He was an entity living in a dream world. All about him were the figments of an imagination--presumably his own. And even knowing, he still had no control of events--like a dream that cannot be halted or changed. The people about him were automatons, in fact they possessed no actual substance. Even his own body was but a figment--but he could be hurt! He had experienced the most acute pain, and very probably he could be killed. He had, however, little time to brood on it. At that instant in his reflections Gamoll jerked open the library door and walked in. "The worst has happened," he exclaimed. "The security police have caught Oliver." "What can we do?" Buckmaster still could not regard Gamoll, or Oliver and his friends, as nonentities. "I hate to say this," Gamoll said, "but you'll have to get out. I may be able to help Oliver escape, but I'll be powerless if they learn that I'm connected with the Underground." "They probably wouldn't hesitate to kill you also," Buckmaster said. "That wouldn't be too important, if my dying would accomplish anything," Gamoll said. "But the Underground's only hope seems to be my keeping clear." Slowly, almost unobtrusively, a vision rose up before Buckmaster's eyes. Gamoll's features clouded, became vague, and were gone. In his place stood the General. In the General's hand was a bottle, and before him a wooden frame, holding a metal box with its lid open. Buckmaster realized that what he was seeing was happening in some other part of the building. He could see cement walls in the room in which the General stood. Probably the basement, he thought. Within him the Force commanded! He must get to the General, and kill him. The world was on the brink of disaster. And time was running out. * * * * * Gradually the whole composite vision vanished and he saw the handsome features of Gamoll again. He knew what he had to do now. "I'm leaving immediately," he said. Closing the library door behind him he walked unhesitatingly down a long hallway. To either side of him, painted on the walls, were murals, depicting peasants in the fields, harvesting grain. Idly he observed the painted figures as he walked, with his brain chilled and numbed of almost all emotion. The painted figures possessed as much reality as anything else about him, he thought disinterestedly. He walked down steps and across an inner courtyard, his legs moving stiffly, lifelessly. He continued up the steps on the far side of the courtyard, his mind shutting out everything around him except the door ahead. When he reached there he stopped. Here, he knew, he was at the crossroads. He could move straight ahead through the door, or he could walk around the house and enter the basement through the back. That was the longer way, but probably the safer. And the Force urged the second choice.