A brown-faced man was leaning over the bed. He was wearing a white smock and had a fountain pen in the breast pocket. Beyond the man—the doctor—there was a window. A perfectly ordinary window, through which Regan could see the sky. A blue sky with white clouds in it.
The doctor smiled at Regan and said in English: "How do you feel, son?"
Regan tried to speak but couldn't.
"This is Bombay," the doctor said. "Bombay, in India. It must be quite a surprise to you, but I'm glad to say you'll be all right."
"What?" Regan asked vaguely.
"It's strange, of course," said the doctor. "You should be on the other side of the world, by all that's natural. We communicated with the American authorities when we saw your identification. It is extremely odd. Still, here you are, and you will be well. Quite soon, too."
"But—" Regan began. Then he gave up. He said nothing more until after he'd eaten and slept and the doctor asked him if he felt strong enough now to see the reporters.
"Two more, sir?" the bartender at the Palmer House asked.
I nodded.