Please examine the following text, then analyze Chapter 4:

WEIRD DREAMS

Chapter One

Day broke over Plymouth, bringing a slow grey sky, damp morose streets and damp morose milkmen, finished off by a minor surge in the electricity supply as quarter of a million clock radios turned on to the early morning show.

Waking up is hard to do, thought Steve. Radio playing, birds singing, Monday morning. He sighed, turned over, and without opening his eyes hit the radio right on the snooze button. That'd teach it. Another five minutes wouldn't hurt...

But radios are made of sterner stuff. Five minutes later, unbowed by such early morning violence, it resumed its unspeakable pop. Which turned, in time, unto unpalatable news. Yawn... He really should get up now, or he'd have to run for the bus again. Strange - his usual warm sleepiness was mixed with something else...

Two records after the news. He really had to get up now. Least disgusting pair of boxer shorts, that shirt would do for today, and into the bathroom to shave his teeth... breakfast, paper and irresponsible TV weathermen later, Steve had diagnosed his problem.

He was feeling a bit peaky, as his mum would've said had she not been living in North Dakota. Nothing worse than that. Still, Steve mused, perhaps he was coming down with the flu. Perhaps he ought to get something for it. To really get Monday going, among the junk mail was a note from his dentist reminding him of his six-monthly checkup. Which was, he noticed, tomorrow. Super.

He ran for the bus, went upstairs and he read the paper, then trudged the ten minute walk from stop to work. Wet pavements and grey skies - it wasn't actually raining, but that was only a matter of time - did nothing to remove his malaise. In the office, he mentioned his lack of well-being to Emily, a bright girl in the postroom he'd got his eye on. He had often wondered whether he should ask her out but, just as often, decided not to. Never know, keep the friendship going and who knows what might happen? He'd never noticed, which was a bit insensitive on his part, that Emily was bored with life. More importantly, and this really wasn't his fault, he'd never noticed that she was a bored daemon. One of those mythical creatures who spend their eternal lives pushing misery, evil and discord.

Emily hadn't started out as a daemon, few people do; her body had been possessed by the spirit Zelloripus as she waited out her punishment. Three thousand years ago, Zelloripus had been banished from the Central Circle of the court of Asklarioum in Chael for a crime against fellow daemons. A crime so despicable that, had it worked, she would have challenged the Great One herself.

Given human form and stripped of many of her daemonic powers, she was sent to live the life of a mortal being on one of the less pleasant planets, Earth. As each host body died, she hopped into a new one, taking over the mind and feeding on the soul. Three thousand years into her sentence, with three thousand more to go, she was not happy. Sixty centuries in Plymouth is enough to embitter anyone. Even one whose residual evilness could, if focussed, melt a toddler's ice cream from a distance of ten miles.

Today there were many puddles of Guiseppi's Famous Italian Ice Cream on the pavements of Plymouth. For today was special. Exactly half-way through Zelloripus' exile, she was feeling mean and ornery and disposed to high mischief. She despised the humans whose form she took; they by and large achieved oblivion in just seventy short years. She especially despised Steve, whose somnolent form sonorously snoring through lunchbreaks was a continual reminder of a contented peace of mind denied her.

Daemons don't sleep; chances are that Another lurks nearby with designs on their soulstuff. A diabolic doze is the best they can normally manage; even this is denied those cast out of Hades because of the forces of Good that are on constant watch. Even, it had to be said, in Plymouth, where three thousand years of sleepless nights and boring days were driving Zelloripus close to breaking point. So far, she'd stuck to the rules, because using what remained of her powers to tamper with mortal affairs could double or treble her stay on Earth. But only if she was detected; the temptation to lash out at something or someone was growing. Her current job, with Plymouth's third most succesfful producer of soap, was not helping things.

So mere bad timing could explain Steve's unhappy encounter with Zelloripus, or Emily as she should be called, on this day in particular. Maybe it was just bad luck that accounted for the copious yawns, heavy eyelids and sleep-slurred voice with which he laced the conversation over her franking machine. But the following conversation was almost too bad to be true...

"Hiya Emily," said Steve. "You're looking wide eyed for a Monday morning. Wish I could be so awake, but I've been in bed most of the weekend."

"Poor soul." said Emily, "What's the matter?"

