Chapter III

Dawn. A chill, grey desert dawn that made Stone shiver beneath his blankets.

Or maybe it wasn’t the cold. Maybe it was the things in his mind, the thoughts and nightmares that kept him tossing, twisting, restless. There’d been little enough sleep for him, Lord knew--fitful moments only, from which he started up in wild-eyed terror, racked by aching bones and stinging cuts and the dark uncertainties that wormed insidiously through his brain.

And now, the dawn.

Fretfully, once more he squirmed and shifted--closing his eyes against the dim light, striving to find some new position that would ease the nagging restlessness that plagued him.

But the thin-padded hospital cot only creaked the louder. New lumps and knots created pressure points against his body.

With a curse, he gave it up. Rising, he shrugged on a robe and shuffled to the open window.

If he could call a window open, when it was fitted with a safety screen so heavy that a man with an axe couldn’t break through it.

He laughed aloud--short, harsh, without mirth.

Outside, the base still lay bleak and silent, a hollow city with no excuse for being except The Project. The bare, regimented streets stretched deserted between their rows of characterless prefabricated housing. To the south, the tiny airstrip spread desolate, its lone helicopter strangely skeletal at this distance in the chiaroscuro of early morning.

Stone crossed to the other window, the closed one; peered west, towards the bulk of the central Project Building.

The next instant he stiffened.

For where two weeks ago the structure had loomed square and squat, now a tower rose, from its center--a tower somehow disconcertingly unique in styling, not quite like anything he’d ever seen before.

Protuberances of unfathomned purpose marred its symmetry. Catwalks rimmed it at half-a-dozen levels. Even the material of which it was constructed resembled nothing with which he was familiar.

Stone frowned. True enough, there were plenty of things he didn’t know about The Project. That was as it should be, at a base at which security measures were so vital.

Yet at the same time, it seemed strange that he’d have heard no hint as to a construction job of such proportions.

It didn’t even fit in with the architectural plans. He’d seen those, and they contained no provision for a tower. None was needed. This was a development base, not a proving ground.

Of course, plans changed. New discoveries and problems necessitated new measures, new approaches.

Even new buildings.

The trouble was, so many things seemed to have changed here in the brief span of his fortnight’s absence.

The attitudes and atmosphere, for instance. And the people.

People like Bjornberg and Glines and MacDougal.

Or maybe it was he that had changed, the way they said.

Maybe he was really crazy.

He was still brooding about it when the door opened.

The click of the lock took him unawares. There’d been no warning, no sound of footsteps.

Instinctively, he spun about.

Reva stood framed in the doorway.

It rocked him, hard. So hard he could only stand gaping at her cool blonde loveliness, groping for words he couldn’t find.

“Good morning, Carl.” Her face, her voice, were grave. Briskly, she stepped across the threshold, crisp and neat in a starched white smock, and closed the door behind her.

The spell broke. “Reva--!” he choked. “Reva, what are you doing here?”

Her manner stayed detached, impersonal. “I was assigned here nearly two weeks ago, Carl.” And then: “I’m _Doctor_ Adams now, you know.”

“You mean--you’re the psychiatrist?”

She nodded, grey eyes steady. “I’m afraid so, Carl. And I know it’s going to be difficult for both of us after the ... personal ... relationship. But I didn’t have much choice, since I’m the only qualified person here. Mr. MacDougal made that rather plain.”

* * * * *

Pin-pricks of rising fury seethed through Stone. “You’re going along with this farce, then? You’ll run me through the mill like any other screwball, in spite of everything--the way it was between us, as close as we were together?” He didn’t even care that the words came out thick and angry.

The grey eyes dodged his, now. As if to cover it, Reva moved to the room’s lone chair; sat down.

“Answer me!” Stone stormed. “Give it to me straight: Are you going to help them frame me?”

“No one’s going to frame you, Carl. It’s just that you may be ... sick. That’s all that I’m to check on.”

A tremor crept into Reva’s voice as she spoke. Hastily, she brought out a pencil and a notebook. “There’ll be a few tests, that’s all--Minnesota Multiphase Personality, Inventory, Rorschach, TAT, electronencephalogram, in case you’re interested in the names. And I’ll want to talk to you, of course--discuss these things you’ve done that seem to bother Mr. MacDougal and the others. There won’t be anything unpleasant about it. We can work most of it out over coffee, probably--”

“We’ll do it straight, you mean!” Stone clenched his fists, trying to fight down the red tide of rage that surged within him. “Forget your damn’ coffee, Doctor Adams! I’m just one more nut to you. Quit trying to hide it!”

