeks, sometimes months or years interviewing a patient. The floor continued its transmutation, and Zarwell sank deep into viscous depths. Zarwell grunted acknowledgment and pushed himself to his feet, apparently unaware that his shirt clung damply to his body. The evening meal hour was approaching when he reached the Flats, on the way to his apartment. All St. Martin’s has a distinctive smell, as of an arid dried-out swamp, with a faint taint of fish. Yet always, when his mind lost its sleep-induced [p 140 ] lethargy, the moment of near understanding slipped away. This morning, however, the sense of disorientation did not pass with full wakefulness. He moved in and joined a party of short, bearded men, directing them as they battered at the wall with a huge log mounted on a many-wheeled truck.
 Two
 Four  Two  One  Three