"Oh, I dunno. Think it's a touch of the flu; all I can do is sleep. It was a real effort to get up today. You don't know of anything that could perk me up a bit, do you?"

Emily, bitter from boredom, was close to the edge. "No," she said "I don't usually get that sort of problem. With sleeping, I mean."

It was probably his attempt at humour, or maybe it was a particularly clumsy chat-up line, that did it. "Perhaps you should sleep with me - it would maybe rub off a little. There's nothing like a good night's kip to make your fellow man seem a bit nicer..."

"I'm sure" said Emily with a smile so sharp it was opening the letters, "that you're right there. Tell me, Steve, do you dream?"

"Dream? No, can't say that I do. Not that I remember, that is. But if I did, it would be of you."

"How sweet. Perhaps I can help you, at least" and here the smile was diamond-tipped "with the flu. I think I might just have something in my handbag. Hold on, let me go and get it."

Steve was pleased. It might be worth asking her out after all, let's see, there's the funfair out of town... no, she's too bright for that... Outside, the weak sunlight darkened for a moment, as if a cloud had passed.

She came back. "Here we are, something I got from a drug store last time I had the flu." It was a small brown bottle, with an indistinct label and, just visible in the powdery interior, three white pills. "You're supposed to have them before a meal, just take the lot tonight with a bottle of red wine and some cheese and you'll be a new man."

"Thanks very much, Emily" said Steve, taking the bottle from her hand. "I'll do that. Look, what are you doing this weekend? Do you fancy a trip to see the new Stallone film or something?"
"I'm not sure" lied the being with three thousand years' worth of identical Plymothian weekends stretched out in front of her. "Let's see how you're feeling in a couple of days. Wouldn't want to over-exert you during your convalescence".

"Oh, I'm sure I'll be fine. I don't think I'll change my mind!"

"We'll see" said Emily, allowing just a hint of cold, evil-tinged boredom to slip out.

That evening, Steve wondered about Emily's last words. There was something not quite right, he decided, and came to a similar conclusion about the thrice-microwaved chilli con carne sitting in a bowl in the fridge. Then he remembered that wine and cheese had been recommended, and, although he was feeling fine by now, he thought that taking the lady's medicine followed by a triumphal Tuesday morning could do no harm. He had the cheese, and trotted out to the nearest 7-11 to get a bottle of red wine.

Back at home, he emptied the three pills out of the bottle into his hand. Nothing special, thought he, and with a flourish popped them into his mouth and washed them down with a long draft of Burgundy. The cheese sandwich followed. A quick scan of the TV pages - why is there never anything on a Monday night? - convinced him of the desirability of bed.

It's not generally appreciated that much magic is real, test-tubed and white-coated, science. Merlin's laboratory technique would have brought murmurs of approval from Pasteur, and watching Shiva smite (from a safe distance) might well have enlightened Einstein still further. It's just that while the great unwashed mass of men were more interested in squabbling, sex and smallpox it contented the Immortals to hide their rational prowess behind a web of mystic mishmash.

Sure, there is magic to be had, but using it brings many repercussions which might not be completely controllable. Many magicians had lost their souls in the long research programme which, although almost half as old as the Universe, was still not producing results. But boy, was it over budget. Some of its more spectacular failures were still puzzling astronomers from a thousand worlds; more than few of whom were unexpected by-products from an experiment or two themselves.

Emily was especially wary of employing the Dark Art. Not only had it landed her in this mess in the first place, but its use could signal loud and clear her position to any number of undesirable companions from the busybodies at Asklarioum, or something far more sinister. As it was, materialising the pills had been risky enough. Her excellent knowledge of human biochemistry helped her from there.

As Steve dropped off to sleep, the pills were lying inert in his stomach. Slowly the gastric acid ate away the outer case, and the compounds within began to diffuse out. And what compounds, the like of which had not been seen on Earth before or (it is safe to assume) since. Any chemist worth his NaCl would have given his spatula to have been in on the action.

First, the long chain molecules from the cheese were broken down to several interesting substances. The alcohol from the wine helped carry these and others from the pills themselves to the stomach wall, through which they slipped like Mexicans into Texas. On the other side of the wall, the usual gang of enzymes were waiting to digest the evening meal; but they weren't ready for what came at them. The scene of chemical carnage was brutal but short.

