Dick had picked up life again where he had left it off so long before.
Gone was David's house built on the sands of forgetfulness. Gone was
David himself, and Lucy. Gone not even born into his consciousness
was Elizabeth. The war, his work, his new place in the world, were all
obliterated, drowned in the flood of memories revived by the shock of
Bassett's revelations.

Not that the breaking point had revealed itself as such at once. There
was confusion first, then stupor and unconsciousness, and out of that,
sharply and clearly, came memory. It was not ten years ago, but an hour
ago, a minute ago, that he had stood staring at Howard Lucas on the
floor of the billiard room, and had seen Beverly run in through the
door.

"Bev!" he was saying. "Bev! Don't look like that!"

He moved and found he was in bed. It had been a dream. He drew a long
breath, looked about the room, saw the woman and greeted her. But
already he knew he had not been dreaming. Things were sharpening in his
mind. He shuddered and looked at the floor, but nobody lay there. Only
the horror in his mind, and the instinct to get away from it. He was not
thinking at all, but rising in him was not only the need for flight, but
the sense of pursuit. They were after him. They would get him. They must
never get him alive.