courage. Yes."

David got up and reached for his hat. Then he braced himself for the
real purpose of his visit.

"What I have been wondering about," he said, very carefully, "is this:
this mechanism of fear, this wall--how strong is it?"

"Strong?"

"It's like a dam, I take it. It holds back certain memories, like
a floodgate. Is anything likely to break it down?"

"Possibly something intimately connected with the forgotten period
might do it. I don't know, Livingstone. We've only commenced to
dig into the mind, and we have many theories and a few established
facts. For instance, the primal instincts--"

He talked on, with David nodding now and then in apparent
understanding, but with his thoughts far away. He knew the theories;
a good many of them he considered poppycock. Dreams might come from
the subconscious mind, but a good many of them came from the stomach.
They might be safety valves for the mind, but also they might be
rarebit. He didn't want dreams; what he wanted was facts. Facts
and hope.

The office attendant came in. She was as tidy as the desk, as
obsessed by order, as wooden. She placed a pad before the small
man and withdrew. He rose.