Linda's eyes fluttered open; she saw him, knew him-"John!"-but situated the real face, the real and violent hands, in an imaginary world-among the inward and private equivalents of patchouli and the Super-Wurlitzer, among the transfigured memories and the strangely transposed sensations that constituted the universe of her dream. She knew him for John, her son, but fancied him an intruder into that paradisal Malpais where she had been spending her soma-holiday with Popé. He was angry because she liked Popé, he was shaking her because Popé was there in the bed-as though there were something wrong, as though all civilized people didn't do the same. "Every one belongs to every..." Her voice suddenly died into an almost inaudible breathless croaking. Her mouth fell open: she made a desperate effort to fill her lungs with air. But it was as though she had forgotten how to breathe. She tried to cry out-but no sound came; only the terror of her staring eyes revealed what she was suffering. Her hands went to her throat, then clawed at the air-the air she coud no longer breathe, the air that, for her, had ceased to exist. The Savage was on his feet, bent over her. "What is it, Linda? What is it?" His voice was imploring; it was as though he were begging to be reassured. The look she gave him was charged with an unspeakable terror-with terror and, it seemed to him, reproach.