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had intended, and he missed the fact that Tylar had omitted to answer his final question. For the sense of recognition was back, this time with the force of certainty.
    "May I sit down, Admiral? I'm afraid I'm not as young as I once was." Evidently taking assent for granted, Tylar lowered himself into a chair. Feeling slightly foolish, Sarnac followed suit. As he did so, he subvocalized a code which would bring a Security team. There was no acknowledgment. He frowned with a puzzled annoyance which Tylar's gentle smile did nothing to ameliorate. Could the man read his mind?
    He forced patience on himself. "All right, Tylar. Tell me what you're doing here."
    "I'm here in connection with a matter of mutual interest, Admiral: the dreams that have been troubling you."
    There was a long moment of absolute silence. "What are you talking about?" Sarnac finally managed.
    "Come, now. We both know. And we also know that you need help. I'm here to offer it."
    "Why should you want to?"
    "A matter of ethics, Admiral. I'm fulfilling a moral obligation. You see, I'm responsible for the fact that you're having the dreams." Tylar raised a forestalling hand as Sarnac's mouth started to open. "Let me hasten to add that this result was entirely unintended on my part. The fault lies with an inherently fallible process—to wit, selective memory erasure. I'm afraid yours simply didn't take very well. This became clear upon your return to the Solar System fifteen years ago, when you rendezvoused with the battlecruiser Excalibur ."
    Sarnac was in the process of signalling Security to send medical personnel as well—for Tylar clearly was raving mad in a calm, professorial sort of way—and wondering why he was still getting no acknowledgment, when the stranger's last sentence brought him up short. It had been years since he'd thought of that rendezvous, at the conclusion of his uneventful voyage from Sirius. But now the memories came flooding back, bearing with them the certain knowledge that there was a connection with the dreams.
    It had been customary in those days to decorate the wardrooms of Sword-class battlecruisers with murals illustrating the legends of the blades after which the ships were named. Excalibur 's wardroom had been adorned with a painting of Sir Bedivere throwing his dying king's magical sword into the water, to be caught by the Lady of the Lake. He had no clear recollection of what the sight of that mural on the comm pickup had awakened in him. All he could remember was regaining consciousness in Tiraena's arms and being asked what he had meant about the artist not having gotten things right, and about the sun having blinded him. . . .
    . . . The flash of reflected sunlight, strangely dazzling considering that the blade had been encrusted with dried mud and gore . . . He shook himself free of the maddening half-memories. Tylar was smiling his irritatingly gentle smile.
    "Yes, I see that you remember. It was just one of those things. No one could have foreseen that out of the entire Solar Union fleet you'd be met by that particular battlecruiser! I suspect it was that instant of recollection that prevented the unavoidable mnemonic residue from dissipating over time as it usually does, crowded out by the press of day-to-day sensory impressions—"
    "Wait a minute, Tylar! Talk sense!"
    "Believe me, Admiral, everything will become clear after it has been adequately explained . . . for which purpose, I must ask you to accompany me."
    "What? Look, Tylar, I admit you've displayed knowledge that requires me to take you seriously. But I can't just go off with you to God knows where! In case you hadn't noticed, we've got a war on here—and I, God help me, am the on-scene commander! I don't know if a sense of duty has any place in your value system, but—"
    "Be assured, Admiral, that the twin concepts of 'honor' and 'duty' are basic to my culture—as they must be to any culture which lasts long enough to contribute to that