When she was finished, she laughed softly and said, "You're beautiful." He said nothing, but put his hand on her neck, leaned up, and kissed her.

Then they talked about commonplace things, and both laughed when she said she had married a Yale man. It was, the boy thought to himself, as though they were talking after making love. He was filled with joy. It was Thursday, after all.

FOR SOME of the other people in the boy's group, however, there was less joy that day. When the boy left Gabrielle, he went back outside to lie in the sun. Jimmy, Susie, and June--the triangle--were all in the bath behind him. He was not aware what they were talking about--he was on a trip of his own--but he suddenly looked up to see Susie frantically pulling on her clothes. He realized that June was still in the bath, but that Jimmy had left. Susie stared at him, then screamed, "You uninvolved son of a bitch." He looked back at her, expressionless. He did not like her at all. And then she raced toward the door, slipped, and with a loud smack, fell to the floor and screamed.

"Jesus Christ," the boy thought to himself (That was one of his favorite thoughts.) "She's broken her back." He did not move, but several other people crowded around her, and began to ask questions like "Did you hurt yourself?" and "Are you all right?" Then, in a flash, the undaunted Susie was back on her feet and screamed, "It's not me. It's Jimmy. He's gone off in the car. He's going to kill himself."

THAT WAS all the boy saw, for he lay back in the sun, not caring very much about either Jimmy or Susie (who he later found out were also planning to write an article for a newspaper) and decided to let time run its course.

Later, he found out more of what happened. Jimmy and Susie, he knew, had not been hitting it off too well ever since their arrival. They had been married 12 years; neither had slept with anyone else, although the boy sensed that each would have liked to. He had noticed in the baths that morning that Susie, at 35, had a very old, very withered body--more withered than the bodies of several of the older women.

Jimmy, it turned out, did take off in the car, actually contemplating suicide, though he would later confess that he was more in favor of going to a movie or buying some magazines. He drove south on Route One; but Susie quickly alerted John and several members of the group to what was happening. As it turned out, Paul became the leader of the search party, so he--who had an even finer appreciation for the aesthetics of a situation than the boy--had borrowed Stewart's white Mustang, put down the top, turned on the radio to some very fast music, and, feeling more than a little like Steve McQueen, had started south on Route One to look for Jimmy. Before he had gone very far, however, Paul saw Jimmy driving back toward Esalen. They waved, and stopped, and Jimmy confessed that he had decided neither to kill himself-- there had been only one suicide in Esalen's seven-year history, and that was by a staff member--nor to go to a movie, so the two of them talked a little and then drove back to Esalen to rejoin the rest.

THAT WAS Thursday afternoon. The boy felt good at dinner, but when the night session began, he felt the same nervousness in his body that he had felt early in the week. "Do not wait for Friday morning if there is something you want to do," John had said several days before. It was Thursday night--the boy did not know what he wanted to do; but he suddenly could not control the throbbing in his body; he knew it wanted something. He sat forward, kneeling, eager, anxious.

A few minutes passed uneventfully. And then the boy started to speak. "I want to say something to the group." He looked around. They were all looking at him; he knew he had their attention; that was good; he liked it.

"This afternoon, when I was down by the baths, Susie called me an uninvolved son of a bitch. I can understand how she would think that, how many of you would think that. I want to tell you I am not an uninvolved son of a bitch." They were still looking at him. He breathed deeply, but he did not feel very safe.

"I sense that many of you want to know something about me," he went on. "I sense that those of you who have been in the center of the circle think it's time I was in the center. I have had a look at you, now you want to have a look at me." He was trying to speak slowly, deliberately, like John. "I don't think I have a show to put on for you. I don't think I have a thing that I want to get down on the floor and do. All I can do is to tell you how I feel: I like you. I like you much more than I thought I would five days ago; I feel I understand you--but I don't think I love you." He paused.

Non one spoke. Then John stood up, moved over behind his body, and held him at the shoulders and neck. The boy felt John's fingers digging into his muscles and he grimaced.

"Do you feel that?" John asked.

"Yes."

John went back to where he was sitting. "It was a mind trip. A perfect mind trip. Did you hear yourself speaking?"