My kneecap hurt like hell. I had scraped it badly.
Reality was all over me in patches. I showed through as a line
drawing, crudely done, a cartoon.
Some kind of projection. High-test Cinerama, that was all reality meant.
I was kneeling on a hard surface no more than six feet from the window
from which I had fallen. It was still fourteen flights up, more or
less, but _Down_ was broken and splattered over me.