The two had played practical jokes on him before. He grinned. This was probably one of their special five-day jobs, designed to make him into a shattered wreck by Friday so Sarah could duck him on Saturday and get by with it.
Joe repeated the syllables aloud, trying to make some sense out of them:
"Hone you-arnel."
Instantly he was on his feet fighting, his lips raving silently. His big chair tipped back and fell over to the floor.
A furious, icily cold intrusion was being made upon his mind. He stood with feet planted on either side of the overturned chair and threw the force off but it came back again and again. The office was suddenly oppressive and stifling, and the objects about him were small and crystal clear, as if seen through the wrong end of a hand galaxiscope. The churning, utterly loathsome invasion surged up like a wave roaring against a reef—and fell back and away in horrible desperation.
From a million miles away he heard—or felt—a voice. It said: "Uarnl—yes, Uarnl!" and it said other things, raging things, that Joe could not understand.
Then it was gone. As suddenly as it had come. The office regained its normal perspective. The bright sunlight, reflected now from the tall buildings across the Great Canal, erased the ragged, black hole out of his consciousness.
Painfully he righted the chair and sank into it. His lungs felt pressed in and stale, like the inside of a folded blanket. He took a deep breath, shoved his wet palms hard at the top of the desk.
Uarnl. The nightmare.