Past the first stage of digestion, the intruding substances reached the blood stream. Dissolved in the plasma, they drifted up until they got to Steve's brain. The blood brain barrier - that wonderful filter that keeps hunks of pizza molecule out while letting oxygen in - was as effective as a traffic cop against a battalion of Soviet tanks. Emily's dark designs began their invidious work.

Steve's brain was defenceless against the chemical onslaught. The vast, and mostly unused, network of neurones lay in front of them. Even as the last molecules were arriving, the compounds got to work. They diddled the dopamine receptors, they speeded up the cortical synapses, they nobbled the noradrenaline. A thin web of complex bonds spread deep into Steve's cerebellum, like frost over a tree. Further and further they went, until every part of his brain was invaded and controlled. For the moment they did nothing, but somewhere else in the Plymothian night a small chuckle of anticipation bounced off the flock wallpaper. In his sleep, Steve stirred and shivered.

Chapter 2

The next day, Steve woke up, as usual, to the clock radio. Unusually, he found himself listening to it, and, even more strangely, it annoyed him. He turned over in bed and thumped the switch, leaving the bedroom to the birds, noisy Fords and myriad other sounds of morning. He stared at the ceiling. Hangover? No, he'd only had a couple of glasses of wine last night. Anyway, his head didn't hurt and he felt all right, sort of, except... He was wide awake. That was odd, too, as most days he only started to really wake up on the bus into work.

He glanced at the clock radio; he still had a good half-hour until he had to leave, so he tried to doze. As he closed his eyes, the world spun. About fifteen years ago, he'd gone to Scotland with his parents, and once he'd crawled up to the edge of a granite cliff and peered over at the rocks and sea hundreds of feet beneath. He remembered amazement, awe and no little fear, but most of all he remembered the spiralling vertigo. That was what he was feeling now - he gripped the sides of the bed and opened his eyes rapidly, sweating.

The flu? Those pills he took last night? Could be, but he'd never been ill like that before, nor taken anything from a chemist that shook him up so badly. For a moment he was worried, but then the morning took over again, and the sound of a bus pulling up the hill reminded and reassured him that another normal day was waiting. He got out of bed and, standing up, felt fine once more. The coffee and eggs of breakfast tasted really good, but he didn't feel like reading his paper on the bus. For some reason, he wasn't interested in "Rock Star Eats Own Hand, Sells Guitar", which seemed to be the most earthshaking intelligence on offer. Back in the office, he homed in on Emily.

"Hey, Emily" he said "Those pills seemed to have done the trick. No flu, not a sniffle. I'm feeling really awake. They're good stuff - what're they called? I'd like to get some, just for next time, you know?"

She giggled, a short, high-pitched stutter like a pony neighing. "Glad they seem to have worked, Steve. I can't remember their name, though, I've had them for a while. Still, if it comes back to me I'll let you know."

"You've usually got such a good memory, Emily" said Steve ingratiatingly. "Me, mine's like a sieve. Can't even remember things like buying milk or doctor's appointments. Oh no!"

"What's up?" asked Emily, wondering for a moment whether she'd miscalculated something and wondering, just for a moment, what exactly she'd done. Just for a moment, and then she realised. "Forgotten an appointment?"

"Dentist. What's the time? Look, I've got to rush. See you at lunch - if I've got any teeth left" And he dashed into the boss' office to explain his impending absence.

He rushed out of the building. His dentist was about a half a mile away, and by walking fast he could make it. Past the bombed church in the roundabout, past the police station, up the hill, past the library, past the reservoir and into Dr V. Sells, known since childhood as Dr Weasel. The receptionist looked through her window - hello <PRESIDIO_ANONYMIZED_PERSON>, hello Mr Trevathen take a seat he's running a little late - and he dived into the piles of House and Garden from 1972.

Back in the office, the morning post had been sorted and distributed, and there was, as usual, half-an-hour's hiatus before the pre-lunch mailbags came in. Jill went out to round up all the outgoing mail from the seven floors, leaving Emily to herself. She checked her watch, and felt the sea of infinite boredom recede a little. Any minute now, and the first part of her plan would start to work.

