He followed, and followed.
They were a hundred people doing a hundred things. They lingered a few moments as a teen-age couple holding hands in the twilight of the beach. They fled from a room where Chandler was an old woman dying on a bed, and Rosalie a stolid, uncaring nurse beside her. They played follow-the-leader through the audience of a Honolulu movie theater, and sought each other, laughing, among the fish stalls of King Street. Then Chandler turned to Rosalie to speak and ... it all went out ... the scene disappeared ... he opened his eyes, and he was back in his own flesh.
He was lying on the pastel pile rug in Rosalie's bedroom.
He got up, rubbing the side of his face. He had tumbled, it seemed. Rosalie was lying on the bed.
In a moment she opened her eyes.
"Well, love?"
He said hoarsely, "What made it stop?"
She shrugged. "Koitska turned you off. Tired of monitoring us, I expect—it's been an hour. I'm surprised his patience lasted this long."