on a small table, like an operating table; the whole place looked like a
medical lab or a clinic. He was still in uniform; his boots had soiled
the white sheets with the dust of Armenia. He had all his equipment,
including his pistol and combat-knife; his carbine was gone, however. He
could feel the weight of his helmet on his head. The room still rocked
and swayed a little, but the faces of the people were coming into focus.

* * * * *

He counted them, saying each number to himself: one, two, three, four,
five men; one woman. He swung his feet over the edge of the table, being
careful that it would be between him and the others when he rose, and
began inching his right hand toward his right hip, using his left hand,
on his brow, to misdirect attention.

"I would classify his actions as arising from conscious effort at
cortico-thalamic integration," the woman said, like an archaeologist who
has just found a K-ration tin at the bottom of a neolithic
kitchen-midden. She had the peculiarly young-old look of the spinster
teachers with whom Benson had worked before going to the war.

"I want to believe it, but I'm afraid to," another man for whom Benson
had no name-association said. He was portly, gray-haired,
arrogant-faced; he wore a short black jacket with a jewelled
zipper-pull, and striped trousers.

Benson cleared his throat. "Just who are you people?" he inquired. "And
just where am I?"

Anthony grabbed Gregory's hand and pumped it frantically.