The next window was about twenty feet away. I had covered half that distance, moving my feet with a sideways crab motion, when Carl, indisputably the second policeman, put his head out of the window where I was heading and pointed a .38 revolver at me, saying in a let's-have-no-foolishness tone: "Get in here." I went the other way. The cool, lovely receptionist was in Sergeant's window with the tiny silver needle in readiness. I kept shuffling toward the girl. I had decided I would rather wrestle with her over the needle than fight Carl over the rod. Idiotically, I smiled at that idea. I slipped. I was falling down the fourteen stories without even a moment of windmilling for balance. I was just gone. Lines were converging, and I was converging on the lines. You aren't going to be able to Immelmann out of this dive, Turner. Good-by, Turner. Death. A sleep, a reawakening, a lie. It's nothing like that. It's nothing. The end of everything you ever were or ever could be. I hit. My kneecap hurt like hell. I had scraped it badly. Reality was all over me in patches. I showed through as a line drawing, crudely done, a cartoon. Some kind of projection. High-test Cinerama, that was all reality meant. I was kneeling on a hard surface no more than six feet from the window from which I had fallen. It was still fourteen flights up, more or less, but _Down_ was broken and splattered over me. I stood up, moving forward a step. It brought me halfway through the screen, halfway through the wall at the base of the building. The other side of the screen. The solid side, I found, stepping through, bracing a hand on the image. Looking up fourteen floors, I saw an unbroken line of peacefully closed panes. * * * * * I remembered riding up in the elevator, the moments inside, the faint feeling of vertigo. Of course, who was to say the elevator really moved? Maybe they had only switched scenery on me while I was caught inside, listening to the phony hum, seeing the flashing lights. Either cut down or increase the oxygen supply inside the cubicle suddenly and that would contribute a sensation of change, of movement. They had it all worked out. My fingers rubbed my head briskly, both hands working, trying to get some circulation in my brain. I guessed I had to run. There didn't seem much else to do. I ran. Get help? Not this old lady and her daughter. Not this Neanderthal sailor on his way to a bar and a blonde. Not the bookkeeper. Maybe the car salesman, ex-Army, Lions Club member, beefy, respectable, well-intentioned, not a complete fool. The guy on the corner reading a newspaper by the bus stop. "I need help," I panted to him. "Somebody's trying to kidnap me." "Really makes you sick to hear about something like that, doesn't it?" he said. "I'm in favor of the Lindbergh Law myself." "I'm not sure whether--"