The Hale Institute's advertising was discrete and ambiguous. There were no full-page glossy advertisements splashed over the pages of lifestyle or health and beauty magazines. It was not advertised as a fashionable and exclusive health resort, though the term 'health resort' described it fairly well. In fact, the Hale Institute was not advertised at all through normal channels. While calling it secretive would have been an exaggeration, the Institute did nothing to court publicity.

People generally found out about the Hale Institute through word of mouth. Either friends or acquaintances had gone there, and returned transformed, or patients were referred to the Institute by their own physicians. Helen McKinley had first heard of the Hale Institute by the latter route. The therapist she had been seeing, Dr. Fisch, had declared herself to be at a loss, unable to help further.

'There is a place I think might be able to help you,' Dr. Fisch said. 'The Hale Institute. They use techniques more radical than anything I can do here. It's a residential place, where you can be exposed to the proper healing environment twenty-four hours a day.' She had opened her desk and pulled out a black and white business card that bore the Institute's name, the names of two doctors with lots of letters after them, contact details, and an address in a place Helen had never heard of called Rochefort, Montana.

'What they do there,' Helen asked. 'It's ... uh ... you said, radical?'

'Yes. They say some people come back with their personalities quite altered.'

'But what, uh, what do they ... what does it involve?'

'That I can't say. You'll have to speak to the Institute yourself if you want to know more.'

'Talk to them myself?'

'You'll have to contact them if you want to make an appointment with them. Unless you want me to refer you, make the appointment myself?'

Helen considered it for several days. She asked friends if they knew anything about the place. Most had never heard of it, but one said a friend of a friend had been there, and reportedly she came back far happier with her life, less uptight and more easygoing. After returning, the friend of a friend had started having a lot more fun than she used to before the treatment.

Eventually, Helen called Dr. Fisch and asked her to make the referral. The Institute then called her to confirm the appointment, and to ask for a deposit on the fee. It was steep, but Helen McKinley could afford it. At thirty-five she was a multi-millionaire's widow. Money was no object for her.

Helen agreed, paid the deposit, and took a plane to Montana. The Institute sent a car to meet her at the airport. She sat wordless in the back as the chauffeur, in a neat but understated dark gray uniform, drove her to Rochefort. They passed through the town then up a twisting mountain road to the Institute, a complex of buildings on the edge of a lake. Soon Helen found herself sitting in the reception room, legs nervously crossed, fidgeting and adjusting her clothes as she waited.

'Mrs. McKinley,' said a nurse or secretary--it was hard to tell which, if there was a difference in this place. She waved to a door. Helen gave a small nod, smiled tightly, and was rewarded by a friendly smile, the happy face of bright customer service. Helen went to the door, put out her hand and hesitated a moment then opened it, stepping through.

Inside was a spacious consulting room, walls white, bright with daylight streaming in through a window that occupied almost a whole wall. The azure sky traced here and there with cloud, the blue-green lake and the arms of the mountains that embraced it formed a captivating scene that drew her eyes with vivid colors.

'Mrs. McKinley,' said a strong masculine voice. Helen turned and saw a man behind the desk. She had vaguely registered this when she entered the room, but now she saw him properly. He was every inch the respectable and trustworthy doctor, tall, square-jawed, and with a firm and neatly trimmed dark brown moustache. He was perhaps forty years old and his hair had begun to recede into a widow's peak, though he was far from bald, and was touched with gray at the temples. Behind him on the walls hung impressive-looking framed certificates. Here was a man any patient could trust, a solid and decent member of the world's most honorable profession.

'I'm Jack Barnard,' said the doctor, holding out his right hand. Helen thought she recognized the name from the card Dr. Fisch had given her, though she was not one hundred percent sure. She took his hand and he squeezed hers gently. 'Lovely view, isn't it?' he continued, looking briefly toward the window before turning back to her. 'Tranquil. We believe the tranquility helps our patients to find what they've lost. As does good clean mountain air. There are plenty of opportunities for exercise as well--walking, climbing, swimming, rowing, tennis ... mens sana in corpore sano.'

'I ... I'm sorry?' asked Helen.

'A sound mind in a sound body. Juvenal.'

