against the bars of the window.
I was lying on a narrow, high bed in a room filled with doors and bars. I could see the edge of a carved mirror set in a frame, and the top of a chest of some kind. On a bench at the edge of my field of vision there were two figures sitting. One was the old grey man, hunched wearily beneath his robe, wearing robes like a Tibetan Lama’s, somber black, and a peaked hood of grey. The other was a slimmer younger figure, swathed in silken silvery veiling, with a thin opacity where the face should have been, and a sort of opalescent shine of flesh through the silvery-sapphire silks. The figure was that of a boy or a slim immature girl; it sat erect, motionless, and for a long time I studied it, curious, between half-opened lids. But when I blinked, it rose and passed through one of the multitudinous doors; at once a soft sibilance of draperies announced return. I sat up, getting my feet to the floor, or almost there; the bed was higher than a hospital bed. The blue-robe held a handled mug, like a baby’s drinking-cup, at me. I took it in my hand hesitated—
“Neither drug nor poison,” said the blue-robe mockingly, and the voice was as noncomittal as the veiled body; a sexless voice, soft alto, a woman’s or a boy’s. “Drink and be glad it is none of Karamy’s brewing.”
I tasted the liquid in the mug; it had an indeterminate greenish look and a faint pungent taste I could not identify, although it reminded me variously of anis and garlic. It seemed to remove the last traces of shock. I handed the cup back empty and looked sharply at the old man in the Lama costume.
“You’re—Rhys?” I said. “Where in hell have I gotten to?” At least, that’s what I meant to say. Imagine my surprise when I found myself asking—in a language I’d never heard, but understood perfectly—“To which of the domains of Zandru have I been consigned now?” At the same moment I became conscious of what I was wearing. It seemed to be an old-fashioned nightshirt, chopped off at the loins, deep crimson in color. “Red flannels yet!” I thought with a gulp of dismay. I checked my impulse to get out of bed. Who could act sane in a red nightshirt?
“You might have the decency to explain where I am,” I said. “If you know.” The tiredness seemed part of Rhys’ voice. “Adric,” he said wearily. “Try to remember.” He shrugged his lean shoulders. “You are in your own Tower. And you have been under restraint again. I am sorry.” His voice sounded futile. I felt prickling shivers run down my backbone. In spite of the weird surroundings, the phrase “under restraint” had struck home. I was a lunatic in an asylum.
The blue-robed one cut in in that smooth, sexless, faint-sarcastic voice. “While Karamy holds the amnesia-ray, Rhys, you will be explaining it to him a dozen times a cycle. He will never be of use to us again. This time Karamy won. Adric; try to remember. You are at home, in Narabedla.”
I shook my head. Nightshirt or no nightshirt, I’d face this on my feet. I walked to Rhys; put my clenched hands on his shoulders. “Explain this! Who am I supposed to be? You called me Adric. I’m no more Adric than you are!”
“Adric, you are not amusing!” The blue-robe’s voice was edged with anger. “Use what intelligence you have left! You have had enough sharig antidote to cure a tharl. Now. Who are you?”
The words were meaningless. I stared, trapped. I clung to hold on to identity. “Adric—” I said, bewildered. That was my name. Was it? Wasn’t it? No. I was Mike Kenscott. Hang on to that. Two and two are four. The circumference equals the radius squared times pi. Four rulls is the chemming of twilp—stop that! Mike Kenscott. Summer 1954. Army serial number 13-48746. Karamy. I cradled my bursting head in my hands. “I’m crazy. Or you are. Or we’re both sane and this monkey-business is all real.”
“It is real,” said Rhys, compassion in his tired face. “He has been very far on the Time Ellipse, Gamine. Adric, try to understand. This was Karamy’s work. She sent you out on a time line, far, very far into the past. Into a time when the Earth was different—she hoped you would come back changed, or mad.” His eyes brooded. “I think she succeeded. Gamine, I have long outstayed my leave. I must return to my own tower—or die. Will you explain?”
“I will.” A hint of emotion flickered in the voice of Gamine. “Go, Master.” Rhys left the room, through one of the doors. Gamine turned impatiently to me again. “We waste time this way. Fool, look at yourself!”
I strode to a mirror that lined one of the doors. Above the crimson nightshirt I saw a face—not my own. The sight rocked my mind. Out of the mirror a man’s face looked anxiously; a face eagle-thin, darkly moustached, with sharp green eyes. The body belonging to the face that was not mine was lean and long and strongly muscled—and not quite human. I squeezed my eyes shut. This couldn’t be—I opened my eyes. The man in the red nightshirt I was wearing was still reflected there.
I turned my back on the mirror, walking to one of the barred windows to look down on the familiar outline of the Sierra Madre, about a hundred miles away. I couldn’t have been mistaken. I knew that ridge of mountains. But between me and the mountains lay a thickly forested expanse of land which looked like no scenery I had ever seen in my life. I was standing near the pinnacle of a high tower; I dimly saw the curve of another, just out of my line of vision. The whole landscape was bathed in a curiously pinkish light; through an overcast sky I could just make out, dimly, the shadowy disk of a watery red sun. Then—no, I wasn’t dreaming, I really did see it—beyond it, a second sun; blue-white, shining brilliantly, pallid through the clouds, but brighter than any sunlight I had ever seen.
It was proof enough for me. I turned desperately to Gamine behind me. “Where have I gotten, to? Where—when am I? Two suns—those mountains—”
The change in Gamine’s voice was swift; the veiled face lifted questioningly to mine. What I had thought a veil was not that; it seemed to be more like a shimmering screen wrapped around the features so that Gamine was faceless, an invisible person with substance but no apprehensible characteristics. Yes, it was like that; as if there was an invisible person wearing the curious silken draperies. But the invisible flesh was solid enough. Hands like cold steel gripped my shoulders. “You have been back? Back to the days before the second sun? Adric, tell me; did Earth truly have but one sun?”
“Wait—” I begged. “You mean I’ve travelled in time?”
The exultation faded from Gamine’s voice imperceptibly. “Never mind. It is improbable in any case. No, Adric; not really travelling. You were only sent out on the Time Ellipse, till you contacted some one in that other Time. Perhaps you stayed in contact with his mind so long that you think you are he?” “I’m not Adric—” I raged. “Adric sent me here—”
I saw the blurring around Gamine’s invisible features twitch in a headshake. “It’s never been proven that two minds can be interchanged like that. Adric’s body. Adric’s brain. The brain convolutions, the memory centers, the habit patterns— you’d still be Adric. The idea that you are someone else is only an illusion of your conscious mind. It will wear off.”
I shook my head, puzzled. “I still don’t believe it. Where am I?”
Gamine moved impatiently. “Oh, very well. You are Adric of Narabedla; and if you are sane again, Lord of the Crimson Tower. I am Gamine.” The swathed shoulders moved a little. “You don’t remember? I am a spell-singer.” I jerked my elbow toward the window. “Those are my own mountains out there,” I said roughly. “I’m not Adric, whoever he is. My name’s Mike Kenscott, and your hanky-panky doesn’t impress me. Take off that veil and let me see your face.”
“I wish you meant that—” a mournfulness breathed in the soft contralto. A sudden fury blazed up in me from nowhere. “And what right have you to pry for that old fool Rhys? Get back to your
