"It's a long story. He was a reporter at one time--he may have told you that. The death of his wife precipitated a severe trauma and brought him to our attention. Actually, I'm not at liberty to say any more regarding his case; you understand, I'm sure." "Then you're telling me that everything he had to say was a product of his imagination?" "No, don't misunderstand. It would be more correct to state that he merely distorted reality. For example, there _is_ a Dr. Leffingwell on the staff here; he is a diagnostician and has nothing to do with psychotherapy _per se_. And he has charge of the hospital ward in Unit Three, the third building you may have noticed behind Administration. That's where the nurses maintain residence, of course. Incidentally, when any nurses take on a--special assignment, as it were, such as yours, Leffingwell does examine and treat them. There's a new oral contraception technique he's evolved which may be quite efficacious. But I'd hardly call it an example of sinister experimentation under the circumstances, would you?" Harry shook his head. "About Ritchie, though," he said. "What will happen to him?" "I can't offer any prognosis. In view of my recent error in judgment concerning him, it's hard to say how he'll respond to further treatment. But rest assured that I'll do my best for his case. Chances are you'll be seeing him again before very long." Dr. Manschoff glanced at his watch. "Shall we go back now?" he suggested. "Supper will be served soon." The two men toiled up the bank. Harry discovered that the doctor was right about supper. It was being served as he returned to his room. But the predictions concerning Ritchie didn't work out quite as well. It was after supper--indeed, quite some hours afterwards, while Harry sat at his window and stared sleeplessly out into the night--that he noted the thick, greasy spirals of black smoke rising suddenly from the chimney of the Third Unit building. And the sight may have prepared him for the failure of Dr. Manschoff's prophecy regarding his disturbed patient. Harry never asked any questions, and no explanations were ever forthcoming. But from that evening onward, nobody ever saw Arnold Ritchie again. 3. President Winthrop--1999 The Secretary of State closed the door. "Well?" he asked. President Winthrop looked up from the desk and blinked. "Hello, Art," he said. "Sit down." "Sorry I'm late," the Secretary told him. "I came as soon as I got the call." "It doesn't matter." The President lit a cigarette and pursed his lips around it until it stopped wobbling. "I've been checking the reports all night." "You look tired." "I am. I could sleep for a week. That is, I _wish_ I could." "Any luck?" The President pushed the papers aside and drummed the desk for a moment. Then he offered the Secretary a gray ghost of a smile. "The answer's still the same." "But this was our last chance--"