Milton Gomrath spent his days in dreams of a better life. More obviously, he spent his days as a garbage collector. He would empty a barrel of garbage into the back of the city truck and then lose himself in reverie as the machine went clomp, grunch, grunch, grunch. He hated the truck, he hated his drab little room, and he hated the endless serial procession of gray days. His dreams were the sum of the might-have-beens of his life, and because there was so much that he was not,his dreams were beautiful.

Milton’s favorite dream was one denied those of us who know who our parents are. Milton had been found in a strangely fashioned wicker basket on the steps of an orphanage, and this left him free as a boy to imagine an infinity of magnificent destinies that could and would be fulfilled by the appearance of a mother,uncle, or cousin come to claim him and take him to the perpetual June, where he of right belonged. He grew up, managed to graduate from high school by the grace of an egalitarian school board that believed everyone should graduate from high school regardless of qualification, and then went to work for the city, all the while holding onto the same well-polished dream.

Then one day he was standing by the garbage truck when a thin, harassed-looking fellow dressed in simple black materialized in front of him. There was no bang,hiss, or pop about it—it was a very businesslike materialization.

“Milton Gomrath?” the man asked, and Milton nodded. “I’m a Field Agent from Probability Central. May I speak with you?”

Milton nodded again. The man wasn’t exactly the mother or cousin he had imagined, but the man apparently knew by heart the lines that Milton had mumbled daily as long as he could remember.

“I’m here to rectify an error in the probability fabric,”the man said. “As an infant you were inadvertently switched out of your own dimension and into this one.As a result there has been a severe strain on Things-As-They-Are. I can’t compel you to accompany me, but, if you will, I’ve come to restore you to your Proper Place.”

“Well, what sort of world is it?” Milton asked. “Is it like this?” He waved at the street and truck.

“Oh; not at all,” the man said. “It is a world of magic,dragons, knights, castles, and that sort of thing. But it won’t be hard for you to grow accustomed to it. First, it is the place where you rightfully belong and your mind will be attuned to it. Second, to make things easy for you, I have somebody ready to show you your place and explain things to you.”

“I’ll go,” said Milton.

The world grew black before his eyes the instant the words were out of his mouth, and when he could see again, he and the man were standing in the courtyard of a great stone castle. At one side were gray stone buildings; at the other, a rose garden with blooms of red, white, and yellow. Facing them was a heavily bearded, middle-aged man.

“Here we are,” said the man in black. “Evan, this is your charge. Milton Gomrath, this is Evan Asperito. He’ll explain everything you need to know.”

Then the man saluted them both. “Gentlemen, Probability Central thanks you most heartily. You have done a service. You have set things in their Proper Place.” And then he disappeared.

Evan, the bearded man, said, “Follow me,” and turned. He went inside the nearest building. It was a barn filled with horses.

He pointed at a pile of straw in one corner. “You can sleep over there.”

Then he pointed at a pile of manure. There was along-handled fork in the manure and a wheelbarrow waiting at ease. “Put that manure in the wheelbarrow and spread it on the rose bushes in the garden. When you are finished with that, I’ll find something else for you to do.”

He patted Milton on the back. “I realize it’s going to be hard for you at first, boy. But if you have any questions at any time, just ask me.

(c) Alexei Panshin, 1967