A measure of confidence returned to Sharp. “It isn’t hard to understand a falling fear, under the circumstances. Considering what happened to me … Shakily, he started to his feet. And screamed shrilly.

“What is it?” Humphrys demanded, hastily coming over and grabbing hold of his arm. Sharp leaped violently away, staggered, and collapsed inertly in the chair. “What happened?”

Face working, Sharp managed: “I can’t get up.”

“What?”

“I can’t stand up.” Imploringly, he gazed up at the analyst, stricken and terrified. “I’m—afraid I’ll fall. Doctor, now I can’t even get to my feet.”

For an interval neither man spoke. Finally, his eyes on the floor, Sharp whispered: “The reason I came to you, Humphrys, is because your office is on the ground floor. That’s a laugh, isn’t it? I couldn’t go any higher.”

“We’re going to have to turn the lamp back on you,” Humphrys said.

“I realize it. I’m scared.” Gripping the arms of the chair, he continued: “Go ahead. What else can we do? I can’t leave here. Humphrys, this thing is going to kill me.”

“No, it isn’t.” Humphrys got the lamp into position. “We’ll get you out of this. Try to relax; try to think of nothing in particular.” Clicking the mechanism on, he said softly: “This time I don’t want the traumatic incident itself. I want the envelope of experience that surrounds it. I want the broader segment of which it’s a part.”

Paul Sharp walked quietly through the snow. His breath, in front of him, billowed outward and formed a sparkling cloud of white. To his left lay the jagged ruins of what had been buildings. The ruins, covered with snow, seemed almost lovely. For a moment he paused, entranced.

“Interesting,” a member of his research team observed, coming up. “Could be anything—absolutely anything—under there.”

“It’s beautiful, in a way,” Sharp commented.

“See that spire?” The young man pointed with one heavily gloved finger; he still wore his lead-shielded suit. He and his group had been poking around the still-contaminated crater. Their boring bars were lined up in an orderly row. “That was a church,” he informed Sharp. “A nice one, by the looks of it. And over there—” he indicated an indiscriminate jumble of ruin—“that was the main civic center.”

“The city wasn’t directly hit, was it?” Sharp asked.

“It was bracketed. Come on down and see what we’ve run into. The crater to our right—“

“No, thanks,” Sharp said, pulling back with intense aversion. “I’ll let you do the crawling around.”

The youthful expert glanced curiously at Sharp, then forgot the matter. “Unless we run into something unexpected, we should be able to start reclamation within a week. The first step, of course, is to clear off the slag-layer. It’s fairly well cracked—a lot of plant growth has perforated it, and natural decay has reduced a great deal of it to semi-organic ash.”

“Fine,” Sharp said, with satisfaction. “I’ll be glad to see something here again, after all these years.”

The expert asked: “What was it like before the war? I never saw that; I was born after the destruction began.”

“Well,” Sharp said, surveying the fields of snow, “this was a thriving agricultural center. They grew grapefruit here. Arizona grapefruit. The Roosevelt Dam was along this way.”

“Yes,” the expert said, nodding. “We located the remnants of it.”

“Cotton was grown here. So was lettuce, alfalfa, grapes, olives, apricots—the thing I remember most, the time I came through Phoenix with my family, was the eucalyptus trees.”

“We won’t have all that back,” the expert said regretfully. “What the heck—eucalyptus? I never heard of that.”

“There aren’t any left in the United States,” Sharp said. “You’d have to go to Australia.”

Listening, Humphrys jotted down a notation. “Okay,” he said aloud, switching off the lamp. “Come back, Sharp.”

With a grunt, Paul Sharp blinked and opened his eyes. “What—” Struggling up, he yawned, stretched, peered blankly around the office. “Something about reclamation. I was supervising a team of recon men. A young kid.”

“When did you reclaim Phoenix?” Humphrys asked. “That seems to be included in the vital time-space segment.”

Sharp frowned. “We never reclaimed Phoenix. That’s still projected. We hope to get at it sometime in the next year.”

“Are you positive?”

“Naturally. That’s my job.”

“I’m going to have to send you back,” Humphrys said, already reaching for the lamp.

“What happened?”

The lamp came on. “Relax,” Humphrys instructed briskly, a trifle too briskly for a man supposed to know exactly what he was doing. Forcing himself to slow down, he said carefully: “I want your perspective to broaden. Take in an earlier incident, one preceding the Phoenix reclamation.”

In an inexpensive cafeteria in the business district, two men sat facing each other across a table.

“I’m sorry,” Paul Sharp said, with impatience. “I’ve got to get back to my work.” Picking up his cup of ersatz coffee, he gulped the contents down.

The tall, thin man carefully pushed away his empty dishes and, leaning back, lit a cigar.

“For two years,” Giller said bluntly, “you’ve been giving us the runaround. Frankly, I’m a little tired of it.”

“Runaround?” Sharp had started to rise. “I don’t get your drift.”

“You’re going to reclaim an agricultural area—you’re going to tackle Phoenix. So don’t tell me you’re sticking to industrial. How long do you imagine those people are going to keep on living? Unless you reclaim their farms and lands—”

“What people?”

Harshly, Giller said: “The people living at Petaluma. Camped around the craters.”

With vague dismay, Sharp murmured: “I didn’t realize there was anybody living there. I thought you all headed for the nearest reclaimed regions, San Francisco and Sacramento.”

“You never read the petitions we presented,” Giller said softly.

Sharp colored. “No, as a matter of fact. Why should I? If there’re people camping in the slag, it doesn’t alter the basic situation; you should leave, get out of there. That area is through.” He added: “I got out.”

Very quietly, Giller said: “You would have stuck around if you’d farmed there. If your family had farmed there for over a century. It’s different from running a drug store. Drug stores are the same everywhere in the world.”

“So are farms.”

“No,” Giller said dispassionately. “Your land, your family’s land, has a unique feeling. We’ll keep on camping there until we’re dead or until you decide to reclaim.” Mechanically collecting the checks, he finished: “I’m sorry for you, Paul. You never had roots like we have. And I’m sorry you can’t be made to understand.” As he reached into his coat for his wallet, he asked: “When can you fly out there?”

“Fly!” Sharp echoed, shuddering. “I’m not flying anywhere.”

“You’ve got to see the town again. You can’t decide without having seen those people, seen how they’re living.”

“No,” Sharp said emphatically. “I’m not flying out there. I can decide on the basis of reports.”

Giller considered. “You’ll come,” he declared.

“Over my dead body!”

Giller nodded. “Maybe so. But you’re going to come. You can’t let us die without looking at us. You’ve got to have the courage to see what it is you’re doing.” He got out a pocket calendar and scratched a mark by one of the dates. Tossing it across the table to Sharp, he informed him: “We’ll come by your office and pick you up. We have the plane we flew down here. It’s mine. It’s a sweet ship.”

Trembling, Sharp examined the calendar. And, standing over his mumbling, supine patient, so did Humphrys.

He had been right. Sharp’s traumatic incident, the repressed material, didn’t lie in the past.

Sharp was suffering from a phobia based on an event six months in the future.