Seconds Read Free

ended in a circular room furnished in the manner of a physician’s waiting room, with a sofa, a few chairs, and a table in the center where magazines were laid out. There were two doors side by side in the wall opposite the hallway entrance; one was marked “Staff Only.” In a moment, a plain-faced young woman in a white uniform entered through this door, bearing a tray on which rested a cup and saucer and a sandwich on a plate.
    â€œMr. Wilson? There will be a short wait, I’m afraid. Perhaps you would like to have some refreshment.”
    She set the tray on top of the magazines.
    â€œYes, thank you,” said Wilson. He glanced around for the guide, but the man had evidently completed his function, and his heavy figure was retreating down the hallway. However, Wilson was more interested in the contents of the tray, for he was accustomed to having had his lunch by this time, and so as soon as the young woman had withdrawn, he went to the table and ate the sandwich in quick bites, standing up. There was tea in the cup. He was mildly irked that the young woman had not supplied cream and sugar, but since she had gone and he was thirsty, he sipped it anyway. It was not too strong, although its aroma was strangely sour. Still, he imagined that it would revive him from his sleepiness, so he drank it down to the bottom.
    Then he realized that he was still wearing the coverall. That was no longer necessary, surely. He unzipped it, pulled his arms and legs free of its encumbering folds, and, having retrieved his Homburg from the sofa, where the guide had deposited it, felt much more himself again, although he knew that his face would still be dusty.
    He frowned at his wristwatch. It was nearly a quarter to two. By the time he had met whoever it was that would represent this firm, and had had an opportunity to find out something about the operations involved in the business, it would be much too late to return to the office. He would need to call in, however. He glanced about. There was no telephone in sight, not even a receptionist, nothing but the two doors, which he had better not go wandering through, for fear of being absent when they called for him.
    No matter. He selected a magazine and sat down on the sofa to wait. Oddly enough, the tea had not perked him up at all, for he felt drowsier than ever, and fell to yawning almost uncontrollably. For a few moments he resisted what was rapidly becoming an overwhelming urge to sleep, and then he slumped back to accept what seemed to be the inevitable demands of weariness.
    There followed the most remarkable experience of his life. At the time, and immediately thereafter, it seemed to be a dream, but a dream of the utmost clarity, and with disturbing physical sensations of reality. His head ached with a steady pain, and his vision was peculiarly affected, for although he witnessed the events which took place, everything appeared to occur in a milky vapor, as if his eyes were literally clouded.
    First, unseen persons helped him to his feet and ushered him out of the waiting room into what seemed to be a boudoir, dominated by a massive four-poster bed. He could not see the entire room, for he felt unable to turn his head, but he did not think there was a window, which seemed to him as odd as the fact that a bedroom would adjoin the waiting room.
    As he stood surveying what lay before him, lights began to blink at him and he heard the murmur of voices nearby, although he could see no one, and despite his preoccupation with his headache he thought he detected fingers plucking at his clothing, and hands jostling him slightly this way and that. Even so, he not only was powerless to move of his own accord, but also was without the desire to do so, and blankly accepted the fingers, hands, voices, and lights as further properties of what he imagined to be a dream.
    The bed drew closer. He seemed to be at its very edge. He perceived that it was not empty, but was in fact