I was in some kind of large building like an auditorium or opera house, and was beginning to go up the center staircase with an older lady.  We had gone up two flights and were starting the third.  I was telling her about having met 5 astronauts, and possibly the President, on some occasion, when my legs gave way and wouldn't carry me any farther.  She asked if she should call a doctor, and I said yes-it seemed like a good idea to have this persistent malady investigated finally and find out what it was all about.  I was afraid, though, that they were going to ask "Is there a doctor in the house?" over the public address system, and I would be embarrassed.  However, they sent for a specific doctor, whose name was Whitman or Whitmore.  I wished after she had gone that I had asked her to call a psychiatrist, but it was too late then. I don't remember how the examination went, but I remember being with a group of people in someone's back yard and either finding a letter for me in the barbecue pit or having it handed to me there.  It was from Dick Lingerman, and although it didn't mention my legs specifically, I had the distinct impression that that's what it was about.  He wanted me to bring Christina and accompany him to New Guinea or New Zealand.  Apparently it had to do with some kind of therapy for my legs, so I figured it must be a very serious disorder.  I was very excited about the prospect of the trip, of course, but as I read further, the letter became blurry and I couldn't make it out.  This was upsetting, because I began to sense that this was a dream and would fade away when I woke up.