ersionary chatter as he administered the
drug. "A scopolamine derivative that's been well tested."

The floor beneath Zarwell's feet assumed abruptly the near transfluent
consistency of a damp sponge. It rose in a foot-high wave and rolled
gently toward the far wall.

Bergstrom continued talking, with practiced urbanity. "When psychiatry
was a less exact science," his voice went on, seeming to come from a
great distance, "a doctor had to spend weeks, sometimes months or years
interviewing a patient. If he was skilled enough, he could sort the
relevancies from the vast amount of chaff. We are able now, with the
help of the serum, to confine our discourses to matters cogent to the
patient's trouble."

The floor continued its transmutation, and Zarwell sank deep into
viscous depths. "Lie back and relax. Don't ..."

The words tumbled down from above. They faded, were gone.

Zarwell found himself standing on a vast plain. There was no sky above,
and no horizon in the distance. He was in a place without space or
dimension. There was nothing here except himself--and the gun that he
held in his hand.

A weapon beautiful in its efficient simplicity.

He should know all about the instrument, its purpose and workings, but
he could not bring his thoughts into rational focus. His forehead
creased with his mental effort.

Abruptly the unreality about him shifted perspective. He was
approaching--not walking, but merely shortening the space between
them--the man who held the gun. The man who was himself. The other
"himself" drifted nearer also, as though drawn by a mutual attraction.

The man with the gun raised his weapon and pressed the trigger.

With the action the perspective shifted again. He was watching the face
of the man he shot jerk and twitch, expand and contract. The face was
unharmed, yet it was no longer the same. No longer his own features.

The stranger face smiled approvingly at him.

"Odd," Bergstrom said. He brought his hands up and joined the tips of
his fingers against his chest. "But it's another piece in the jig-saw.
In time it will fit into place." He paused. "It means no more to you
than the first, I suppose?"

"No," Zarwell answered.

He was not a talking man, Bergstrom reflected. It was more than
reticence, however. The man had a hard granite core, only partially
concealed by his present perplexity. He was a man who could handle
himself well in an emergency.

Bergstrom shrugged, dismiss