sk and catch-all for his possessions; the
dresser, with its mirror stuck full of pictures of aircraft. It was the
bedroom of his childhood home. He swung his legs over the edge of the
bed. They were six inches too short to reach the floor.

For an instant, the room spun dizzily; and he was in the grip of utter
panic, all confidence in the evidence of his senses lost. Was he insane?
Or delirious? Or had the bomb really killed him; was this what death was
like? What was that thing, about "ye become as little children"? He
started to laugh, and his juvenile larynx made giggling sounds. They
seemed funny, too, and aggravated his mirth. For a little while, he was
on the edge of hysteria and then, when he managed to control his
laughter, he felt calmer. If he were dead, then he must be a discarnate
entity, and would be able to penetrate matter. To his relief, he was
unable to push his hand through the bed. So he was alive; he was also
fully awake, and, he hoped, rational. He rose to his feet and prowled
about the room, taking stock of its contents.

There was no calendar in sight, and he could find no newspapers or dated
periodicals, but he knew that it was prior to July 18, 1946. On that
day, his fourteenth birthday, his father had given him a light .22
rifle, and it had been hung on a pair of rustic forks on the wall. It
was not there now, nor ever had been. On the table, he saw a boys' book
of military aircraft, with a clean, new dustjacket; the flyleaf was
inscribed: _To Allan Hartley, from his father, on his thirteenth
birthday, 7/18 '45._ Glancing out the window at the foliage on the
trees, he estimated the date at late July or early August, 1945; that
would make him just thirteen.

His clothes were draped on a chair beside the bed. Stripping off his
pajamas, he donned shorts, then sat down and picked up a pair of
lemon-colored socks, which he regarded with disfavor. As he pulled one
on, a church bell began to clang. St. Boniface, up on the hill, ringing
for early Mass; so this was Sunday. He paused, the second sock in his
hand.

There was no question that his present environment was actual. Yet, on
the other hand, he possessed a set of memories completely at variance
with it. Now, suppose, since his environment were not an illusion,
everything else were? Suppose all these troublesome memories were no
more than a dream? Why, he was just little Allan Hartley, safe in his
room on a Sunday morning, badly scared by a ni