Books In English "City Of Illusions" Ursula K. Le Guin | Page 138

"What was I called, these past six years?"
"Called? Among the natives, do you mean, prech Ramarren? I am not
sure what name they gave you, if they bothered to give you any…"
Falk, she had called him, Falk. "Fellowman," he said abruptly,
translating the Kelshak form of address into Galaktika, "I will learn more
of you later, if you will. What you tell me troubles me. Let me be alone
with it a while."
"Surely, surely, prech Ramarren. Your young friend Orry is eager to
be with you—shall I send him to you?" But Ramarren, having made his
request and heard it accepted, had in the way of one of his Level dismissed
the other, tuned him out, hearing whatever else he said simply as noise.
"We too have much to learn of you, and are eager to learn it, once you
feel quite recovered." Silence. Then the noise again: "Our servants wait to
serve you; if you desire refreshment or company you have only to go to the
door and speak." Silence again, and at last the unmannerly presence
withdrew.
Ramarren sent no speculations after it. He was too preoccupied with
himself to worry about these strange hosts of his. The turmoil within his
mind was increasing sharply, coming to some kind of crisis. He felt as if
he were being dragged to face something that he could not endure to face,
and at the same time craved to face, to find. The bitterest days of his
Seventh Level training had only been a hint of this disintegration of his
emotions and identity, for that had been an induced psychosis, carefully
controlled, and this was not under his control. Or was it?—was he leading
himself into this, compelling himself towards the crisis? But who was "he"
who compelled and was compelled? He had been killed, and brought back
to life. What was death, then, the death he could not remember?
To escape the utter panic welling up in him he looked around for any
object to fix on, reverting to early trance-discipline, the Outcome
technique of fixing on one concrete thing to build up the world from once
more. But everything about him was alien, deceptive, unfamiliar; the very
floor under him was a dull sheet of mist. There was the book he had been
looking at when the woman entered calling him by that name he would not
remember. He would not remember it. The book: he had held it in his
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