Lewis Orne could not remember a time when he had been free of a peculiar, repetitive dream, when he had been able to go to sleep in the sure knowledge that the dream's wild sense of reality would not clutch at his psyche. The dream began with music, this really hokey unseen choir, syrup in sound, a celestial joke. Vaporous figures would come out of the music adding a visual dimension of the same quality. Finally, a voice would override the whole silly thing with disturbing pronouncements: "Gods are made, not born!" Or: "To say you are neutral is another way of saying...