"_Then what?_" "_Then I sleep again and dream another world._" "_Why did you kill George Sanderson?_" "_It is my eternal destiny to kill and suffer punishment._" "_Why?_ Why?" "_In my world I committed a crime; it is the punishment of my world, this destiny...._" "Then try this on for size," Ritchie said. "That kid's frozen stiff with fear. Since he's going to have to wake up no matter what, then why not sit back and enjoy it?" Kaplan's eyes widened. "Hank, how soundly do you sleep?" "What's that got to do with it?" "I mean, do you ever dream?" "Of course." "Ever get hold of any particularly vivid ones? Falling down stairs like, being tortured, anything like that?" Ritchie pulled at his drink. "Sure you have." Kaplan gazed steadily at the clock. Almost midnight. "Then try to remember. In that kind of dream, isn't it true that the pleasure--or pain--you feel is almost as real as if you were actually experiencing it? I remember once I had a nightmare about my old man. He caught me in the basement with a cigarette--I was eight or nine, I guess. He took down my pants and started after me with his belt. Hank--that hurt, bad. It really hurt." "So what's the point?" "In my dream I tried to get away from my old man. He chased me all over that basement. Well, it's the same with the kid--except his dream is a hundred times more vivid, that's all. He knows he'll feel that electric chair, feel the jolts frying into him, feel the death boiling up in his throat just as much as if he were honest-to-God sitting there...." Kaplan stopped talking. The two men sat quietly watching the clock's invisible progress. Then Ritchie leaped up and stalked over to the bar again. "Doggone you, Max," he called. "You're getting _me_ fidgety now." "Don't kid me," Kaplan said. "You've been fidgety on your own for quite a while. I don't know how you ever made the grade as a criminal lawyer--you don't know the first thing about lying." Ritchie didn't answer. He poured the drink slowly. "Look at you and Ruth, screaming at each other. And then there was the other tip-off. The way you defended the kid--brilliantly, masterfully. You'd never have done that for a common open-and-shut little killer." "Max," Ritchie said, "you're nuts. Tell you what: at exactly 12:01 I'll take you out for the biggest, juiciest, rarest steak you ever saw. On me. Then we'll get loaded and fall all over ourselves laughing--" Ritchie fought away the sudden picture of steak, rare steak, with the blood sputtering out, sizzling on an electric stove. The clock began to strike. Henry Ritchie and Max Kaplan stood very still. * * * * * He uncoiled. The dry pop of hardened joints jabbed wakefulness into him until finally the twenty-foot long shell lay straight upon the steaming rocks. He opened his eyes, all of them, one by one.