They were not gentle men. A tall ruffian, copper-brown face damp with perspiration and body oil, grabbed him by the jacket and slammed him back against the lockers. As he shifted his weight to keep his footing someone drove a fist into his face. He started to raise his hands; and a hard flat object crashed against the side of his skull. The starch went out of his legs. "Do you make anything out of it?" the psychoanalyst Milton Bergstrom, asked. John Zarwell shook his head. "Did I talk while I was under?" "Oh, yes. You were supposed to. That way I follow pretty well what you're reenacting." "How does it tie in with what I told you before?" Bergstrom's neat-boned, fair-skinned face betrayed no emotion other than an introspective stillness of his normally alert gaze. "I see no connection," he decided, his words once again precise and meticulous. "We don't have enough to go on. Do you feel able to try another comanalysis this afternoon yet?" "I don't see why not." Zarwell opened the collar of his shirt. The day was hot, and the room had no air conditioning, still a rare luxury on St. Martin's. The office window was open, but it let in no freshness, only the mildly rank odor that pervaded all the planet's habitable area. "Good." Bergstrom rose. "The serum is quite harmless, John." He maintained a professional diversionary chatter as he administered the drug. "A scopolamine derivative that's been well tested." The floor beneath Zarwell's feet assumed abruptly the near transfluent consistency of a damp sponge. It rose in a foot-high wave and rolled gently toward the far wall. Bergstrom continued talking, with practiced urbanity. "When psychiatry was a less exact science," his voice went on, seeming to come from a great distance, "a doctor had to spend weeks, sometimes months or years interviewing a patient. If he was skilled enough, he could sort the relevancies from the vast amount of chaff. We are able now, with the help of the serum, to confine our discourses to matters cogent to the patient's trouble." The floor continued its transmutation, and Zarwell sank deep into viscous depths. "Lie back and relax. Don't ..." The words tumbled down from above. They faded, were gone. Zarwell found himself standing on a vast plain. There was no sky above, and no horizon in the distance. He was in a place without space or dimension. There was nothing here except himself--and the gun that he held in his hand. A weapon beautiful in its efficient simplicity. He should know all about the instrument, its purpose and workings, but he could not bring his thoughts into rational focus. His forehead creased with his mental effort. Abruptly the unreality about him shifted perspective. He was approaching--not walking, but merely shortening the space between them--the man who held the gun. The man who was himself. The other "himself" drifted nearer also, as though drawn by a mutual attraction.