"Yelling?" he said bewilderedly. His fingers began to unconsciously perform on the chair arm. "I don't know. Was I yelling?"
Sarah was in Joe's arms, her blue-black hair sending its aching fragrance into his nostrils. "Joe," she whispered, "Joe, what happened?"
He tipped back her head, ran a finger over her smooth, brown forehead. Hypnosis—to paralyze and freeze him, to weaken him. He drew her face against his shoulder again.
What had happened? What would those Psychologists back in Iowa say if this story ever reached their ears? The barrier?—the "some sort of block" in my mind, my freakish mind, that keeps out Projectors—and Aarnians?
"Kent," he said, "fix us all some drinks. Lieutenant Smith's got a story to tell us—about that picnic."