And I knew her home. I could lift it into my conscious perception as a familiar scene. I could imagine her moving about it, young, vibrant, happy, alone or with Croft by her side. I could fancy her bathing in the sun-warmed waters of the private bath in the garden--the gleam of her form against the clear yellow stone of which it was constructed--until she seemed the little silver fish Croft had called her, disporting in a bowl of gold, behind the white, screening, vine-clad walls. Or I could dream of her walking about the grounds, with the giant Canor--the huge, doglike creature she called Hupor, who was at once her pet, her companion, and guard. Distant? Why, she seemed no more distant to me in the days after Croft had gone back to be with her when her child would be born than some fair maid of earth waiting for the coming of her lover across a dividing wall in an adjacent yard. And yet so blind is the objective mind, that even then I did not suspect I had established a sympathetic chain of interest between the atmosphere of her existence and myself, capable of stretching out to a most peculiar climax in the end. Then, one night something over a month after No. 27 had died and been laid away, I dreamed. I don't say I thought of it as a dream at the time. Then it was all too seriously, too grippingly, real to seem other than the actual thing. It was only after it was over that I thought of it as a dream--perhaps because, despite the occurrence and all Croft had told me, I was still not fully convinced. Later--well, that's the story. I'll let it unfold itself. I went to bed that night and fell asleep. How long I slept I do not know. But a voice disturbed my slumbers after a time. At least it disturbed the restful unconsciousness of my spirit. To this day I am not sure whether or not my body moved. "Murray--Murray." I heard it, dimly at first, but insistent. It kept repeating itself over and over. Beyond doubt someone was demanding my attention. I sought to rouse. "Murray--in the name of Zitu--and Azil--" I stiffened my attention. It was nothing short of startling to hear those words spoken. Zitu was God in the Tamarizian language, as I knew, and Azil was the Angel of Life--as Ga was the Virgin Mother. Ga and Azil--the mother and the life-bringer--they were the ones to whom the Tamarizian women most frequently prayed. I gave over my endeavor to waken my sleeping body and lay straining the ears of my spirit to the voice. It came again. Whoever the speaker was, he seemed to know he had stirred my conscious perception. "Murray--I need your advice--your council. Naia needs you. It's life and death, Murray. You told me you would gladly render her assistance as a physician. Murray--will you come?" My spirit staggered. It was most amazing. For now I knew that the speaker was Jason Croft.