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in the reality of the events on the stage. It was time that he started thinking for himself.
    While he puzzled over this newest development, he watched the rain, the swaying pine trees, and the low clouds that scudded by close above them. He also watched the sparse traffic on the nearby highway a quarter of a mile to the right, and almost an hour passed before he realized that something was distinctly odd about those distant cars. Twenty minutes after that, he saw what it was: the same vehicles kept passing in their same relative positions, with the same number of seconds between their appearances. Eight different spurts of traffic passed, passed again, re-passed .
    . . The entire cycle took only six minutes to repeat itself. Then it began again. He watched it happen three times before he got out of his chair and opened the window.
    He reached out and touched the pine trees— which were only inches from the glass.
    He touched the tiny cars that sped past.
    He touched the highway.
    He touched the clouds.
    All of these things were back-projected images on a hologram screen which produced an illusion with a high degree of verisimilitude. If he shattered that screen, he knew he would find an automatic projector behind it.
    He remembered Harttle making some comment about the Twenty-third Century. Could that really be the case?
    But even if it were true, even if he were somehow in a future era, why all this deception?
    Closing the window he sat down and tried to imagine why they would attempt to fool him with false windows and fake scenery. Apparently, they had even constructed a fake house . . . It was all a stage of sorts, a performance . . . Did that mean that Henry Galing's hatred was also an act? Was the dust a prop, put on Harttle's hair to confuse Joel, sprinkled between Allison's breasts to make the mystery of this place even more inexplicable? It seemed that way, yet . . . That meant they wanted him to sense the hollowness of it. They wanted him to pick up on these clues. They wanted him to have doubts and to wonder and to fear them. Was that it? Was Allison—
    “Hey, you're cheating on your nap time, Mr. Amslow,” Allison said, pushing open the bedroom door with her hip. She was carrying his dinner tray.
    “Watching the rain,” he said.
    “Restful, isn't it?”
    “No.”
    “It isn't?”
    “It puzzles me,” he said.
    She looked quickly at the window, frowned, stared hard at him. Her nervousness was an act, an obvious performance. Why? “ Puzzles you?” she asked.
    “Never mind.”
    “Do you feel all right?” she asked.
    “Better than ever.”
    “You're sure?”
    He forced a smile. “Positive.”
    “I've brought your supper.” She grinned again. Her blue eyes seemed as large as half dollars, brighter than ever, as if the beauty of her own smile surprised her. “Your favorite dessert,” she said.
    “What's that?”
    She put the tray down and lifted the silver lid. “Apple pie with raisins.”
    And it figured.

V
    Joel waited until he knew that she was asleep before he got out of bed.
    For awhile there, when they had finished making love, he had seriously considered forgetting the whole thing. If he were being misled, it was for a good reason. Wasn't it? Had to be. How could Allison be engaged in anything sinister . . . ?
    However, when she grew drowsy and slept, leaving him alone with his thoughts, his determination to know the truth returned. He had been acting and reacting as if he were drugged or witless. Now, while the others were not up and about to keep tabs on him, he dressed quickly and quietly, opened the bedroom door, stepped into the dark second floor hallway, closed the door again without waking Allison.
    The house was quiet.
    Too quiet?
    He leaned against the wall for several minutes until his eyes adjusted to the darkness—and until he was certain that Allison was not going to get out of bed and follow him. Treading lightly and cautiously to avoid the loose floorboards under the carpet,