Slave of Eternity by Roger D. Aycock

"You have no choice," the patrolman said. "The Council sends for you."

He moved across the veranda of Heric's cottage, bulking dark against the sky-glow of Nyark the first city. On the slope of lawn below stood his copter, its beetle-black shell glistening faintly in the starshine.

Heric stood rigid with alarm in his doorway, still holding the book he had been reading. The night-wind ruffling his hair and the homely sounds from the kitchen where Marta prepared their evening meal made his danger doubly fantastic.

"They've found out somehow about my dreams," Heric said. "They'll put me through the adjuster and I'll come out of it—someone else. I won't go!"

He was a mild man, overseer of the cereal grain fields outside Nyark the first city, holding the confidence of his superiors and the respect of his workers. He and Marta had been happy in the quiet eddy of their isolation, until the dreams came.

The patrolman took a gleaming silver shock-cone from his belt. "I am sorry, Arnol Heric. You must come with me."

Stark panic made Heric drop his book and strike out wildly, smashing a fist into the officer's face. The patrolman staggered back, teetered for balance on the veranda's edge and fell heavily. The sound of his head striking the stone walkway below was as definite as the thud of a dropped melon.

Heric went down the steps and knelt to feel the man's limp wrist. There was no pulse. He put an ear to the slack lips, and there was no breath. Shock numbed him and drove his thoughts into strange, tortured channels.

"I've killed him," he said.