Doorways in the Sand by Roger Zelazny Page B

and had sacked out in the back room in the past. Yes, that was what I would do.
    Steinway-like, the ghost of exertions past fell upon me then, as from a great height, and I was crumpled. Hoping for further enlightenment, I did not fight the crush. But drowsing there in my seat, I was not rewarded with another message. Instead, a nightmare encompassed me.
    I dreamed I was staked out in the blazing sun once more, sweating, burning, achieving raisinhood. This reached a hellish peak, then shifted away, faded. I rediscovered myself stranded on an iceberg, teeth chattering, extremities growing numb. Then this, too, passed, but wave after wave of muscular tics swept me from toe to crown. Then I was afraid. Then angry. Elated. Homy. Despairing. With naked feet stalking, the full parade of feelings passed, clad in forms that flee from me. It was no dream . . .
    "Mister, are you all right?"
    There was a hand on my shoulder-from that dream or this?
    "Are you all right?"
    I shuddered. I rubbed a hand across my forehead. It came away wet.
    "Yes," I said. "Thanks."
    I glanced at the man. Elderly. Neatly dressed. Off to see the grandchildren, perhaps.
    "I was sitting across the aisle," he said. "Looked like you were having some sort of fit."
    I rubbed my eyes, ran my hand through my hair, touched my chin and discovered I had been drooling.
    "Bad dream," I said. "I'm okay now. Thanks for waking me up."
    He gave me a small smile, nodded and withdrew.
    Damn! It just seemed to follow that it had to be some side effect of the reversal. I lit a funny-tasting cigarette and glanced at my watch. After deciphering the reversed dial and allowing for its being wrong anyway, I decided I had been dozing for about half an hour. Staring out the window, then, watching the miles pass, I grew quite afraid. What if the whole thing were a ghastly joke, a mistake or a misunderstanding? The little episode that had just occurred left me with the fear that I had screwed myself up inside at some level I had not yet considered, that subtle, irreversible damages might be taking place within me. Kind of late to think of that, though. I made an effort to maintain my faith in my friend, the recording. I felt certain that the Rhennius machine could undo what it had done when this became necessary. All that was required was someone who understood how it worked.
    I sat for a long while, hoping for some answer to come. The only thing that arrived, however, was more drowsiness and eventual sleep. This time it was the Big, dark, quiet thing it is supposed to be, sans all vicissitudes and angst, peaceful. All the way through into night and my station, I slept. Refreshed for a change, I stepped down to familiar concrete, remapped the world about me and threaded my way through its parking lot, an alley and four blocks of closed stores.
    I satisfied myself that I was not being followed, entered an all-night diner and ate a strange-tasting meal. Strange, because the place was a greasy spoon and the food was deliciously different. I ate two of their notorious hamburgers and great masses of soggy French fries. A sheaf of wilted lettuce and several slices of overripe tomato added to the treat. I wolfed everything down, not really caring whether or not it satisfied all my nutritional needs. It was the finest meal I had ever eaten. Except for the milkshake. It was undrinkable and I left it.
    Then I walked. It was a good distance, but then I was in no hurry, I was rested and my posterior had had enough of public transportation for a time. It took the better part of an hour to reach the Woof & Warp, but it was a good night for walking.
    The shop was closed, of course, but I could see a light in Ralph's apartment upstairs. I went around back, shinnied up the drainpipe and peered in the window. He sat reading a book, and I could hear the faint sounds of a string quartet-I couldn't tell whose-from within. Good. That he was alone, I mean. I hate to break in on people.
    I rapped on the