"I feel," I said, "that I am caught up in some kind of time travel."
"I see. Have you read much science fiction, Mr. Turner?"
"Some. I read a lot. All kinds of books. Tolstoi, Twain, Hemingway,
Luke Short, John D. MacDonald, Huxley."
"You should _read_ them instead of live them. Catharsis. Sublimate, Mr.
Turner. For instance, to a certain type of person, I often recommend
the mysteries of Mickey Spillane."
I seemed to be losing control of the conversation. "But this time
travel...."
"Mr. Turner, do you really believe in 'time travel'?"
"No."
"Then how can there be any such thing? It can't be real."
"I know that! I want to be cured of imagining it."
"The first step is to utterly renounce the idea. Stop thinking about
the past. Think of the future."
"How did you know I keep slipping back into the past?" I asked.
* * * * *
Sergeant's hands were more expressive than his face. "You mentioned
time travel...."
"But not to the past or to the future," I said.
"But you did, Mr. Turner. You told me all about thinking you could go
into the past by visiting a book store where they sold old magazines.
You told me how the intrusion of the past got worse with every visit."