Someone was shaking his shoulder roughly and insistently. He strained away in dull protest, groping blindly for the fragile ethereal thread that had slipped from him. "Come on, snap out of it!" an impatient voice growled. He forced open his eyes, then squeezed them shut again as the beam of a flashlight struck them. His awareness sharpened. He struggled to sit up, felt grass under his fingers, and realized abruptly that he was back in the park. Hands that were not gentle caught him under his armpits and helped raise him to his feet. He saw the figures of two men now, one of them in police uniform. This man held a gun, its muzzle pointed in silent threat. "All right, cop-killer," the man in the suit said. He had a detective's unemotional face and flat hard eyes. Something bright glinted in his hands as he leaned close--and Bryan felt the cold steel of handcuffs close around his wrists. "Let's go," the detective said, then. "We've got about two-dozen men combing the park for you, friend. They won't like to be kept on the job for nothing. Pete and I were just lucky enough to get to you first." Rough hands gripped Bryan's arms, pulled him into motion. He walked leadenly, unsteadily, the two men flanking him. His body was clammy with the perspiration that had bathed him in sleep. He felt exhausted, weak, sick, as though from some tremendous labor. The energy of his body, it seemed, had been heavily drawn upon in order to sustain the projection of himself in Leeta's aspect. Leeta.... He thought of her with a crushing sense of tragedy. He knew he loved her--incredible and weird as that love may have seemed. He remembered the shyness of her kiss, the numbed horror of her belief that she had been betrayed, that he had pretended love only as a ruse to obtain Mulvaney's freedom. If only he were able to reassure her-- But he had the chill certainty that he would never see her again. For she had learned the meaning of pain. Despair rose in him, a despair that submerged even his concern over the situation in which he now found himself. _Cop-killer_.... The implications brought a kind of remote wonder. Joyce, it appeared, had made her threat good. She had told the police a story that they had swallowed without tasting. It was a story that had resulted in a swift and thorough search of the park, a story that had required handcuffs and drawn guns. Bryan glanced at the detective beside him. "You boys taking me in because of what happened to Mulvaney?" "Mostly because of Mulvaney," the other grunted. "We don't know what you did to him, friend--but you're going to tell us about it. In the back room at Headquarters. You're damned well going to tell us all about it." "Mulvaney isn't dead," Bryan insisted. "Not yet. But he's going to kick off sooner or later--just like the others. I know about that, friend." Bryan shook his head. "Mulvaney isn't going to die."