And he pressed the trigger.
And at that moment, the universe caved inward upon Joseph Marie
Prantera.
There was nausea and nausea upon nausea.
There was a falling through all space and through all time. There was
doubling and twisting and twitching of every muscle and nerve.
There was pain, horror and tumultuous fear.
And he came out of it as quickly and completely as he'd gone in.
He was in, he thought, a hospital and his first reaction was to think,
_This here California. Everything different._ Then his second thought
was _Something went wrong. Big Louis, he ain't going to like this._
[Illustration]
He brought his thinking to the present. So far as he could remember, he
hadn't completely pulled the trigger. That at least meant that whatever
the rap was it wouldn't be too tough. With luck, the syndicate would get
him off with a couple of years at Quentin.
A door slid open in the wall in a way that Joe had never seen a door
operate before. _This here California._
The clothes on the newcomer were wrong, too. For the first time, Joe
Prantera began to sense an alienness--a something that was awfully
wrong.
The other spoke precisely and slowly, the way a highly educated man
speaks a language which he reads and writes fluently but has little
occasion to practice vocally. "You have recovered?"
Joe Prantera looked at the other expressionlessly. Maybe the old duck
was one of these foreign doctors, like.
The newcomer said, "You have undoubtedly been through a most harrowing
experience. If you have any untoward symptoms, possibly I could be of
assistance."
Joe couldn't figure out how he stood. For one thing, there should have
been some kind of police guard.