“I didn’t know anybody had gaslights no more,” Gregory murmured, staring at them. “And that outfit; man, where are you at?” He was feeling a bit more confident now, because George had put the gun aside, though it was still within his easy reach.

“Don’t either of you see or hear me at all?” Seven asked, looking into George’s face.

“You got everything back,” Gregory stammered. “I was just gonna sell the stuff.”

“Open your mouth,” George demanded.

“What?”

“Open your mouth,” George said. “Your breath smells: There’s something wrong in there. A man’s house is his castle, you young whippersnapper. Don’t you know that? Open wider!”

“You gonna torture me?” Gregory cried. “You’re some kind of pervert. Oh, Jesus.” He was near tears.

Oversoul Seven gave up. He sat down in the corner as George shouted, “Hell, no. I’m a man of good will when I’m not crossed. Look at that! What kind of meals do you eat anyhow? Your gums are a mess.”

“My gums?” Gregory gasped. It was hard to talk with George’s fingers in his mouth, and Gregory still wasn’t sure the guy wasn’t going to pull his teeth out by the roots or something.

“Come from a poor family, do you?” George demanded.

“Uh.”

“Nobody’s all bad. That’s my policy,” George said, warming up to the subject.

“This is no time for a sermon!” Oversoul Seven yelled, but George didn’t hear him.

Catching on, Gregory Diggs said sadly, “Very poor family. We don’t have nothing.” But he was feeling more sure of himself now that he had a handle on George. A bleeding heart liberal was a pushover.

Testing, Oversoul Seven tried to pick up a pair of scissors from a small table. His hands went through them. But the thief had a body—and he was from the twentieth century. Seven had to figure out how George and the thief could see each other at all.

“This will make you feel better,” said George, taking a bottle from a drawer. He took the top off and the smell of cloves almost took Seven’s breath away.

“Hey!” Gregory cried but George smeared some all over his gums, the competent fingers pressing in, so that Gregory shrank back in the chair. He was thoroughly scared again. Here he was in a dentist’s chair like one he’d never seen before—with a gaslight shining in his face—and the pressure from some nutty dentist’s fingers driving his gums mad. Besides he felt saliva gathering all over his mouth and his eyes stung. “Tender, huh!” George said.

Seven was getting panicky. He didn’t seem to be able to affect either environment, and his own body felt strange and disconnected.

Chapter Six

A Challenge of Probabilities