Reva’s face went stiff. She rose quickly; stood very tall and straight “Very well, then, Carl. We’ll handle it just as you prefer. The electroencephalogram comes first. The machine’s down at the end of the hall to your right. Just follow me.”

High heels clicking, she left the room.

As quickly as it had flared, Stone’s fury ebbed. Numbly, he stumbled down the hall after her.

What was it that held him so on edge, so close to the ragged brink of violence? The fight with the monster? The trouble with Bjornberg and Glines and MacDougal? The lack of sleep?

But no. Those were only symptoms of an ever-growing inner tension.

Yet why should he be tense? He’d seen trouble before--lots of it. Violence, too; blood by the bucket. But it hadn’t affected him this way. Through all of it, he’d won a reputation as a man who thrived on situations fraught with worry and frustration. That was why they’d sent him here in the first place, to handle security problems on this base....

And to blow up at Reva, still feeling about her as he did ... to let go at her, when all he could really think of was the hunger in him for her; the desire to take her, hold her, crush her to him....

Ahead of him, the heels stopped clicking. Reva pushed open a door; stepped aside. “In here please. Lie down on the couch. I’ll attach the electrodes. It won’t hurt a bit....”

The morning came and went, a jumble of accordion-folded graph sheets and pictures, ink blots and questions. Stone sorted cards, made up stories, drew figures, lay in black silence while electrical impulses eddied through his brain.

There was no coffee, no byplay. Reva stayed Doctor Adams. To the hilt. Lunchtime found Stone alone in his cubicle.

Thirty minutes later they were back at the tests.

But only half Stone’s mind was on them.

The other half kept reappraising Reva.

She’d changed, somehow, just like the others. Her impersonality carried a hard, suspicious edge. A dozen times--a hundred--Stone caught her eyes upon him. Not just measuring either: Cold; almost actively hostile.

Especially when she probed him with questions about the woman, and the monster.

* * * * *

Late afternoon found them in her office, with Reva cross-examining him about his feelings toward Glines and Bjornberg.

The implication was that he’d always hated them both; that the clashes were only the culmination of long-repressed resentment.

Stone’s palms grew moist, his heart action uneven.

Of a sudden, he could take no more of it.

“Damn it, Reva!” he exploded. “They jumped me, don’t you get it? They started sticking knives in me the second that they saw me!” Vaguely, he was aware that his voice had risen; that he was shouting. He didn’t care. “What would you have done, damn it? How would you feel if people accused you of murder and treason to your face, when you’d done nothing--?”

He broke off, seething.

The phone rang before Reva could speak again. She picked up the receiver, cool and efficient, her eyes still on her notebook. “Doctor Adams speaking.” A pause. “No, Mr. MacDougal. I’ve hardly begun, let alone finished. These things take time.” Another pause. “Yes. Yes, I have uncovered a certain amount of pertinent data. But--”

A longer pause. While Stone watched, the smooth planes and curves of Reva’s face seemed to stiffen. Her fingers tightened visibly on her pencil, pressing down. The point snapped, loud in the stillness.

She said, “Very well, then, Mr. MacDougal. If you insist.--Yes, I’ll be waiting in my office.”

She hung up the phone.

Stone smiled thinly. “Report time?”

She didn’t answer.

“I know how it is. They always push you.” Stone leaned back in his chair. For no good reason, all once he felt more in command of the situation than he had since this whole mad tangle had erupted.

Reva looked away, still saying nothing.

Stone pressed on: “It’s too bad things had to work out the way they did.... Between us.”

Reva’s eyes stayed on the wall. “We each got what we wanted.” Her voice was flat, controlled.

Too tightly controlled.

“Did we?” Stone grimaced. “Maybe you did. I didn’t. Because I wanted you. And I didn’t get you.”

Was it his imagination, or did Reva’s breathing quicken just a fraction?

“Being married to a security man’s no cinch. I know that. It can get pretty damn’ worrisome and lonely, like you said when you broke it off. But right now, I’m wondering if psychiatry can’t be lonely, too--”

The mask that was Reva’s face drew tighter ... tighter.