Deep within Steve's brain, profound changes were taking place. The tendrils of diabolic chemistry insinuated into his hippocampus, a small lump of grey matter normally concerned with sorting Steve's experience (such as they were) into long-term recall, and started to subtly rewire his memory mechanisms. Large portions of his mind were converted into the biological equivalent of RAM; ready to record experiences and, having recorded them, control his mind as a program controls a computer's processor. Elsewhere similar changes were taking place, but for now things were ready just to record. Just for now.

The triggers to load the program were complex. If Steve was interested, then whatever it was that held his interest would be sorted, stored, activated. If he was frightened, amused, intrigued, it would all be recorded. But for this to work, he had to be capable of taking an interest in the first place. So part of Emily's chemical mishmash sharpened his wits, heightened his awareness, upped his IQ to just short of genius. This, she thought, was a nice move. Not only did it ensure that the data recorded would be powerful and particularly apt, but when the second stage began he would be only too capable of, mmmm, appreciating what was happening to him. He might even fight back, which would round off the whole thing nicely. And, she though with a daemonic delight, it would serve him right to be given a glimpse of what it's like to have an intelligence confronted with infinite boredom.

Steve was, as the plan demanded, unaware of the mental mayhem crystallising beneath his cranium. But he was getting painfully aware of a lot of other things as he sat in the formica and chipboard waiting room. The posters of rabbits noshing carrots and jaunty poems about plaque ("Clean Clean Clean your teeth! Or else the germs get underneath!") were fading and a couple flapped loose at the corners. They'd been there since he'd started seeing Dr Weasel, and, he mused, the place probably hadn't seen a touch of paint for ten years before that.

The bright orange and grey polypropelene bucket chairs finished of a fine example of early 'sixties public health design. Now why did he think that? He'd been here every six months for years, and usually only worried about whether he'd get a filling or not. Those old magazines - did people really think that the ideal home looked like that? The clothes they wore in the photos looked laughable too, but he could remember when he'd thought they looked good. How strange... perhaps the jacket and jeans he was wearing now would be equally ridiculous in ten years time.

The buzzer chainsawed its way into his daydreams, and the receptionist looked up. "Mr Trevathen?". He stood up, and went into the surgery. Dr Sells was shuffling through some papers at a desk, and the Chair sat in the middle of the room beneath the usual battery of technology.

"Hello Steve", said the dentist. "Sit down please. Now then, any problems since last time? It's good to see you keeping these checkups. Some people just don't bother after they leave home, and when something goes wrong there are all sorts of things to put right. How's your mother, by the way? It was America she moved to, wasn't it?"

As usual, Steve had to wait for three or four questions to go past before he could get a word in. "Yes, she's settled down in North Dakota and she's doing fine. I might go over to see her at Christmas. My teeth are OK, too, but I wouldn't want to miss anything that needs looking at."

"A fine attitude. Now then, lie down and open up."

Steve looked up at the light. "That's new, isn't it? The old one was a different colour."

"That's right, very observant! This one's a new low-voltage design, much more reliable and brighter too. I don't think anyone else has noticed. Open wide."

The nurse hooked in some suction, and went to get Steve's notes.

"Three's OK, two's OK, one's OK, one's OK, two's OK, three's OK, filling on four's a little bitty; we'll sort that out..."

Dr Sells continued chanting his litany as Steve noticed, for the first time it seemed, the antiseptic smell, the faint noise of the machinery behind the dentist, the charts on the wall and the rows of dentures on the shelves. He felt the faint scratching inside his head as the dentist probed away. As Steve had forgotten about the appointment, he hadn't given his teeth the customary vigourous pre-checkup brushing and this was apparently noticeable.

"Hello, we haven't been very thorough with your brushing, have we?" Typical quack, though Steve, lapsing into patronising parental tones. Doctor knows best. "Well, there's a cavity just starting on one of your premolars, and a slightly messy filling to tidy up. We'll have a poke around and fix them."

Steve had collected a lot of fillings from a chocolate childhood, and had the memories to match. As various instruments of torture were produced and whined, sucked and scrunched their way around his mouth, he remembered the old fears with a vividness that surprised him. He winced as the drill scoured the cavity, and was very relieved at the instruction to rinse and spit. Strange taste, this pink liquid.

"While I was fixing those teeth, Steve, I spotted something that might be serious. I'd better have a look at it."

