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. . . sleep.
"Thorby, you are asleep but you can hear me. You can answer."
"Yes, Pop."
"You will stay asleep until I tell you to wake. But you will be able to answer any question I ask."
"Yes, Pop."
"You remember the ship that brought you here. What was its name?"
"The Merry Widow. Only that wasn't what we called it."
"You remember getting into that ship. Now you are in it -- you can see it. You remember all about it. Now go back to where you were when you went aboard."
The boy stiffened without waking. "I don't want to!"
"I'll be right with you. You'll be safe. Now what is the name of the place? Go back to it. Look at it."
An hour and a half later Baslim still squatted beside the sleeping boy. Sweat poured down wrinkles in his face and he felt badly shaken. To get the boy back to the time he wanted to explore it had been necessary to force him back through experiences disgusting even to Baslim, old and hardened as he was. Repeatedly Thorby had fought against it, nor could Baslim blame him -- he felt now that he could count the scars on the boy's back and assign a villain to each.
But he had achieved his purpose; to delve farther back than the boy's waking memory ran, back into his very early childhood, and at last to the traumatic moment when the baby manchild had been taken from his parents.
He left the boy in deep coma while he collected his shattered thoughts
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