thought. He looked around the sunlit office, the neat desks and busy men and girls, with a flash of derisive superiority.
"You may none of you be real at all," he thought. "You may all just be part of Khal Kan's nightly dream."
That was always a queer thought, that idea that Earth and all its people, including himself, were just a dream of the prince of Jotan.
"I wish to heaven I knew," Henry muttered baffledly for the thousandth time. "There must be some way to find out which is real."
Yet he could see no test that would give proof. He had thought of and had tried many things during his life, to test the matter.
Several times, he had stayed up all night without sleep. He had thought that if he did not sleep and hence did not dream, it would break the continuity of the dreamlife of Khal Kan.
But it had had no effect. For when he finally did sleep, and dreamed that he awoke as Khal Kan, it merely seemed to Khal Kan that he had dreamed he was Henry Stevens, staying up a night without sleep—that he had dreamed two days and a night of the unreal life of Henry Stevens.
No, that had failed as a test. Nor was there any other way. If he could be sure that while he was sleeping and living the dream-life of Khal Kan, the rest of Earth remained real—that would solve the problem.
The other people of Earth were sure they had remained in existence during his sleep. But, if they were all just figments of dream, their certainty of existence was merely part of the dream.
It was maddening, this uncertainty! He felt that it would drive him to insanity if the puzzle persisted much longer. Yet how was he to solve the riddle?
"Maybe a good psychoanalyst," Henry thought doubtfully. "A fellow like that might be able to help."
He shrank from his own idea. It would mean telling the psychoanalyst all about his dream-life. And that was something he had not done for years, not since he was a small boy.
When he was a boy, Henry Stevens had confidendy told his family and chums all about his strange dreams—how each night when he slept he was another boy, the boy Khal Kan in Jotan, on the world Thar. He had told them in detail of his life as Khal Kan, of the wonderful black city Jotan, of the red sun and the two pink moons.
His parents had at first laughed at his stories, then had become worried, and finally had forbidden him to tell any more such falsehoods. They had put it all down to a too-vivid imagination.
And his boyhood chums had jeered at his tales, admiring his ability as a liar but rudely expressing their opinions when he had earnestly maintained that he did dream it all, every night.
So Henry had learned not to tell of his dream-life. He had kept that part of his life locked away, and even Emma had never heard of it.
"But still, if a psychoanalyst could help me find out which is real," he thought desperately, "it'd be worth trying—"
That afternoon when his work was finished, Henry found himself entering the offices of a Doctor Willis Thorn whom he had heard of as the best psychoalanlyst in the city. He had made an appointment by telephone.
Doctor Thorn was a solidly built man of forty, with the body of a football player, and calm, friendly eyes. He listened with quiet attention as Henry Stevens, slowly at first and then more eagerly, poured out his story.
"And you say the dream continues log-