'Uh--' began Helen, then broke off, not sure what to say.

'Please, have a seat,' said Dr. Barnard, waving at the chair in front of his desk. He sat behind the desk and waited for Helen to take the opposite chair. When she had done so he said, 'I'd like you to describe for me, in your own words, what you want us to do for you.'

Helen's hands were already together. She clasped her fingers tight to each other. 'I--uh--I've never--I've never done it. I mean--I can't.'

'You've never done what, Mrs McKinley?'

'I've never ... had one. Had, had an ... an or-orgasm. I don't think ... I can.'

'I see. Do you know of any reason why you can't have an orgasm?'

'No. No, I don't know. I can't. I mean ... there's no reason. Nothing I know about. I mean, I've ... you know ... been with men, and they've been, you know, it's normal sex. Like everybody does. But they ... but it ... it just didn't...' Helen was sweating despite the temperate air-conditioned atmosphere, and her mouth was drawn wide into a narrow slit as she spoke.

'I see.' Dr Barnard's voice betrayed no obvious emotion. 'Now, before we go any further, I'd like you to tell me what you know about the Hale Institute.'

'Well, uh, I don't really know that much, I guess. I mean, I'd never heard of you until Dr. Fisch told me about you. I heard that some people come back ... different. Changed.' Dr. Barnard was still looking at her in the same way, making no move to speak, as though he expected her to say more. 'I mean, I heard people's lives ... well, they came back feeling a hell of a lot happier than when they went.' Helen smiled nervously, as if she felt a need to please or impress this man, and something like a strangled giggle escaped her throat.

'I'm glad our reputation is so positive,' said Dr. Barnard. When he spoke, freeing Helen from the need to go on, she felt great relief. 'This is a residential center. The Institute is for patients who we think would benefit from a healing environment, rather than simply visiting a therapist once or twice a week. People who come to stay here usually have something missing from their lives, and our mission is to help people find that missing element. A complete separation from the everyday concerns of life is the best thing for our work here. It would mean taking some weeks--months maybe--away from your usual life. That includes both your work and your social life. Would that be practical for you?'

'Yes. I don't work. I don't need to. I'm rich--wealthy. The social life, well I don't need to, I mean, I could take a break--a vacation from it all.'

When Dr. Barnard was sure Helen was willing to stay for a course of treatment that would take as long as was required by her case, they discussed fees. It became clear that Helen could easily afford to pay. She was in such a state she was willing to virtually write a blank check for even a chance of being cured. She had brought suitcases full of clothes with her, ready for a stay. There was no question in her mind of not staying. When that was agreed, Dr. Barnard pressed a buzzer and a small, neatly-built woman with dark skin and straight black hair pulled back tight over her scalp entered through a side door.

'Yes, Doctor?' asked the newcomer. Helen had thought her South American, but from her accent she sounded as though she was from India.

'Mrs. McKinley has decided to stay with us. Book her in, would you?'

'Of course, Doctor.'

'Miss Kumar will take care of you for now,' said Dr. Barnard to Helen. 'You'll have your first session with me or one of the other doctors tomorrow.' He stood.

'Yes. Yes, thank you, Doctor,' said Helen, standing and smiling with relief. Talking about her problem always made her tense, and she was glad she would have a day to recover from the stress of the journey before discussing it in more depth. Miss Kumar gestured to the side door through which she had entered. They went out of the consulting room, along a short corridor, to a little office.

'Please, have a seat,' said Miss Kumar. The two women sat on chairs facing one another, at sufficient distance for both to be able to stretch out their legs a little. There was no barrier between them, as the doctor's desk had been. There was a desk on Miss Kumar's left, with a computer on it. Its monitor was ahead of her and to her left, angled toward her. She pulled out a flap with a small keyboard on it, so it sat in front of her left hand. She tapped a few keys.

'Mrs. Helen McKinley,' she said, reading from the screen, and read out Helen's address. 'Is that information correct?'

'Yes, it is,' said Helen.

Miss Kumar nodded and hit a key with firm finality. 'You brought luggage with you? In the car?'

'Yes.'

