The sound of his voice echoed back to him and he shouted again.

ROUSED FROM HER sleep, Freya Gaines groped for the switch of the vidphone; groggily she found it and snapped it on.

" 'Lo," she mumbled, wondering what time it was. She made out the luminous dial of the clock beside the bed. Three A.M. Good grief.

Carol Holt Garden's features formed on the vidscreen. "Freya, have you seen Pete?" Carol's voice was jerky, anxiety-stricken. "He went out and he still hasn't come back; I can't go to sleep."

"No," Freya said. "Of course I don't know where he is. Did the police let him go?"

"He's out on bail," Carol said. "Do—you have any idea what places he might stop at? The bars are all closed, now; I was waiting for two o'clock thinking he'd show up no later than two-thirty. But—"

"Try the Blind Lemon in Berkeley," Freya said, and started to cut the connection. Maybe he's dead, she thought. Threw himself off one of the bridges or crashed his ear-finally.

Carol said, "He's celebrating."

"Good god why?" Freya said.

"I'm pregnant."

Fully awake, Freya said, "I see. Astonishing. Right away. You must be using that new rabbit-paper they're selling."

"Yes," Carol said. "I bit a piece tonight and it turned green; that's why Pete's out. I wish he'd come back. He's so emotional, first he's depressed and suicidal and then—"

"You worry about your problems, I'll worry about mine," Freya cut in. "Congratulations, Carol. I hope it's a baby." And then she did break the connection; the image faded into darkness.

The bastard, Freya said to herself with fury and bitterness. She lay back, supine, staring up at the ceiling, clenching her fists and fighting back the tears. I could kill him, she said to herself. I hope he's dead; I hope he never comes back to her.

Would he come here? She sat up, stricken. What if he does? she asked herself. Beside her, in the bed, Clem Gaines snored on. If he shows up here I won't let him in, she decided; I don't want to see him.

But, for some reason, she knew Pete would not come here anyhow. He's not looking for me, she realized. I'm the last person he's looking for.

She lit a cigarette and sat in bed, smoking and staring straight ahead of her, silently.

The vug said, "Mr. Garden, when did you first begin to notice these disembodied feelings, as if the world about you is not quite real?"

"As long ago as I can remember," Pete said.

"And your reaction?"

"Depression. I've taken thousands of amitriptyline tablets and they only have a temporary effect."

"Do you know who I am?" the vug asked.

"Let's see," Pete said, cogitating. The name Doctor Phelps floated through his mind. "Doctor Eugen Phelps," he said hopefully.

"Almost right, Mr. Garden. It's Doctor E. R. Philipson. And how did you happen to look me up? Do you perhaps recall that?"

Pete said, "How could I help looking you up?" The answer was obvious. "Because you're there. Or rather, here."

"Stick out your tongue."

"Why?"

"As a mark of disrespect."

Pete stuck out his tongue. "Ahhh," he said.

"Additional comment is unnecessary; the point's made. How many times have you attempted suicide?"

"Four," Pete said. "The first when I was twenty. The second when I was forty. The third—"

"No need to go on. How close did you come to success?"

"Very close. Yes sir. Especially the last time."

"What stopped you?"

"A force greater than myself," Pete said.

"How droll." The vug chuckled.

"I mean my wife. Betty, that was her name. Betty Jo. She and I met at Joe Schilling's rare record shop. Betty Jo had breasts as firm and ripe as melons. Or was her name Mary Anne?"

"Her name was not Mary Anne," Doctor E. R. Philipson said, "because now you're speaking of the eighteen-year-old daughter of Pat and Alien McClain and she has never been your wife. I am not qualified to describe her breasts. Or her mother's. In any case you scarcely know her; all you know about her in fact is that she devoutly listens to Nats Katz whom you can't stand. You and she have nothing in common."

"You lying son of a bitch," Pete said.

"Oh no. I'm not lying. I'm facing reality and that's exact-

ly what you've failed to do; that's why you're here. You're involved in an intricate, sustained illusion-system of massive proportion. You and half of your Game-playing friends. Do you want to escape from it?"

"No," Pete said. "I mean yes. Yes or no; what does it matter?" He felt sick at his stomach. "Can I leave now?" he said. "I think I've spent all my money."

The vug Doctor E. R. Philipson said, "You have twenty-five dollars in time left."

"Well, I'd rather have the twenty-five dollars."

"That raises a nice point of professional ethics in that you have already paid me."

"Then pay me back," Pete said.

The vug sighed. "This is a stalemate. I think I will make the decision for both of us. Do I have twenty-five dollars worth of help left that I can give you? It depends on what you want. You are in a situation of insidiously-growing difficulty. It will probably kill you shortly, just as it killed Mr. Luckman. Be especially careful for your pregnant wife; she is excruciatingly fragile at this point."

"I will. I will."

Doctor E. R'. Philipson said, "Your best bet, Garden, is to bend with the forces of the times. There's little hope that you can achieve much, really; you're one person and you do, in some respects, properly see the situation. But physically you're powerless. Who can you go to? E. B. Black? Mr. Hawthorne? You could try. They might help you; they might not. Now, as to the time-segment missing from your memory."

"Yes," Pete said. "The time-segment missing from my memory. How about that?"

"You have fairly well reconstructed it by means of the Rushmore Effect mechanisms. So don't fret unduly."

"But did I kill Luckman?"

"Ha ha," the vug said. "Do you think I'm going to tell you? Are you out of your mind?"

"Maybe so," Pete said. "Maybe I'm being naive." He felt even sicker, now, too sick to go on any further. "Where's the men's room?" he asked the vug. "Or should I say the human's room?" He looked around, squinting to see. The

colors were all wrong and when he tried to walk he felt weightless or at least much lighter. Too light. He was not on Earth. This was not one-G pulling at him; it was only a fraction.

He thought, I'm on Titan.

"Second door to the left," the vug Doctor E. R. Philipson said.

"Thank you," Pete said, walking with care so that he would not float up and rebound from one of the white-painted walls. "Listen," he said, pausing. "What about Carol? I'm giving up Patricia; nothing means anything to me except the mother of my child."

"Nothing means anything, you mean," Doctor E. R. Philip-son said. "A joke, and a poor one. I'm merely commenting on your state of mind. 'Things are seldom what they seem; Skim-milk masquerades as cream.' A wonderful statement by the Terran humorist W. S. Gilbert. I wish you luck and I suggest you consult E. B. Black; he's reliable. You can trust him. I'm not sure about Hawthorne." The vug called loudly after Pete, "And close the bathroom door after you so I won't have to listen. It's disgusting, when a Terran is sick."

Pete shut the door. How do I get out of here? he asked himself. I've got to escape. How'd I get here to Titan in the first place?

How much time has passed? Days—weeks, perhaps.

I have to get home to Carol. God, he thought. They may have killed her by now, the way they killed Luckman.

They? Who?

He did not know. It had been explained to him ... or had it? Had he really gotten his one hundred and fifty dollars' worth? Perhaps. It was his responsibility, not theirs, to retain the knowledge.