Darkness closed around him. And from a distance even greater than before, he sensed an anguished chiming, stunned, broken.
"A trick! It was just a trick!"
Someone was shaking his shoulder roughly and insistently. He strained away in dull protest, groping blindly for the fragile ethereal thread that had slipped from him.
"Come on, snap out of it!" an impatient voice growled.
He forced open his eyes, then squeezed them shut again as the beam of a flashlight struck them. His awareness sharpened. He struggled to sit up, felt grass under his fingers, and realized abruptly that he was back in the park.
Hands that were not gentle caught him under his armpits and helped raise him to his feet. He saw the figures of two men now, one of them in police uniform. This man held a gun, its muzzle pointed in silent threat.
"All right, cop-killer," the man in the suit said. He had a detective's unemotional face and flat hard eyes. Something bright glinted in his hands as he leaned close—and Bryan felt the cold steel of handcuffs close around his wrists.
"Let's go," the detective said, then. "We've got about two-dozen men combing the park for you, friend. They won't like to be kept on the job for nothing. Pete and I were just lucky enough to get to you first."
Rough hands gripped Bryan's arms, pulled him into motion. He walked leadenly, unsteadily, the two men flanking him. His body was clammy with the perspiration that had bathed him in sleep. He felt exhausted, weak, sick, as though from some tremendous labor. The energy of his body, it seemed, had been heavily drawn upon in order to sustain the projection of himself in Leeta's aspect.