West stepped onto the white square, and looked out across the boardscape. Concentrating, he focused, and the square under him splintered and shattered. Falling. He felt the resistance as he fell through things that were, that were not, that would never be. That always were.

Shapes flickered around him, re-enacting events, wispy contrails half-forming the possible, but improbable. Scenery.

He moved, and stepped into the room at the Bismarck.

You can destroy the history, but do robots dream dreams of electric sheep?

West watched. And watched. And watched some more. Cartright died, or lived, or escaped only to die. Permutations of the history written by the dreamers. The shared dream... the witnesses.

He watched Cartright's killer, and followed his hunch. Undrichmann had done the same. West watched the Magister get on the train. Or not. Most of the time, he did.

The Conductor stopped him, though, with an upheld hand.

"There are always three," the whisper came. "Between warring kings, a peacemaker; between adoring spouses, a seducer or a child. Between twins, the spirit of the womb. Between lovers, Death."

The finger pointed. "Atropos has always walked with you -- but who is your third?"

West woke up, breathing hard.