"Mr. Turner, I can't seem to find any record of an appointment for you in Dr. Rickenbacker's files," the man said. I got to my feet. "Then I'll come back." He took my arm. "No, no, I can fit you in." "I didn't have an appointment. I just came." "I understand." "Maybe I had better go." "I won't hear of it." I could have pulled loose from him, but somehow I felt that if I did try to pull away, the grip would tighten and I would never get away. I looked up into that long, hard, blank face that seemed so recently familiar. "I'm Dr. Sergeant," he said. "I'm taking care of Dr. Rickenbacker's practice for him while he is on vacation." I nodded. What I was thinking could only be another symptom of my illness. He led me inside and closed the door. The door made a strange sound in closing. It didn't go _snick-bonk_; it made a noise like _click-clack-clunk_. "Now," he said, "would you like to lie down on the couch and tell me about it? Some people have preconceived ideas that I don't want to fight with at the beginning. Or, if you prefer, you can sit there in front of my desk and tell me all about it. Remember, I'm a psychiatrist, a doctor, not just a psychoanalyst." I took possession of the chair and Sergeant faced me across his desk. "I feel," I said, "that I am caught up in some kind of time travel." "I see. Have you read much science fiction, Mr. Turner?" "Some. I read a lot. All kinds of books. Tolstoi, Twain, Hemingway, Luke Short, John D. MacDonald, Huxley." "You should _read_ them instead of live them. Catharsis. Sublimate, Mr. Turner. For instance, to a certain type of person, I often recommend the mysteries of Mickey Spillane." I seemed to be losing control of the conversation. "But this time travel...." "Mr. Turner, do you really believe in 'time travel'?" "No." "Then how can there be any such thing? It can't be real." "I know that! I want to be cured of imagining it." "The first step is to utterly renounce the idea. Stop thinking about the past. Think of the future." "How did you know I keep slipping back into the past?" I asked. * * * * * Sergeant's hands were more expressive than his face. "You mentioned time travel...." "But not to the past or to the future," I said. "But you did, Mr. Turner. You told me all about thinking you could go into the past by visiting a book store where they sold old magazines. You told me how the intrusion of the past got worse with every visit." I blinked. "I did? I did?" "Of course." I stood up. "I did not!" "Please try to keep from getting violent, Mr. Turner. People like you actually have more control over themselves than you realize. If you _will_ yourself to be calm...." "I _know_ I didn't tell you a thing about the Back Number Store. I'm starting to think I'm not crazy at all. You--you're trying to do something to me. You're all in it together." Sergeant shook his head sadly. I realized how it all sounded. "Good--GOD!" I moaned.