The awful concept battered the very foundations of reason. Every person and object, the walls about me, the ground underfoot, each star out to the farthest infinity -- all nothing but ingenious contrivances. An analog environment. A simulectronic creation. A world of intangible illusion. A balanced interplay of electronic charges racing off tapes and drums, leaping from cathodes to anodes, picking up the stimuli of biasing grids.

Cringing before a suddenly horrible, hostile universe, I watched without feeling as Whitney's assistants dragged his unconscious, Ashton-possessed body away. I stood by as though paralyzed while they successfully completed the re-transfer operation.

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