'Mmm. It will be taken to your room.' Her left hand flew over the keyboard, then she said, 'Room twenty-one.' She handed Helen some forms asking for her personal details--name, age address, and so on--and the details of practitioners who had previously treated her. The Institute obviously knew at least some of that information already, but Helen decided to fill it all in instead of making a fuss about it.

When the forms were completed, Miss Kumar showed Helen a map of the Institute to point out a few useful things like the gymnasium and the swimming area on Lake Rochefort, then walked Helen to the guesthouse, the building with the patients' rooms. She was shown to room 21, which looked like a pleasant hotel room. Her belongings had already been unpacked and were in the cupboards. There was an en suite bathroom, a double bed, a telephone, and some plain but attractive furniture.

'If you ever need anything, just dial zero on the telephone,' said Miss Kumar. 'There is a laundry basket under the bed. Anything you put in there will be taken and cleaned. Your personal schedule is on the wall there.' She pronounced schedule with sh, not with sk as Helen was used to hearing. 'We all hope you enjoy your stay,' she said with a smile, then left.

Helen looked at the schedule. It was a sort of flat plate on the wall with writing on it, then realized it was a screen, though not like a computer screen she knew of. The letters were so clear they looked like printing on a book page. It had entries for the remainder of today and the next day:

JULY 18

1930 Dinner.

JULY 19

0800 Breakfast.

1000 Information session. Miss Kumar.

1300 Lunch.

1500 Therapy session. Dr Barnard.

1930 Dinner.

The time was approaching five in the afternoon, so Helen decided to go out and enjoy the balmy summer afternoon. She put on her swimsuit and went down to the bathing area on the lake's edge. There she met several other residents who were relaxing and swimming. She chatted with several of them, but nobody mentioned why they were here. They behaved like guests at a hotel on vacation rather than patients in a hospital.

Helen sat with the same people at dinner, and they introduced her to more guests. A variety of dishes was set out, and guests helped themselves to whatever they wanted. It was excellent food, but cooked with rather less fat than the modern palette expected. There were trout, caught from Lake Rochefort, baked and served with lemon, aromatic rice, diced lamb with slightly piquant herbs, steamed vegetables and masses of fresh fruit. There were no oily sauces like mayonnaise. To drink there were mineral water and fruit juices, but no alcohol. It was tasty food and well-prepared, but Helen was left somehow unsatisfied. She craved for something with a little more fat in it, and a few cocktails.

Breakfast the next day involved similarly good but low-fat food. Afterward, she relaxed for a short while, before going for her 'information session'. It was conducted by Miss Kumar, the young Indian woman who had booked her in the day before. Though in a different room, the set-up was the same as yesterday. They sat facing each other, nothing between them, with a computer on Miss Kumar's left.

'Today I need to take as much information as possible, so Dr. Barnard can get a clear idea about your case,' said Miss Kumar once they made themselves comfortable. 'First, what is your current marital status?'

'I'm a widow,' replied Helen.

'And what is your current sexual status?'

'I, I'm sorry? I don't think I under ... understand the--'

'Are you currently sexually active?'

'No. Well, I ... no, not really?'

'Could you explain that more clearly please, Mrs. McKinley?'

'Well I ... don't have a ... man at the moment.'

'Do you have casual sex at the moment?'

'No. Well ... I ... you know...'

'No, I don't know, Mrs. McKinley. That's why I'm asking.'

'Uh, yes, of course ... sorry ... I mean, uh--' Helen tried to compose her thoughts, aware she was shifting in her seat. Miss Kumar tapped a few keys, looking at her computer screen.

'Let me ask some more detailed questions, to break it down into simple facts,' said Miss Kumar. 'How many husbands have you had?'

'One.'

'When did your husband die?'

'Four ... Yes, four years ago.'

'What was the cause of your husband's death?'

'It was ... a car crash. He, he crashed his car.'

'Was his death instant?'

'I ... Well, I don't know, I wasn't--'

'Was he still alive when he reached hospital?'

'No, he was, what do they call it? Dead on arrival.'

'Before your husband's death, how many times a week did you have sex with him?'

'Uh, about three times, I guess.'

'Did you have sex with anyone else during the time you were married?'

'No! Of course not!'

