— Agencies, Rachmael thought caustically, which I've already come up against head-on. Trails of Hoffman Limited, with Sepp von Einem and his Telpor device, and his Schweinfort labs. I wonder, he thought, what has come out of those labs lately. What has Gregory Gloch, the renegade UN wep-x sensation, thrashed together for his employers' use? And is it already avail­able to them? If it was, they had no need for it as yet; their mainstays, their conventional constructs, seemed to serve adequately; the necessity for some bizarre, quasi-genius, quasi-psychotic, if that fairly delineated Gloch, did not appear to be yet at hand... but, he realized somberly, it had to be presumed that Gloch's contribution had long ago evolved to the stage of tac­tical utility: when needed, it would be available.

"It would seem to me," Gretchen Borbman said to him, evidently more calm, now, more composed, "that this rather dubious 'reality' which we as a body share — I'm speaking in particular, of course, of that obnoxious Omar Jones creature, that caricature of a political leader — has damn little to recommend it. Do you feel loyalty to it, Mr. ben Applebaum?" She surveyed him critically, her eyes wise and searching. "If it did yield to a different framework — " Now she was speaking to all of them, the entire class crowded into the kitchen. "Would that be so bad? The paraworld you saw, Para-world Blue. Was that so much worse, really?"

"Yes," Rachmael said. It was unnecessary to com­ment further; certainly no one else in the tense, over-packed room needed to be convinced — the expressions on their strained faces ratified his recognition. And he saw, now, why their unified apprehension and animos­ity toward Gretchen Borbman signified an overwhelm­ing, ominous approaching entity: her exposure before the all-absorbing scanner of the computer in no sense represented one more repetition of the mind-analysis which had taken place routinely with the others in the past. Gretchen already knew the contents of her paraworld. Her reaction had come long ago, and in her manner now consisted, for the others in the group, a clear index of what that paraworld represented, which of the designated categories it fell into. Obviously, it was a decidedly familiar one — to her and to the group as a whole.

"Perhaps," the curly-haired youth said acidly, "Gretch might be less entranced with Paraworld Blue if she had undergone a period stuck in it, like you did, Mr. ben Applebaum; what do you say to that?" He watched Rachmael closely, scrutinizing him in anticipation of his response; he obviously expected to see it, rather than hear it uttered. "Or could she have already done that, Mr. ben Applebaum? Do you think you could tell if she had? By that I mean, would there be any indication, a permanent — " He searched for the words he wanted, his face working.

"Alteration," Hank Szantho said.

Gretchen Borbman said, "I'm quite satisfactorily an­chored in reality, Szantho; take my word for it. Are you? Every person in this room is just as involved in an involuntary subjective psychotic fantasy-superimposition over the normal frame of reference as I am; some of you possibly even more so. I don't know. Who knows what takes place in other people's minds? I frankly don't care to judge; I don't think I can." She deliberately and with superbly controlled unflinching dispassion returned the remorseless animosity of the ring of persons around her. "Maybe," she said, "you ought to re-examine the structure of the 'reality' you think's in jeopardy. Yes, the TV set." Her voice, now, was harsh, overwhelming in its caustic vigor. "Go in there, look at it; look at that dreadful parody of a president — is that what you prefer to — "

"At least," Hank Szantho said, "it's real."

Eying him, Gretchen said, "Is it?" Sardonically, she smiled; it was a totally inhumane smile, and it was di­rected to all of them; he saw it sweep the room, wither­ing into dryness the accusing circle of her group-members — he saw them palpably retreat. It did not in­clude him, however; conspicuously, Gretchen exempted him, and he felt the potency, the meaning of her deci­sion to leave him out: he was not like the others and she knew it and so did he, and it meant something, a great deal. And he thought, I know what it means. She does, too.

Just the two of us, he thought; Gretchen Borbman and I — and for a good reason. Alteration, he thought. Hank Szantho is right.

Tilting Gretchen Borbman's face he contemplated her eyes, the expression in them; he studied her for an unmeasured time, during which she did not stir: she re­turned, silently, without blinking, his steady, probing, analytical penetration of her interior universe... neither of them stirred, and it began to appear to him, gradually, as if a melting, opening entrance had replaced the unyielding and opaque coloration of her pupils; all at once the variegated luminous matrices within which her substance seemed to lodge expanded to receive him — dizzy, he half-fell, caught himself, then blinked and righted himself; no words had passed be­tween them, and yet he understood, now; he had been right. It was true.

He rose, walked unsteadily away; he found himself entering the living room with its untended blaring TV set — the thing dominated the room with its howls and shrieks, warping the window drapes, walls and carpets, the once-attractive ceramic lamps... he sensed and witnessed the deformity imposed by the crushing din of the TV set with its compulsively hypomanic dwarfed and stunted figure, now gesticulating in a speeded-up frenzy, as if the video technicians had allowed — or induced — the tape to seek its maximum velocity.

At sight of him the image, the Omar Jones thing, stopped. Warily, as if surprised, it regarded him — at least seemed to; impossibly, the TV replica of the colony president fixed its attention as rigidly on him as he in return found himself doing. Both of them, caught in an instinctive, fully alert vigil, neither able to look away even for a fraction of an instant... as if, Rachmael thought, our lives, the physical preservation of both of us, has cataclysmically and without warning become jeopardized.

And neither of us, he realized as he stared un­winkingly at the TV image of Omar Jones, can escape; we're both snared. Until or unless one of us can — can do what?

Blurred, now, as he felt himself sink into numbed fatigue, the two remorseless eyes of the TV figure began to blend. The eyes shifted, came together, superimposed until all at once, locked, they became a clearly defined single eye the intensity of which appalled him; a wet, smoldering greatness that attracted light from every source, drew illumination and authority from every

direction and dimension, confronted him, and any possibility of looking away now was gone.

From behind him Gretchen Borbman's voice sounded. "You see, don't you? Some of the paraworlds are — " She hesitated, perhaps wanting to tell him in such a manner as to spare him; she wanted him to know, but with the least pain possible. " — hard to detect at first," she finished, gently. Her hand, soothing, com­forting, rested on his shoulder; she was drawing him away from the image on the TV screen, the oozing cy­clopean entity that had ceased its speeded-up harangue and, in silence, emanated in his direction its diseased malevolence.

"This one," Rachmael managed to say hoarsely, "has a description, too? A code-identification?"

"This," Gretchen said, "is reality."

"Paraworld Blue — "

Turning him around by physical force to face her, Gretchen said, stricken, " 'Paraworld Blue'? Is that what you see? On the TV screen? I don't believe it — the aquatic cephalopod with one working eye? No; I just don't believe it."

Incredulous, Rachmael said, "I... thought you saw it. Too."

"No!" She shook her head violently, her face now hardened, masklike; the change in her features came to him initially, in the first particle of a second, as a mere idea — and then the actual jagged carving of old, shred­ding wood replaced the traditional, expected flesh, wood burned, carbonized as if seared both to injure it and to create fright in him, the beholder: an exaggerated travesty of organic physiognomy that grimaced in a fluidity, a mercury-like flux so that the irreal emotions revealed within the mask altered without cease, some­times, as he watched, several manifesting themselves at once and merging into a configuration of affect which could not exist in any human — nor could it be read.