This was new. He opened his mouth obediently, and became more apprehensive as Dr Sell's usual banter failed to intersperse his dental deliberations. Finally the dentist stood up, and Steve closed his mouth.

"One of your molars is misplaced - I don't know why I didn't catch it before, but there you go. Normally I'd leave it, as it's been there for years without causing any problems, but there are signs that you've got some more teeth coming through underneath."

"Eh? You mean I'm teething?"

"No, not quite. It's not uncommon for some people to have a third set of teeth at some time during their lives, and you might be one of them. In any case, I should really get that molar out otherwise it could be very bad for your jaw. It's not really fair that you should have to have a tooth pulled, since you're one of my better patients, but it's a good thing I caught it. Gas or needle?"

He means it, Steve thought. He hadn't had a tooth out before, and the prospect frightened him. Adrenalin started to seep into his blood stream. His heart speeded up, but in his brain the new mechanisms fired up and channelled the stream of his senses into the almost infinite capacity of the revamped memory.

"Oh, gas I think. Is it dangerous?"

"No, not very." Oh, how reassuring, what soothing Weasel words.

"Is the needle safer?"

"There's nothing to worry about with either method. But the gas hurts less."

"Fine. Will it take long?"

"About half an hour, and you should be OK within the hour. Not driving, are you?"

"I walked here."

"No problems then. You might find things a bit fuzzy for a while, but it wears off."

Steve remembered something Emily had said, and for the first time felt sadness for a thing which had never happened.

"Will I dream?"

"Hard to day. Some people do, but most don't."

The nurse had been tinkering with a mess of tubes and cylinders, and brought it to the side of the Chair. While she prepared a tray of gleaming steel instruments, some of which Steve thought would look more in keeping in his local garage, Dr Sells continued his spiel.

"Now then, I'll want you to breath deeply from the mask while counting to ten. You won't get past about seven, but you won't notice that. Ready, Sandra?"

The nurse passed over a facemask, which the dentist placed over Steve's mouth.

"Righty-ho - start breathing and counting. Sweet dreams!"

Here we go, then. One... suck... two... blow... three... suck... four... blow... hmmm, this is quite pleasant... where was I... teeth...

In the surgery, the dentist checked Steve's pulse, eyes and respiration. Satisifed that his patient was well under, he gave him a few seconds more and started to prepare for oral excavation.

Back at the office, Jill wanted to know what Emily was finding so funny. Emily merely giggled, and carried on sorting the post. All that day, she'd be in high spirits, surprising those who were used to her normal sarcastic mood. To those who asked why, she'd reply only that 'Life's a gas, isn't it?'

Chapter 3

Teeth... five... jive.. on the third stroke... hey, why aren't I under yet? Better warn the Weasel not to start pulling just yet. Steve opened his eyes.

If this is dreaming, thought Steve, I haven't missed much. The view reminded him of Dartmoor, where he used to spend the school holidays camping and walking. Only this place was flat for miles, with no inviting tors to clamber up or run down. Behind him the plain stretched out as far as he could see, so for want of anything better to do he started to walk towards the mountains. After a few minutes, he looked as his watch. Or he tried to, but on raising his arm all he saw was a bare wrist. He was greatly troubled. It wasn't so much the lack of a watch that bothered him, nor the fact that the rest of his body was, on inspection, entirely bare, but the troublesome actuality that the body in question wasn't the same one he'd grown up in. In fact, it was borderline as to whether it was Homo Sapiens or not, what with the long hair on the legs and the excessive number of flattened toes. The blue colour didn't help either.

For some reason, he calmed down. Out of curiosity, he tried to yell out "Anyone there?" and was intrigued by the guttural explosion that forced its way out of his mouth, past his fangs and into the leaden air. Fangs. Hmmm. That would startle the good Doctor. He realised with some surprise that he must still be in the Chair, with Dr Sells tapping away like a sculptor producing a miniature statue out of a chip of marble.

He was vaguely uncomfortable about the fact that he'd forgotten so easily who he really was, and tried to shut his eyes to block out the flat dullness of wherever he was. And was gripped by the vertigo as he had been back in his bedroom. This time he got the impression of falling down a well by starlight; a fast fading sprinkling of light and the infinite void waiting...

