Bethelman sat straight up in bed, his eyes wide. The effort made his head hurt worse. He looked around. He was in the upstairs guest bedroom of Dr. Kamiroff's suburban home. He turned to look at the biochemist, who was busily mixing a bromo. "What date is this?" he asked. Kamiroff looked at him with mild blue eyes. "It's the second," he said. "Why?" Bethelman took the glass of fizzing liquid and downed it. The pattern was beginning to make sense. He had gone to sleep in Boston the night of the first and awakened in New York on the fifteenth. Then he had gone to sleep in New York on the twenty-ninth and awakened on the second. It made a weird kind of sense. He handed the empty glass back to the biochemist and said: "Dr. Kamiroff, sit down. I want to tell you something." * * * * * Half an hour later, Kamiroff was rubbing his chin with a forefinger, deep in concentration. "It sounds wild," he said at last, "but I've heard of wild things before." "But what caused it?" "Do you remember what you did last night? I mean the night of the first?" "Not clearly; we got pretty crocked, I remember." Kamiroff grinned. "I think you were a few up on me. Do you remember that bottle of white powder I had in the lab down in the basement?" "No," Bethelman admitted. "It was diazotimoline, one of the drugs we've been using in cancer research on white mice. That whole family of compounds has some pretty peculiar properties. This one happens to smell like vanilla; when I let you smell it, you stuck your finger in it and licked off some of the powder before I could stop you. "It didn't bother me much; we've given it to mice without any ill effects, so I didn't give you an emetic or anything." The bromo had made Bethelman's head feel better. "But what happened, exactly?" he asked. "As far as I can judge," the biochemist said, "the diazotimoline has an effect on the mind. Not by itself, maybe; perhaps it needed the synergetic combination with alcohol. I don't know. "Have you heard the theories that Dunne propounded on the mind?" "Yeah," Bethelman said. "We discussed them last night, I think." "Right. The idea is that the mind is independent of time, but just follows the body along through the time stream. "Evidently, what the diazotimoline did was project your mind two weeks into the future--to the fifteenth. After two weeks--on the twenty-ninth--it wore off, and your mind returned to the second. Now you'll relive those two weeks." "That sounds like a weird explanation," Bethelman said. "Well, look at it this way. Let's just say you remember those two weeks in the wrong order. The drug mixed your memory up. You remember the fortnight of the second to the fifteenth _after_ you remember the fortnight of the fifteenth to the twenty-ninth. See?" "Good gosh, yes! Now I see how I made all that money! I read all the papers; I know what the stocks are going to do; I know what horses are going to win! Wow!"