Immediately I began thinking of the things I should have done, the machinery I should have set in motion instead of the one thing I had done. By all means, I ought to have notified the police directly. My notion that telenosis influenced all the police desk sergeants in town was hysterical, baseless. Well, I could call back, even now-- But I couldn't. The car was moving at a relatively slow speed--but still over fifty miles an hour, on a narrow unpaved, downgrade road. Through the side window I saw dark trees and shadowy brush gliding by. And then through the window I saw lighted storefronts, mail boxes, a few vague pedestrians on smooth sidewalks, and two dogs running tirelessly beside the car, barking as they ran.... Repeated pounding on the heavy black box did not restore reality. Now I did not dare use the phone again or even think about it. I was sitting beside the driver, and the driver was sitting erect at the wheel. On a sudden, stupid impulse, I struck at the driver's head, and my hand went through it without touching anything. I groped with my hand until I felt the man's limp head where my eyes said his shoulder was. With a suppressed shudder, I drew my hand away and sat back in the seat to wait. It couldn't be long now. The car turned a corner and continued at a much slower pace. It went perhaps a hundred yards before it pulled to the curb and stopped. Across the street I saw the police station. The entrance looked like any other store or business entrance, but a marquee-sign above the entrance read: "Section 4 Police Station." The driver sat motionless behind the wheel. He would not move, I knew, until.... I shrugged, picked up the defense mech, and opened the door. Pedestrians walked by along the sidewalk, and autos glided in both directions on the street. Dogs yapped at my heels. I ignored them. They did not exist. But I knew the police station did exist. I walked directly toward the entrance--a long kitty-corner across the street. When a powerfully humming auto headed toward me, I closed my eyes and braced myself and continued walking. It is not a pleasant sensation to be run down by a car--even a dream-car with no substance. My skin was prickly and my palms moist. I could feel the blood pounding in my head. The door to the police station was open. A short flight of stairs went up to another door that was closed. I did not ring the bell, but opened the door and stepped into the reception room. The room was empty except for the uniformed policeman sitting at the radio bank on the other side of the railing with his back to me. He wore earphones. As the door clicked shut, the policeman turned in his swivel chair to face me. "Hello, Langston, we've been expecting you," he said. It was Isaac Grogan. I smiled and replied with calmness that amazed me: "Yes, I daresay you have, Zan Matl Blekeke." * * * * *