The landscape looked much more inviting after that. If this was a gas-induced dream he'd sit it out. Half an hour wasn't so long. But it felt like much more than that by the time he decided to get up and explore some more. Maybe his sense of time had gone the way of his skin colour. And, for that matter, the rest of his body, which had acquired several disquietening features which would surprise any osteopath, ear, nose and throat specialist or proctologist. Not that there seemed to be anybody (indeed, any body) else in the place, although once he caught what seemed to be a flash of motion in the sky. He squinted up into the grey light - the shapes that had sped by looked more like fish than birds; he must have been dreaming. That thought made him laugh.

He wandered over to one of the boulders, with the vague intention of climbing up it and looking for something - anything - on the horizon. The surface caught his eyes; like granite it was composed of a myriad tiny facets of crystal, white, orange, black, grey. Unlike granite some of these were quite large, and faintly grooved. These bigger lumps were uniformly white, and they puzzled him. It wasn't until he came across one that was protruding from the rest of the rock, pure white with a blunt point, that he twigged.

Teeth. The rocks were granite, he was sure of that from the mica, feldspar and quartz he recognised - any Dartmoor bog trotter knew granite as the city dwellers recognised concrete - but with an uneven sprinkling of teeth stirred in, like peanuts in a chocolate bar. Again, he thought of the Weasel's constant invectives against refined sugar when he was young; again reminded himself that somewhere his real body was supine and slightly more gummy.

But granite couldn't have teeth in it. Long-distant school geography lessons sprang to mind. Born of elementary fire, hot lava from the earth's core slowly cooling under tremendous pressure with crystals of hard rock forming over centuries, any organic matter would be fried, powdered and assimilated in minutes. It was, he reminded himself, a dream. One which would offend doctors, geologists and dentists in equal measure, but still a dream.

It had to have something to do with being in just such a dream, he thought, but he felt curiously elated. He felt plain curious too - he was looking forward to the next discovery, the next fact to fall out of this strange place. Again, he felt a little disquiet about the ease with which he'd forgotten about his real status as an office worker in Plymouth, but then that place had its fair share of grey skies and boredom too.

He hunted around in the grass until he found a small lump of rock. Odd - he looked around, the scattering of the stuff was fairly even as far as he could see - what on earth (or wherever, he reminded himself) could have caused this place to be like this. He imagined great glaciers slowly melting, dropping rocks as they retreated down the vast gouge they in earlier youth had carved, but that wouldn't explain the flatness of the place. Glaciated valleys - once more, those geography lessons with Rolly Jones surfaced after a decade submerged - were U-shaped. This was plain plane.

This blue and hairy body must belong to a blue and hairy geologist, he thought. He raised the rock above his head, and brought it down hard on the large boulder he'd been examining. The shock jarred his hand, but cracked off a small amount of the boulder's surface. He looked at the spray of chips that littered the grass. They were sharp, like flakes from the surface of a choc ice. The image of an ice cream, he couldn't remember the name, with small fragments of nut in the hard chocolate layer around the soft cream inside, came to mind, and on a whim he nibbled at one of the chips with his recently-enlarged canines. It tasted like a rock.

He looked at the place on the boulder where the chips came from, expecting to see more of the same, perhaps a little more colourful and sharp. Instead he saw a smooth skin, black as the night, underneath what must have just been a shell of toothed rock. He prodded it with one ridiculously long finger (without a fingernail; for a moment he couldn't decide whether it was sillier to have a finger without a fingernail or one with - why did humans have fingernails anyway? He resolved to find out when he was back in the real- he nearly thought other - world) and it gave way a little, like the skin on a dead pig.

Down at his feet, he found a particularly long shard of rock skin. With a roar he jabbed it into the gap on the boulder as hard as he could. This was, he discovered, very hard, and the skin broke. A gush of cold brown liquid shot out and over his - his? - body. He stood there for a moment, surprised, as the sticky coolness trickled down, matting the fine hair which covered him. He poked the same finger into the new gash, expecting to find a void. Instead he encountered a soft, sludgy gunk. It was very cold.

He pulled his finger out (for some reason, an image of his boss came to mind) startled by the unexpected feelings. Again on an impulse, he licked the finger. Chocolate ice cream. He pulled at the rock shell around the gap, removing scabs of the stuff and widening the hole until he could get a fist in. One part of his mind stood back, aghast, as a feeding frenzy took over and he pulled, tugged, hit at the shell, reducing it to fragments and revealing an interior entirely composed of ice cream. With a whoop, he started to scoop the stuff into his mouth, not minding whether it ran down his chin, onto his chest, caking him with stickyness.

