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degrees without any real effort because it was the

economically sound thing to do, had strayed into the geologically-oriented

consultancy, and had taken it over when the owner retired. It had all been

so easy, so inevitable, yet vaguely dissatisfying. He had always enjoyed

making things, giving rein to the intelligence his hands appeared to

possess of their own right, but there seemed to be no time for that now.

Breton huddled in his overcoat, staring nostalgically out at the wet

black thoroughfares which were like canals cut through banks of soiled

snow. As the car gathered speed, white fluffy chunks of new snow broke

upwards from the front end, pounded silently on the windshield and swirled

away to the rear, disintegrating, vanishing. He tried to concentrate on

Hetty's words, but saw with dismay that a pinpoint of colored, shimmering

light had been born in the air ahead of him. Not now, he thought, rubbing

his eyes; but the flickering mote of brilliance was already beginning to

grow. Within a minute it was like a brand-new coin spinning, coruscating,

remaining in the center of the field of vision of his right eye no matter

which way he turned his head.

"I went over to your place this morning and turned the heat on," Hetty

said. "At least you'll be warm.

"Thanks," he said numbly. "You go to too much trouble over me.

The furtive shimmer was growing faster now, blocking out more of his

view, beginning to unfold its familiar patterns -- restless prismatic

geometries, marching, shifting, opening windows into alien dimensions.

Not now, he pleaded silently, I don't want to make a trip right now.

The optical phenomenon was something he had known since childhood.

It could happen at intervals of three months, or of a few days --

depending on his degree of mental stress -- and was generally preceded by

a feeling of unusual well-being. Once the euphoria was past, the zigzag

shimmering over the field of his right eye would begin, and that would be

followed by one of his inexplicable, frightening trips into the past.

The knowledge that each trip took only a fraction of a second of real

time, and that it must be some freak of memory, made its imminence no

easier to bear -- for the scenes he relived were never pleasant. Always,

they were segments of his life he would have preferred to forget, crisis

points. And it was not hard to guess the particular nightmare which was

likely to crop up in the future.

By the time the car reached his house, Breton was effectively blinded

on the right side by a beautiful blanket of color -- geometrical,

tremulous, prismatic -- which made it difficult for him to judge

distances accurately. He persuaded Hetty not to get out of the car,

waved to her as she moved off down the snow-covered drive, and fumbled

open the front door. With the door locked behind him he walked quickly

into the living room and sat down in a deep chair. The shimmering was at

its maximum, which meant it would withdraw quite abruptly at any moment,

and the trip to God-knows-where would be on. He waited. The vision in

his right eye began to clear, he tensed, and the room began to recede,

to distort, to exhibit strange perspectives. Ponderously, helplessly,

over the edge we go. . . .

Kate was walking away down the street, past blazing store windows.

With her silvered wrap drawn tight over the flimsy party dress, and long

legs slimmed even further by needle-heeled sandals, she looked like an

idealized screen version of a gangster's moll. ,The ambient brilliance

from the stores projected her solidly into his mind, jewel-sharp; then

he saw -- with a vast sense of wrongness -- three trees growing in the

center of the street beyond her, right in the traffic lanes, where no

trees had ever grown. They were elms, almost stripped of leaves, and

something about the configuration of their naked limbs made him want

to recoil in loathing. Their trunks, he realized, were insubstantial --

automobile