clothing he observed in a closet, might have
belonged to a stranger.

He pulled himself from his blankets, his body moving with mechanical
reaction. The slippers into which he put his feet were larger than he
had expected them to be. He walked about the small apartment. The place
was familiar, but only as it would have been if he had studied it from
blueprints, not as though he lived there.

The feeling was still with him when he returned to the psychoanalyst.

The scene this time was more kaleidoscopic, less personal.

A village was being ravaged. Men struggled and died in the streets.
Zarwell moved among them, seldom taking part in the individual clashes,
yet a moving force in the conflict.

The background changed. He understood that he was on a different world.

Here a city burned. Its resistance was nearing its end. Zarwell was
riding a shaggy pony outside a high wall surrounding the stricken
metropolis. He moved in and joined a party of short, bearded men,
directing them as they battered at the wall with a huge log mounted on a
many-wheeled truck.

The log broke a breach in the concrete and the besiegers charged
through, carrying back the defenders who sought vainly to plug the gap.
Soon there would be rioting in the streets again, plundering and
killing.

Zarwell was not the leader of the invaders, only a lesser figure in the
rebellion. But he had played a leading part in the planning of the
strategy that led to the city's fall. The job had been well done.

Time passed, without visible break in the panorama. Now Zarwell was
fleeing, pursued by the same bearded men who had been his comrades
before. Still he moved with the same firm purpose, vigilant,
resourceful, and well prepared for the eventuality that had befallen. He
made his escape without difficulty.

He alighted from a space ship on still another world--another shift in
time--and the atmosphere of conflict engulfed him.

Weary but resigned he accepted it, and did what he had to do ...

Bergstrom was regarding him with speculative scrutiny. "You've had quite
a past, apparently," he observed.

Zarwell smiled with mild embarrassment. "At least in my dreams."

"Dreams?" Bergstrom's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh, I beg your pardon.
I must have forgotten to explain. This work is so routine to me that
sometimes I forget it's all new to a patient. Actually what you
experienced under the drug were not dreams. They were recollections of
real epis