"No. Chocolate. No chocolate. Bad for the teeth"

Eh? Where did the voice come from? He looked up, and realised that he was cold, shivering, and standing in a spreading puddle of molten ice cream. He was very, very messy.

"It'll ruin your teeth. Not good at all".

Was that - that was the Weasel. "Steve, you mustn't eat so much chocolate. Steve, you have to wake up to the fact that your teeth must last you the rest of your life. Steve, wake up. Steve!"

He shook his head, and suddenly felt very cold indeed. The grey of the sky lightened to orange, to white and he shivered.

"Steve, wake up!"

He blinked, and felt the ground somersault like a funfair ride. He tumbled, was lying down. He was on the couch, looking up at Dr Sells.

"Steve, can you hear me?"

"Uh" why was his mouth so horrible? "yeah. Yes, I can hear you. I've been dreaming, I think"

"Don't talk. Take deep breaths. Do you feel OK?"

Stupid dentist. How can I tell you if I can't talk? "Uhuh".

"Good. I hit an artery, though what it was doing there I don't know, and we had a bit of an emergnecy. You're OK, though, not too much blood lost, and I've called an ambulance just in case. Ruined your clothes though - I'm sorry."

His head spun. He tried to sit up, and in the couple of seconds before he collapsed back to the Chair he saw a blood-soaked body. At least it had pink hands.

Chapter 4

The doctors at Freedom Fields Hospital weren't concerned with his dream. "Happens all the time, old man" one particularly young one said "You're dreaming about walking through a town when a fire engine goes past, bell ringing like billy-oh. You wake up, and the alarm clock's going nineteen to the dozen. Brain's made the connection, you see."

Apart from the fact that he'd never owned an alarm clock with a bell, and suspected that the doctor had been watching too many Sunday afternoon wartime films, Steve saw. It had been a particularly vivid dream, but perhaps everyone dreamed like that under gas. He'd been given two pints of blood, which gave the lie to Dr Sells' soothing words, and was under observation for the rest of the day. According to the ward sister, he'd be out by seven since they needed the bed and he was young enough to survive "seeing what you young people do to yourselves nothing like this should worry you" by himself.

The tooth had been removed, and in its place was a lump of surgical padding. Steve explored it with his tongue, it seemed much large and ten times rougher than the tooth it replaced but he expected that was just the unfamiliarity and weirdness of the pad. Again he felt strange, he wasn't used to such ideas and didn't know where they came from. That they might come from himself seemed impossible.

The young doctor came back. "How are we doing?" "I'm feeling OK." He took Steve's blood pressure and pulse rate. "I think you'll be OK for this evening, but take it easy for the next week or so".

"Er, Doctor?"

"Yes?"

"I'm still worried by the dream I had."

The doctor sat down on the bed, and carefully placed his clipboard on the sheets before looking, seriously and with obvious intent, at Steve.

"We all have dreams, old man."

"No, I don't get dreams, apart from this time. It was so real, like being there, only I've never been anywhere like that before. Do you think it could have been the gas?"

"That's possible. It's really nothing to worry about, though. It's been quite a traumatic experience for you. Look, if the dreams come back or you're still worried about things a week from now I can recommend a friend of mine who should sort you out."

"He's a doctor too?"

"Yes, but not a blood and guts man like me. He's a psychoanalyst."

"Um... thanks. I think."

The doctor laughed "Nobody's saying you're anything but sane. It's just if you're troubled by this thing I don't know anyone better. He's especially good on dreams. Wrote a book about them a while back, I think he's quite famous."

"Among shrinks."

"Yes, I suppose. Look, hold on a minute."

The doctor scribbled out a name and phone number on his pad, and tore off the sheet. "Here you go. If you do give him a call, tell him Dr Chapman sent you, OK?"

"Thanks, mate. I hope I don't, if you see what I mean."

"Right. Anything else?" And as there was nothing else, the doctor left.

He caught the bus home. Experimentally probing the top of the wadding, he decided that soup and stuff would be on the menu for the next week. That night he slept soundly, for the last time, as the day's happenings were sorted and stored. For later.