'How many men did you have sex with before your marriage?'

'None. N-none.'

'You were a virgin on your wedding day?'

'Yes, I was.'

'And your husband took your virginity on your wedding night?'

'Yuh. Y-yes.'

'How old were you when you married?'

'Twenty, twenty-three.'

'How many people have you had sex with since your husband died?'

'Mmm, I, uh, I think...' Helen stumbled with words. She was aware of Miss Kumar's dark eyes looking at her, and could not meet them. Her face was hot and her throat seemed tight. 'I, I--'

'Please, Mrs. McKinley, how many?'

'I, I guess it was four. Or five. Yes, f-five.'

'Were these long-term relationships, or casual sex?'

'Well, they were ... uh ... kind of...'

'How long did the longest such relationship last?'

'It lasted ... It lasted ... about a month or two ... about six or seven weeks maybe.'

'And how long did the briefest relationship last?'

'That was just ... just once,' said Helen in a small voice.

'How many people have you had sex with only once?'

'One ... no, two, t-two,' stammered Helen, squirming under Miss Kumar's interrogation.

'I see.' The voice seemed emotionless, icy even. Was there a hint of condemnation in the tone, in the eyes? 'How many men have put their penis into your vagina?' continued Miss Kumar.

'Nnn, uh, well ... six.'

'How many men have put their penis into your mouth?'

'None! I don't do that!'

'And into your anus?'

'What! None, of course! I--you--'

'Please, Mrs. McKinley, these are just questions. They will help your therapists to help you.'

'Yes. Y-yes, I'm sorry.'

'How many women have put their tongue into your vagina?'

'None! I haven't, I've never ... I ... I--'

'And how many women have put their tongue into your mouth?'

'I'm not a lesbian!'

'Please, Mrs. McKinley, just answer the question. How many?'

'None! Like I said!'

'And, how many women's vaginas have you put your--'

'Stop saying that! Stop asking those questions! I told you, I'm not a ... I've never done it with another--'

'Please calm down, Mrs. McKinley,' said her interrogator. 'I don't write these questions. I am instructed simply to ask them as they appear on my screen.'

'But I've already told you I'm not a lesbian! You don't have to ask again!'

'I'm just doing my job, Mrs. McKinley. My job is to ask these questions. Please answer them accurately. I repeat. How many women's vaginas have you put your tongue into?'

'None!'

'And how many women's mouths have you put your tongue into?'

'None!'

'Have you ever stroked a woman's naked body for sexual pleasure?'

'No! Why do you have to keep on--'

'I'm just reading the questions from the screen, Mrs. McKinley. Have you ever let a woman stroke your body for sexual pleasure?'

'No, I haven't!'

'Thank you, Mrs. McKinley. The information session is over. You may go.' Helen got up, shaking. Without another word she strode out, angry, while Miss Kumar sat calmly tapping keys on her computer.

Helen really needed a drink after that, but to her dismay she was told there was no alcohol anywhere in the Institute. She went into the main reception and snapped at the girl behind the desk, 'I want to go into town for lunch!'

'As you wish, Mrs. McKinley,' replied the receptionist. 'Would you like me to call you a cab?'

'Yes,' said Helen, then decided to try to be nice as this girl was helping her. 'Yes, please.'

'Please remember you have a therapy session at three,' said the receptionist once she had made the call. 'We advise you to be back here by two o'clock.'

Helen took the cab into town and started drinking straight away. She found a nice bar and tossed several martinis down her throat. When she was really starting to feel the drink she followed it with a steak smothered in a rich fatty sauce. It was all just what she needed after a day of the Institute's healthy food.

She managed to get back to the Institute in time for her therapy session at three o'clock, though she only just made it. As she waited outside the doctor's consulting room, she realized she was more than a little drunk. When she was called in she felt terribly guilty for arriving at her first therapy session in such a state. Whatever would the doctor think?

If Dr. Barnard thought anything of it, if he even knew she was drunk, he gave no sign of showing it. He was his same pleasant self as he had been the day before. After a little smalltalk about how she found the Institute so far, Dr. Barnard started talking to her about sex. What had her husband and the men she had known since his death done to help her try achieve orgasm? Had the men tried to pleasure her, or had they been interested only in their own release? How had she felt before and during her deflowerment on her wedding night?

