can’t go on this way.”
As he mechanically added figures, he was alarmedly trying to figure out a way to rid himself of this obsession.
If he only knew which was reality and which was dream! That was what his mind always came back to, that was the key of his troubles.
If, for instance, he could learn for a certainty that Khal Kan and his life in Thar were merely a dream, as they seemed, then he wouldn’t brood about them. There wouldn’t be any point in worrying about what happened in a dream.
On the other hand, if he should learn that his life as Khal Kan was real, and that Henry Stevens and his world were the dream, then that too would relieve his worries. It wouldn’t matter much if Henry Stevens lost his job—if Henry were only a dream.
Henry was fascinated, as always, by that thought. He looked around the sunlit office, the neat desks and busy men and girls, with a flash of derisive superiority.
You may none of you be real at all,” he thought. “You may all just be part of Khal Kan’s nightly dream.”
That was always a queer thought, that idea that Earth and all its people, including himself, were just a dream of the prince of Jotan.
“I wish to heaven I knew,” Henry muttered baffledly for the thousandth time. “There must be some way to find out which is real.”
Yet he could see no test that would give proof. He had thought of and had tried many things during his life, to test the matter.
Several times, he had stayed up all night without sleep. He had thought that if he did not sleep and hence did not dream, it would break the continuity of the dreamlife of Khal Kan.
But it had had no effect. For when he finally did sleep, and dreamed that he awoke as Khal Kan, it merely seemed to Khal Kan that he had dreamed he was Henry Stevens, staying up a night without sleep—that he had dreamed two days and a night of the unreal life of Henry Stevens.
No, that had failed as a test. Nor was there any other way. If he could be sure that while he was sleeping and living the dream-life of Khal Kan, the rest of Earth remained real—that would solve the problem.
The other people of Earth were sure they had remained in existence during his sleep. But, if they were all just figments of dream, their certainty of existence was merely part of the dream.
It was maddening, this uncertainty! He felt that it would drive him to insanity if the puzzle persisted much longer. Yet how was he to solve the riddle?
“Maybe a good psychoanalyst,” Henry thought doubtfully. “A fellow like that might be able to help.”
He shrank from his own idea. It would mean telling the psychoanalyst all about his dream-life. And that was something he had not done for years, not since he was a small boy.
When he was a boy, Henry Stevens had confidendy told his family and chums all about his strange dreams—how each night when he slept he was another boy, the boy Khal Kan in Jotan, on the world Thar. He had told them in detail of his life as Khal Kan, of the wonderful black city Jotan, of the red sun and the two pink moons.
His parents had at first laughed at his stories, then had become worried, and finally had forbidden him to tell any more such falsehoods. They had put it all down to a too-vivid imagination.
And his boyhood chums had jeered at his tales, admiring his ability as a liar but rudely expressing their opinions when he had earnestly maintained that he did dream it all, every night.
So Henry had learned not to tell of his dream-life. He had kept that part of his life locked away, and even Emma had never heard of it.
“But still, if a psychoanalyst could help me find out which is real,” he thought desperately, “it’d be worth trying—”
* * * *
That afternoon when his work was finished, Henry found himself entering the offices of a Doctor Willis Thorn whom he had heard of as the best psychoalanlyst in the city. He had made an appointment by telephone.
Doctor Thorn wis a solidly built man of forty, with the body of a football player, and calm, friendly eyes. He listened with quiet attention as Henry Stevens, slowly at first and then more eagerly, poured out his story.
“And you say the dream continues logically, from night to night?” Doctor Thorn asked. “That’s strange. I’ve never heard of a psychosis quite like that.”
“What I want to know is—which is real?” Henry blurted. “Is there any way in which you could tell me whether it’s Thar or Earth that’s real?”
Doctor Thorn smiled quietly. “I’m not a figment of a dream, I assure you. You see me sitting here, quite real and solid. Too solid, I’m afraid—I’ve been putting on weight lately.”
Henry, puzzledly thoughtful, missed the pleasantry. “You seem real and solid,” he admitted, “and so does’ this office and everything else, to me. But then I, Henry Stevens, may only be a part of the dream myself—Khal Kan’s dream.”
Doctor Thorn’s brow wrinkled. “I see your point. It’s logical enough, from a certain standpoint. But it’s also logical that you and I and Earth are real, and that Khal Kan and his world are only an extraordinarily vivid dream your mind has developed as compensation for a monotonous life.”
“I don’t know,” Henry muttered. “When I’m Khai Kan, I’m pretty sure that Henry Stevens is just a dream. But I, Henry Stevens, am not so sure. Of course, Khal Kan isn’t the kind of man to brood or doubt much about anything—he’s a fighter and reckless adventurer.”
Doctor Thorn was definitely interested. “Look here, Mr. Stevens, suppose you write out a complete history of this dreamlife of yours—this life as Khal Kan—and bring it with you the next time. It may help me.”
Henry left the office, with his new hope on the wane. He didn’t think the psychoanalyst could do much to solve his problem.
After all, he thought depressedly as he drove homeward, there was hardly any way in which you could prove that you really existed. You felt you did exist, everyone around you was sure they did too, but there was no real proof that that whole existence was not just a dream.
His mind came back to Khal Kan’s present predicament. How was he going to escape from the drylanders? He brooded on that, through dinner.
“Henry Stevens, you haven’t been listening to one word!” his wife’s voice aroused him.
Emma’s plump, good-natured face was a little exasperated as she peered across the table at him.
“I declare, you’re getting more dopey every day!” she told him snappily.
“I’m just sleepy, I guess,” Henry apologized. “I think I’ll turn in.”
She shook her head. “You go to bed earlier every night. It’s not eight o’clock yet.”
Henry finally was permitted to retire. He felt an apprehensive eagerness as he undressed. What was going to happen to Khal Kan?
He stretched out and lay in the dark room, half dreading and half anticipating
