at peace with myself.
The conflict between my rational and mystical natures did not seem to
matter. Nothing seemed to matter.

"You're doing fine, kid," Atmananda had told me each day. "Just go
with the flow and enjoy the process."

Stunned by the memory, I held the husky in my arms. Nunatak was a
wonderful traveling companion. Each day she tugged and leaped
alongside the rig as if she were a full-grown sled dog. She licked the
drying sweat and tears on my face.

I tried to understand why I had followed Atmananda-Dr. Lenz's drug
prescription. Perhaps the most compelling reason was because I was
afraid not to. Since the coup, Atmananda had stepped up his effort to
instill fear in his followers. He taught me, for instance, to fear the
Negative Forces which he said were destroying the fabric of society.
"Just read the papers," he would say. "You'll see what I'm talking
about."

He taught me to fear what would happen if I left the Centre. "You know
too much to leave. It's a greedy, materialistic world out there. Your
soul would be miserable. Besides, the Forces would flatten you like a
bug. You would lose thousands of lifetimes of evolution."

He taught me to fear, not just the Forces but people, particularly old
friends and family. "It's best if you don't tell them what we do here.
Believe me, they won't understand. They'll end up blocking your
progress and sapping your power."

And he taught me to fear for my sanity. "You can no longer deal with
the real world. You're lucky I don't drop you off at a mental
institution."

Other reasons why I had felt compelled to take the Stelazine slowly
dawned. I realized that Atmananda's senatorial countenance, his
smooth, commanding voice, and his Ph.D. contributed to an aura of
authority which I had found difficult to dispute. He had combined
Western rhetoric, Eastern mysticism, and American pop culture to entice
me; vague language, long pauses, and repetition to hold me spellbound;
and fear, fasting, and sleep deprivation to break me down.

Had Atmananda's techniques ended there, I might have seen him as a
control freak--and left. But each time he had broken me down, he built
me up again with kindness and with words of inspiration. He spoke of
saints, of beauty, and of the wisdom of the desert. He spoke of
selflessness, quixotic quests, literature, and wonder. And he spoke of
an unconditional love and of a multi-lifetime camaraderie.

Had Atmananda