But before he could really worry about that, George noticed something else that shocked him to the core. The visitors, or whoever they were, men and women alike, wore short colorful tunics, with bare arms and legs everywhere flashing, and no one showed the slightest embarrassment. For a moment he wondered if he’d somehow traveled to some weird brothel. But no; the visitors obviously were staring at the room as if it were … a museum piece.

The invisible voice went on: “Who knows how many evenings The George spent back in those ancient times, experimenting with various states of consciousness until finally he came upon the Codicils? And without the Codicils, our world surely would not exist. Mankind’s beliefs to that point were so self-destructive that only annihilation could have resulted.”

“The george?” George felt dizzy again, and when he heard the word Codicils, more shocks went through his dream body. Every portion of his consciousness became super alert; the word seemed to fill his mind. Codicils….

More crackling sounds. Darkness, light. Then darkness. The next thing George knew, he snapped back to his body. Physically he was shouting, “The Codicils! The Codicils!” The sound of his own voice was so loud that it frightened him.

He looked around and checked the clock. It was 11 p.m. He was wide awake, and more excited than he could remember being in years. Quickly he put on his slippers, went out into the hall and down to the second floor. He opened the door to the western bedroom. Everything was the way it should be. His familiar bed sat there, empty. The gaslamps were in their accustomed places on the wall. He stroked his moustache and sighed. “Maybe the house is haunted,” he thought.

George Brainbridge the Third was thinking exactly the same thing as his grandfather closed the door. George woke up with his scalp prickling. He shook his head, bemused; he could have sworn that someone was in the room for a minute. Shit. He sat up, turned off the electric blanket which was set at its lowest summer temperature because the old house got damp even on the warmest nights, put his pants on over his naked body, plunged his feet into his shoes, and headed for the kitchen. He’d never experienced a crazier week in his life, he thought. He wished Jean and the kids were back so that life could become commonplace again.

The light was on. George heard voices. Shit again, he thought. All he wanted was a sandwich and a moment’s peace, and instead Seven must be talking to that damn Window, because now he heard voices clearly.

“What’s going on down here?” he called, with joking peevishness, as he approached the kitchen door.

Chapter Fourteen

Dire Probability

“Hi,” Seven said, brightly. “Who’s that with you? Window, Monarch, or Christ?” asked George, grinning.