Perhaps it was a good thing Helen had been drinking, because it loosened her tongue. These were subjects that normally embarrassed her, and if she had been sober he would have to drag the details from her. Now she spilled everything, disgorging her feelings. She confessed she had married her husband for his money. She had felt no attraction to the paunchy middle-aged man, and had simply allowed him to use her, lying back and waiting for it to finish. He had had no interest in pleasing her, only in slaking his own lusts.

After his death, filthy rich but finding her life completely empty, Helen had tried other men. The first had been one of her own servants, a muscular youth named Enrique with dark burning eyes, who had been the epitome of the passionate Latin lover. He had tried to give her fulfillment, but after one night submitting to his probing exploration of her body she had known he wasn't for her. The vigor with which he had plumbed her had felt like an assault on her body. There had been others, including one that had lasted almost two months--David, a sensitive and poetic scholar who had tried to coax her gently along the path of love, bringing well-honed skills into play. She had done her best with him, but after about seven weeks both had accepted it would never work between them. So her life had dragged on over the last four years, with occasional experiments ending in failure. Her only real lover had been alcohol.

The therapy went on, day growing into weeks. There was a talking session with Dr. Barnard, three days a week. There were exercise sessions, with her heart rate monitored as she ran. Relaxation classes, involved yoga and Pilates. There was massage, with Helen's naked body being manipulated by various young men and young women. When not in therapy, Helen was encouraged to relax, to swim in the lake or play games ranging from tennis to chess. It was a balmy and salubrious life at the Institute, but Helen could not resist going into the town of Rochefort several times a week and filling her body with alcohol and rich food.

One day at her therapy session, when she had been at the Institute about four weeks, Dr Barnard said, 'I think you need a more radical form of treatment. I've come to the conclusion that we can't make any more progress going on as we have been.'

'Uh ... more radical?' said Helen. 'I heard about this ... that you were, this place was more than just a health spa.'

'Yes. So far you have undergone the kind of treatment any health resort could offer, but the Hale Institute exists to provide something more than that. We call it Intensive Correctional Therapy. Now let me be honest with you. Intensive Correction is not for everyone. Some people come here and they don't need it. We can treat them without ICT. Others--like you--need radical therapy.'

'What ... what does it ... What's it like?' asked Helen.

'I can't tell you the details. Part of the therapy is that the patient doesn't know in advance what will happen. I must warn you that it is traumatic and potentially life-changing. Some people come out of ICT with their personalities quite altered. For the better, we believe. We have had patients who have come here in despair and left happy and fulfilled, but the therapy they go through is intense, and can be upsetting at the time.'

'Doctor, I'm willing to try anything!'

'Very well. Now there is one thing we have to be honest about. We've monitored you closely over the time you've been here, and we've found that in the main you're physically fit and healthy. The only exception to that is you have a problem with alcohol.' He paused and looked at her as if awaiting a response, but Helen said nothing, shifting in her seat and looking down.

'If you agree to undergo ICT, you would have to remain confined to the Intensive Facility for the duration of the treatment, which will be several weeks. That means no trips into town, and no alcohol.' Helen's lips twitched, but still she remained silent. Dr. Barnard opened his desk and pulled out a sheaf of papers. 'These are consent forms. You don't have to sign them now. Take them away, read them, and think over whether you want to take the ICT course. If you do, sign the forms and we'll put you in the Intensive Facility.'

Helen knew she had reached the crisis point of her life. She had long known she had a drinking problem, though she had chosen to ignore it. If she took these consent forms and read them carefully, she would come up with hundreds of reasons not to take the course. She would go back home, back to her empty life, and probably destroy herself with drink. She had to seize this opportunity now. This was her one chance to take the path to salvation.

'I'll sign,' she said quietly, then louder, 'I'll sign! Give me a pen! I'm in your hands now, Doctor. Do what you have to do with me!' Dr. Barnard handed her a pen and she signed the forms without reading them. She was abandoning herself to an unknown future, trusting the doctors to know what was right. She felt a great weight gone from her. She was relieved of responsibility for her future.