“Especially if you’re a woman, Reva--a woman like you, who knows what love is, and needs it--”

In a flash, like an eggshell shattering, the mask cracked and fell apart. Reva turned on him--teeth bared, eyes suddenly streaming. “Shut up!” she screamed. White-knuckled, her small fist beat a convulsive tattoo on the desk’s polished surface. “Shut up, I tell you! Leave me alone--alone ... alone....”

Her voice died. She slumped on one arm across her notebook, face hidden. The slim shoulders shook with her sobs.

From the office doorway, MacDougal said, “That was dirty, Carl. As dirty as anything you’ve ever done.”

Stone started. Reva gasped aloud and came erect in one swift movement, even as she turned away.

MacDougal stalked heavily to the nearest chair and sat down. Face hewn in granite, he ignored Stone; addressed Reva: “I’m sorry about this, Doctor Adams. Believe me, I wouldn’t run you through such a mill for all the world, if it weren’t absolutely necessary.”

“It’s ... quite all right, Mr. MacDougal.” Face almost composed once more, Reva resumed her seat. “I’ll give you my tentative report as soon as the attendant returns Mr. Stone to his room.” She reached towards a buzzer button.

MacDougal halted her with a gesture. His blue eyes were cold. “Don’t bother, Doctor. I’m not inclined to spare Stone’s tender feelings, after what he just did to you.”

“It’s not a matter of feelings, Mr. MacDougal.” Abruptly, Reva was very much the doctor. “There’s a therapeutic issue involved. And Mr. Stone’s my patient.”

* * * * *

Tight-lipped, Stone leaned forward. “Get on with it!” he clipped. “I want to hear what you’ve got to say as much as he does. If I’m crazy, I’ve got a right to know it.”

“‘Crazy’ is hardly a meaningful term, medically speaking, Mr. Stone.” Reva stared down at her notes. “However, if you insist....”

“I do.”

“Very well, then.” She turned to MacDougal; tapped an accordion-folded graph on the desk. “Are you familiar with electroencephalography, Mr. MacDougal?”

The base director shrugged. “Only vaguely.”

“Then let me begin by explaining that the electroencephalograph is a device which measures currents within the brain and records them on a chart. A trained technician can then interpret the patterns in diagnostic terms.”

“I see.”

“In Mr. Stone’s case”--Reva studied the chart--“the electroencephalogram shows marked deviation from the norm. I’m inclined to believe that the pattern indicates he’s a victim of epidemic encephalitis.”

“Encephalitis--?” MacDougal frowned. “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain, Doctor. I’ve never heard of it.”

Reva nodded gravely. “That’s not surprising, sir. No acute cases have been reported since 1925. The ones we see today are chronic--the aftermath of an epidemic that swept the country, beginning in 1919.”

“And the results?”

“That all depends.” Reva sketched meaningless patterns with her pencil. “You see, the disease wreaks havoc in the brain. There’s tissue damage and, later, of course, residual lesions. Ganglion cells and neurons degenerate or disappear. Behavior difficulties often follow, too--chronic irritability, emotional instability, psychopathic conduct.”

“You tell it scary,” Stone said tightly. “There’s just one catch, though: So far as I know, I never had any such disease.”

Reva didn’t look up. “I’m afraid that’s easily possible, Carl. It may have run concurrently with influenza or some other sickness. Plenty of cases weren’t detected. But the damage still was done.”

“Then how is it I’ve survived? Why haven’t they carted me off before now?”

“Because of the nature of the disease, Carl.” For the first time, Reva faced him squarely. “You see, it can become progressive, even after months and years. When that happens....” Helplessly, she spread her hands.

A numbness crept through Stone. He slumped in his chair. The room seemed to grow dim around him. He hardly heard the things the other two were saying.

Was this to be the end for him, then? Must he live out his life walled away from the world in some mental hospital?

Again, he lived through the night before ... tried to recall the way he’d felt, the things he’d done.

He’d been tired, yes; but that was to be expected, what with the long trip in. And his spirits had certainly been good enough.

Then he’d seen the woman ... fought the monster.

And whether anyone believed him or not, the battle had been reality, not delusion. He had the scars to prove it.

Chronic irritability? Emotional instability? Psychopathic conduct? Those were terms that fitted Bjornberg and Glines better than they did him.

