Phelia, frightened by what happened, has gone to Guilden along with the role. The fourth and last position brings us back to Stern.”

Still in the Kingdom of Roles, Stern is waiting for Burbage. With mounting impatience. Back on earth the performance may already have begun—with the brilliant role playing itself for him. Over the pointed arches flies a noisy flock of clappings.

“For me?”

In his agitation, Stern appeals to the Hamlets all absorbed in their books. He is tormented by questions. Turning to a neighbor, he says, “You must understand me. After all, you know what praise is.”

In reply:

“Words … words … words …”

The neighbor closes his book and walks off. Stern turns to another:

“To all men I am a stranger. But you will teach me to be all men.”

This Hamlet too gives Stern a severe look and closes his book.

“Words … words.”

To a third:

“Back on earth I left a girl who loves me. She often said to me—”

“Words.”

With every question, as if in reply, the Hamlets rise, close their books and, one after another, walk off.

“But what if Burbage … What if he decides not to return? How will I find my way back again? And you, why are you leaving me? They’ve all forgotten me: maybe she has too. But she swore …”

And again:

“Words … words.”

“No, not words: the words were burned, beaten with fire tongs, I saw it with my own eyes—you hear me?!”

Rar passed a hand over his brow. “Forgive me, I got mixed up; a gear tooth for a gear tooth. It happens sometimes. Allow me to skip ahead.”

So then, the succession of Hamlets has abandoned Stern; the colored playbills follow after; even the letters on the bills leap out of their lines and dash away. The fantastic perspective in the Kingdom of Roles is changing every second. But Stern is still holding the book forgotten by Burbage. Now there’s no reason to delay: the time has come to take its meaning by force, to reveal its secret. But the book is fitted with strong brass clasps. Stern tries to pry the covers apart. The book resists, clenching its pages. In a final fit of rage Stern, bloodying his fingers, breaks open the strongbox of words. On the unclenched pages, he reads:

“Actus morbi. History of the illness. Patient number. Hmm … Schizophrenia. Development normal. Attack. Fever. Recurrent. Delusional idea: some man named Burbage.