“And there’s absolutely no way you can be sure of that,” Morrissey said. “The conviction must come from your own mind and be subjective. No objective proof is possible. Otherwise, if you fail to convince yourself, the anxiety neurosis will grow back into a psychosis, and—” He shrugged. “It sounds logical,” Bruno said. “I’m beginning to see it pretty clearly. I think, perhaps, this clarification is what I needed.” “Do you think you’re dreaming now?” “Not at the moment—certainly.” “Swell,” Morrissey said. “Because the conglobulation of the psych between the forever and upstriding kaleeno bystixing forinder saan—” Bruno jumped up. “Ken!” he said, dry-throated. “Stop it!” “Fylixar catween baleeza—” “_Stop it!_” “BYZINDERKONA REPSTILLING AND ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS NEVER KNOWING NEVER KNOWING NEVER KNOWING—” The words came out in great whirling shining globes. They raced past Bruno’s head with a screaming hiss. They bombarded him. They carried him back into a thundering, windy abyss of blackness and terror. * * * * * Morrissey stepped back from the bed and asked: Dr. Robert Bruno managed to nod. “Good,” Morrissey said. “You were out for about three hours. But everything’s going nicely. You’ll be up and around pretty soon. There’s plenty to be done. Barbara wants to see you—and Parsons.” “Ken,” Bruno said, “wait a minute. Am I awake now? I mean, really awake?” Morrissey stared and grinned. “Sure,” he said. “I can guarantee that.” But Bruno did not answer. His gaze moved to the windows, to the solidity of the walls and ceiling, to the reality of his own hands and arms. _Never knowing?_ He looked at Morrissey, waiting for Morrissey to vanish, and the black pit to open again beneath him.