Though he had to admit he’d been on the jumpy side, ever since he’d reached the base.

_Ever since he’d reached the base--!_

With a rush, the pieces fell into pattern. Last night, he’d fought a monster--a creature like nothing ever seen on earth, in hell or heaven.

The dying woman had gasped of robots on a mesa.

Bjornberg had accused him of murder.

Glines had sworn he was a Communist.

MacDougal had ordered him checked for mental aberration.

An unscheduled, other-worldish tower had risen atop the Project Building.

Reva had diagnosed him as an encephalitic, fully capable of psychopathic conduct and suitable for confinement.

He himself had developed a sudden tension so nerve-shattering as to make him question his own sanity.

It all added up to just one thing: Something horribly dangerously wrong.

But not with him. No.

_With the base!_

But what? What could possibly account for such mad deviation?

* * * * *

He looked up sharply. Reva was still talking:

“--so after your description of Carl’s behavior, Mr. MacDougal, my first thought was paranoia. The systematized delusions and hallucinations tied in with it, and so did his tendency to violence. But I’ve given him the Rorschach test, and the TAT, and neither of them show any indication of it. So tentatively, I’m forced to fall back on encephalitis. It manifests itself so many ways--it’s more polymorphic than syphilis, even....”

Systematized delusions--? Hallucinations? Stone felt a sudden, quick twinge of excitement. The behavior of the people here on the base fitted that pattern.

Yet how could a whole organization turn paranoid?

Besides, Reva had just said that he himself didn’t check out for it on the tests.

Thoughtfully, he studied her. She knew about these things, these mental twists, and she’d just come here.

Could the trouble be some strange infection she’d brought with her?

For that matter, why would a psychiatrist be assigned to a development base, anyhow?

It was an interesting question. Spontaneously, he cut in on the conversation: “Reva....”

She looked around. “Yes, Carl?”

“Just what is this research project of yours?”

Her face froze, lips half-parted. The grey eyes--it was as if shutters had suddenly slammed closed behind them.

Cold, hostile shutters.

MacDougal said quickly, “I’m afraid we’ll have to bounce that one, Carl. _Verboten_. Doctor Adams’ work is classified, highly confidential.”

Ice hung on his words--the same kind of ice that glazed Reva’s eyes.

And Glines’. And Bjornberg’s.

Stone held his face immobile. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

Reva had come here. Strange things had happened.

Reva was a psychiatrist. Base personnel showed something close to mental disorder.

Cause and effect?

It could bear some thought. Quite a bit of thought, in fact. Not to mention thorough investigation.

MacDougal’s blue eyes had narrowed. Abruptly, he turned to Reva. “Doctor Adams, I’m afraid I’ve imposed on you. It’s not fair to ask you to treat patients, in addition to your ... other work.”

Reva’s slim shoulders moved a fraction. “I admit the facilities are hardly adequate, Mr. MacDougal.”

“Then you recommend a mental hospital?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“We’ll have him flown out tonight in the helicopter, then. Right now.” The base director surged to his feet. “Let’s go, Carl.”

Stone gripped the arms of his chair. One wrong question--and in seconds they’d arranged to put him out of circulation.

Which meant he’d been right: There _was_ a relationship between Reva’s coming, her work, and the changes on the base.

Only a lot of good knowing it would do him, locked away in a back ward of some asylum. Even if he was actually all right it would take months to convince the doctors.

So much for his plans.

Unless--

“Hurry it up, Carl. This is all for your own good, you know.”

Wordless, Stone arose. Carefully casual, he glanced out the nearest window.

It was almost dark.

So much the better.

He moved on into the hall and shuffled towards the detention room where he’d spent the night. Reva and MacDougal followed.

The door was locked. Stone stood aside, waiting loose-muscled while Reva inserted the key and opened the door.

“I won’t keep you waiting long, Carl,” MacDougal said. “We’ll pick you up just as soon as I locate a pilot.”

Stone drew a deep breath, “Any time.” He started forward.

The base director shifted aside to let him pass. Stone smashed down his foot with all his might on the other’s instep.

MacDougal cried out ... tottered off-balance.

Twisting, Stone shoved him hard against Reva. Together, the pair sprawled on the floor of the detention room.

Stone slammed and locked the door behind them. It muffled their cries most satisfactorily.

Bleak-eyed, then, he strode down the corridor and the stairs and out into the night....