Reality was all over me in patches. I showed through as a line drawing, crudely done, a cartoon.
Some kind of projection. High-test Cinerama, that was all reality meant.
I was kneeling on a hard surface no more than six feet from the window from which I had fallen. It was still fourteen flights up, more or less, but Down was broken and splattered over me.
I stood up, moving forward a step.
It brought me halfway through the screen, halfway through the wall at the base of the building. The other side of the screen. The solid side, I found, stepping through, bracing a hand on the image.
Looking up fourteen floors, I saw an unbroken line of peacefully closed panes.
I remembered riding up in the elevator, the moments inside, the faint feeling of vertigo. Of course, who was to say the elevator really moved? Maybe they had only switched scenery on me while I was caught inside, listening to the phony hum, seeing the flashing lights. Either cut down or increase the oxygen supply inside the cubicle suddenly and that would contribute a sensation of change, of movement. They had it all worked out.
My fingers rubbed my head briskly, both hands working, trying to get some circulation in my brain.
I guessed I had to run. There didn't seem much else to do.