"Plain case of wish fulfillment. Put it down to poltergeists, Mr. Jones."
"And what exactly do you mean by that?"
"Well, now," Dr. Doogle said, drumming his fat fingers, "I don't think we need to go into technicalities, Mr. Jones."
"Look," I said firmly. "I came to you to get a quiet night's sleep. No more insomnia, you said, leave your problems in the laboratory, let not the nucleii banish sleep, work hard, sleep hard, take tranquilizers and enjoy the useful recuperation of the daily wear on body tissues, deep dreamless sleep of the innocent."
He look at me suspiciously.
"It sounds like the sort of advice I might have given," he admitted.
"Well, at least I managed to keep my dreams in my head until I started your treatment. I have an urgent problem to solve that vitally affects national security. I can't have this sort of thing happening in the middle of an experiment."
I pointed to the fried egg on my shoe and shook it off on the pile of his green carpet.
"Yes. Well," he said, peering over the desk at it. "If you feel that strongly, Mr. Jones, perhaps you'd better give up the diet and just take the pills."
"I want to know how it happens," I said, and I settled firmly into the consulting chair.