“Well, she was very lucky, Mr. Breton. Another man, who incidentally looked like you, stepped out from behind a tree and blew the attacker’s head off with a rifle.”

“What? You don’t think… Where’s the man now?”

Convery smiled. “We don’t know that, as yet. He seems to have vanished…”

A sense of aching vastness, shifting of perspectives and parallax, unthinkable transitions in which the curvatures of space-time writhe between negative and positive, and infinity yawns at the mid-point — numinous, illusory, poignant…

“Look at that guy drink,” Gordon Palfrey was saying. “He’s really going into orbit tonight.”

The others turned to look at Breton, who — desperately needing time to reorient himself — smiled wanly and sat down in a deep armchair. He noticed a speculative look in Kate’s eyes and wondered if there was any way for a casual observer to detect that he had been blacked out. An analyst called Fusciardi had, after an unsatisfactory investigation, assured him the lapses were unnoticeable, but Breton had found it difficult to believe because the trips often occupied several hours of subjective time. Fusciardi’s explanation was that Breton had an unusual, but not unique, capacity for flashes of absolute recall occupying only split seconds of objective time. He had even suggested referring the case to a university psychological team, but at that point Breton had lost interest.

Breton relaxed further into the big old chair, enjoying the comfort of its sane solidity. That particular episode was cropping up more often lately and he found it depressing, even though Fusciardi had warned him that key scenes in his life — especially those involving emotional stress — would be most liable for reclamation. Tonight’s trip had been unusually long, and its impact increased by the fact that he had had so little warning. There had been none of the visual disturbances which Fusciardi had told him were commonly the prelude to a migraine attack in other people.