His answer was a great, cloudy bubble that sprang from nowhere about him. The Council vanished behind its milky haze. There was a brief sensation of motion, and after that—nothing.
He was in the void of his dreams again, imprisoned in darkness. But there was a difference—the dull globe of Earth spun faint and misty, half-seen through an obscuring curtain. A smooth, hypnotic thought-current flowed into his mind from the adjuster, commanding him, warring with the half-sensed truth that still sought his awareness.
"You are Arnol Heric, overseer of cereal plantings. You have had no disturbing dreams. Forget, Arnol Heric. There is no need for alarm...."
There was a long struggle before his will fought clear, and he knew that the Leader's fear of being too late had been realized. The pitted Earth-sphere grew plain, the desolate city sharpened and drew near. He walked the thronged streets and turned his face toward the east, and this time he did not repulse the truth when it lay before him.
There was a silent room where a figure reclined laxly in a chair made massive by its crystal maze of shining coils. Two guards flanked the chair watchfully, and in it sat—
Himself.
Anger shook him like a terrible wind, without warning. It was all a monstrous farce, then—he was the center of it all, and they had hidden him in his overseer's niche to blind him to reality.
He opened his eyes in the adjuster, pushing the futile thought-current from his mind. The guards stiffened at his movement, their silver shock-cones ready.