Joe shoved Potts through the door marked PHYSICAL THERAPY and into the
dressing room. With sixteen patients in the process of disrobing, the
small room presented a scene of wild, indecent activity. Potts squirmed
through the thrashing tangle to a bench against the wall. He sat down
and removed a shoe.

Potts almost felt the currents surging through the neurons of his brain
and sensed a throbbing on the inside of his skull. Twice this morning,
he had tried to break through the physical barrier and had failed. Even
with a minimum of thought, the reasons for failure became obvious.

Lack of intimate detail seemed the principle cause. In his attempt to
reach the Crimean War and lead the Charge of the Light Brigade, he had
been hampered by his ignorance of correct uniforms and commands. He did
not know at what time of day the charge had taken place, the weather
conditions, the appearance of the terrain, or even the exact date. He
believed it was about 1855, but he wouldn't risk a dime bet on his
guess. Perhaps an attempt to return to the past was certain to fail.
Surely the past had happened, was settled, inviolate. Someone named Lord
Cardigan, not Orville, Lord Potts, had led the charge.

Inventing an airplane during the Civil War also had no chance of
success. No such thing actually happened, and, if it had, the plane
would have been more crude than the Wright brothers' machine.
Furthermore, Potts was no aviator. Success, if any, lay in the future.
The future was yet to come, and Potts could mold events to his liking.
Or perhaps he could move his body in space, instead of time. He could
think himself out of the hospital.

"Orville Potts, get those clothes off!" Wilhart ordered. Potts slowly
removed his faded garments. He took his place at the end of the line of
naked men leading to the needle shower.

Joe stood in all his glory at what Potts called the P. T. machine. The
apparatus was a marble box with rows of knobs and gauges and a pair of
rubber hoses on the top. Potts felt sure that Joe took a sadistic
delight in his work. As the line moved forward, he glanced at the
attendant's florid face, tight smiling lips and squinted eyes. Potts
shuddered.

No member of the hospital staff had ever condescended to explain to
Potts the exact purpose of the P. T. bath, other than that it would make
him feel good. It only frightened Potts. The correct procedure was that
the patient stepped between the pipes of the needle showe