For a long moment I stared after him. Is there any way I can tell you how I felt? I, who have written fantasies woven of thin air, now thus to be suddenly thrust into a fantasy beyond my own wildest imaginings? Even more important, is there a way I can make you believe that this is not merely another amusing tale, to be read today and forgotten soon?
The structure of this narrative is mine. I supplied the story form. But is there any way I can convince you that the words which follow are not my own? I did not write this story! It is the story of a man who is not yet born, who will not live these happenings for twenty years.
Here is the story of Brian O'Shea, soldier....
II
—Stumbled and pitched to his knees. I ran to his side and would have carried him, but he shook me off.
"It's too
