delighted. For he has to rebuild his life all along the line, you know. I hope you don't mind me putting it this way, but when I found he was spending his spare time with you, and even making time to do it, I knew he had stopped looking back.
"And now—this breakdown. I don't mind admitting that I'm completely in the dark. You say that you were looking up at the Space Sta tion, but that doesn't seem enough cause. Walter had a rather bad fear of heights when he came here, but he'd largely got over that. Besides, he must have seen the station dozens of times in the morning or evening. There must have been some other factor we don't know."
Dr. Myers stopped his rapid delivery, then said gently, as if the thought had only just struck him: "Tell me, Indra—had you been mak ing love?"
"No," she said without hesitation or embarrassment. "There was nothing like that."
It was a little hard to believe, but he knew it was the truth. He could detect—so clear and unmistakable!—the note of regret in her voice.
"I was wondering if he had any guilt feelings about his wife. Whether he knows it or not, you probably remind him of her, which is why he was attracted to you in the first place. Anyway, that line of reasoning isn't enough to explain what happened, so let's forget it.
"All we know is that there was an attack, and a very bad one. Giving him that sedative was the best thing you could have done in the circumstances. You're quite sure that he never gave any indication of what he intended to do when you got him back to Heron?"
"Quite sure. All he said was, 'Don't tell Dr. Myers.' He said there was nothing you could do."
That, thought Myers grimly, might well be true, and he did not like the sound of it. There was only one reason why a man might hide from the only person who could help him. That was because he had decided he was now beyond help.
"But he promised," Indra continued, "to see you in the morning."
Myers did not reply. By this time they both knew that that promise had been nothing more than a ruse.
Indra still clung desperately to one last hope.
"Surely," she said, her voice quavering as if she did not really believe her own words, "if he'd intended to do—something drastic—he'd have left a message for somebody."
Myers looked at her sadly, his mind now completely made up.
"His parents are dead," he replied. "He said good-by to his wife long ago. What message was there for him to leave?"
Indra knew, with a sickening certainty, that he spoke the truth. She might well be the only person on Earth for whom Franklin felt any affection. And he had made his farewell with her. . . .
Reluctantly, Myers rose to his feet.
"There's nothing we can do," he said, "except to start a general search. There may be a chance that he's just blowing off steam at full throttle, and will creep in shame-faced some time this morning. It's happened before."
He patted Indra's bowed shoulders, then helped her out of the chair. "Don't be too upset, my dear. Everyone will do his best." But in his heart he knew it was too late. It had been too late hours before, and they were going through the motions of search and rescue because there were times when no one expected logic to be obeyed.
They walked together to the assistant chief instructor's office, where the C.I. and Burley were waiting for them. Dr. Myers threw open the door—and stood paralyzed on the threshold. For a moment he thought that he had two more patients—or that he had gone insane himself. Don and the chief instructor, all distinctions of rank forgotten, had their arms around each other's shoulders and were shaking with hysterical laughter. There was no doubt of the hysteria; it was that of relief. And there was equally no doubt about the laughter.
Dr. Myers stared at this improbable scene for perhaps five seconds, then glanced swiftly around the room. At once he saw the message form lying on the floor where one of his temporarily disordered colleagues had dropped
"And now—this breakdown. I don't mind admitting that I'm completely in the dark. You say that you were looking up at the Space Sta tion, but that doesn't seem enough cause. Walter had a rather bad fear of heights when he came here, but he'd largely got over that. Besides, he must have seen the station dozens of times in the morning or evening. There must have been some other factor we don't know."
Dr. Myers stopped his rapid delivery, then said gently, as if the thought had only just struck him: "Tell me, Indra—had you been mak ing love?"
"No," she said without hesitation or embarrassment. "There was nothing like that."
It was a little hard to believe, but he knew it was the truth. He could detect—so clear and unmistakable!—the note of regret in her voice.
"I was wondering if he had any guilt feelings about his wife. Whether he knows it or not, you probably remind him of her, which is why he was attracted to you in the first place. Anyway, that line of reasoning isn't enough to explain what happened, so let's forget it.
"All we know is that there was an attack, and a very bad one. Giving him that sedative was the best thing you could have done in the circumstances. You're quite sure that he never gave any indication of what he intended to do when you got him back to Heron?"
"Quite sure. All he said was, 'Don't tell Dr. Myers.' He said there was nothing you could do."
That, thought Myers grimly, might well be true, and he did not like the sound of it. There was only one reason why a man might hide from the only person who could help him. That was because he had decided he was now beyond help.
"But he promised," Indra continued, "to see you in the morning."
Myers did not reply. By this time they both knew that that promise had been nothing more than a ruse.
Indra still clung desperately to one last hope.
"Surely," she said, her voice quavering as if she did not really believe her own words, "if he'd intended to do—something drastic—he'd have left a message for somebody."
Myers looked at her sadly, his mind now completely made up.
"His parents are dead," he replied. "He said good-by to his wife long ago. What message was there for him to leave?"
Indra knew, with a sickening certainty, that he spoke the truth. She might well be the only person on Earth for whom Franklin felt any affection. And he had made his farewell with her. . . .
Reluctantly, Myers rose to his feet.
"There's nothing we can do," he said, "except to start a general search. There may be a chance that he's just blowing off steam at full throttle, and will creep in shame-faced some time this morning. It's happened before."
He patted Indra's bowed shoulders, then helped her out of the chair. "Don't be too upset, my dear. Everyone will do his best." But in his heart he knew it was too late. It had been too late hours before, and they were going through the motions of search and rescue because there were times when no one expected logic to be obeyed.
They walked together to the assistant chief instructor's office, where the C.I. and Burley were waiting for them. Dr. Myers threw open the door—and stood paralyzed on the threshold. For a moment he thought that he had two more patients—or that he had gone insane himself. Don and the chief instructor, all distinctions of rank forgotten, had their arms around each other's shoulders and were shaking with hysterical laughter. There was no doubt of the hysteria; it was that of relief. And there was equally no doubt about the laughter.
Dr. Myers stared at this improbable scene for perhaps five seconds, then glanced swiftly around the room. At once he saw the message form lying on the floor where one of his temporarily disordered colleagues had dropped
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