Unit into his confidence. Then he remembered what had
happened to Arnold Ritchie and decided against this course. The risk
was too great. He had to continue alone.

It wasn't until Harry managed to get into Unit Four that he got what
he wanted (what he _didn't_ want) and learned that reality and dreams
were one and the same.

There was the night, more than a year after he'd come to the treatment
center, when he finally broke into the basement and found the
incinerators. And the incinerators led to the operating and delivery
chambers, and the delivery chambers led to the laboratory and the
laboratory led to the incubators and the incubators led to the
nightmare.

In the nightmare Harry found himself looking down at the mistakes and
the failures and he recognized them for what they were, and he knew
then why the incinerators were kept busy and why the black smoke
poured.

In the nightmare he saw the special units containing those which were
not mistakes or failures, and in a way they were worse than the
others. They were red and wriggling there beneath the glass, and on
the glass surfaces hung the charts which gave the data. Then Harry saw
the names, saw his own name repeated twice--once for Sue, once for
Myrna. And he realized that he had contributed to the successful
outcome or issue of the experiments (_outcome? Issue? These horrors?_)
and that was why Manschoff must have chosen to take the risk of
keeping him alive. Because he was one of the _good_ guinea pigs, and
he had spawned, spawned living, mewing abominations.

He had dreamed of these things, and now he saw that they were real, so
that nightmare merged with _now_, and he could gaze down at it with
open eyes and scream at last with open mouth.

Then, of course, an attendant came running (_although he seemed to be
moving ever so slowly, because everything moves so slowly in a dream_)
and Harry saw him coming and lifted a bell-glass and smashed it down
over the man's head (_slowly, ever so slowly_) and then he heard the
others coming and he climbed out of the window and ran.

The searchlights winked across the courtyards and the sirens vomited
hysteria from metallic throats and the night was filled with shadows
that pursued.

But Harry knew where to run. He ran straight through the nightmare,
through all the fantastic but familiar convolutions of sight and
sound, and then he came to the river and plunged in.

Now the nightmare was not sight or sound, b