The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert by Frank Herbert Page B

in review?
    The kaleidoscopic progression jerked to a stop before a vision of Colleen—the way he had seen her in his dream. The memory screen lurched to Pete. He saw the two people in a relationship to himself that he had never quite understood. They represented a catalyst, not good or evil, merely a reagent which set events in motion.
    Suddenly, Eric sensed his awareness growing, permeating his body. He knew the condition and action of each gland, each muscle fiber, each nerve ending. He focused his inner eyes on the grayness through which he had passed. Into the gray came a tendril of red—shifting, twisting, weaving past him. He followed the red line. A picture formed in his mind, growing there like the awakening from anaesthetic. He looked down a long street—dim in the spring dusk—at the lights of a jet car thundering toward him. The car grew larger, larger, the lights two hypnotic eyes. With the vision came a thought: My, that’s pretty!
    Involuntary reactions took over. He sensed muscles tensing, jumping aside, the hot blast of the jet car as it passed. A plaintive thought twisted into his mind: Where am I? Where’s Mama? Where’s Bea?
    Tightness gripped Eric’s stomach as he realized he sat in another’s consciousness, saw through another’s eyes, sensed through another’s nerves. He jumped away from the experience, pulling out of the other mind as though he had touched a hot stove.
    So that’s how Pete knew so much, he thought. Pete sat in his musikron and looked through our eyes. Another thought: What am I doing here? He sensed the teleprobe chair beneath him, heard the new self within him say, “I’m going to need more trained, expert help.”
    He followed another red tendril, searching, discarded it; sought another. The orientation was peculiar—no precise up or down or compass points until he looked out of the other eyes. He came to rest finally behind two eyes that looked down from an open window in the fortieth story of an office building, sensed the suicidal thoughts building up pressure within this person. Gently, Eric touched the center of consciousness, seeking the name—Dr. Lincoln Ordway, psychoanalyst.
    Eric thought, Even now I turn back to my own analyst.
    Tensely, Eric retreated to a lower level of the other’s consciousness, knowing that the slightest misstep would precipitate this man’s death wish, a jump through that window. The lower levels suddenly erupted a pinwheel of coruscating purple light. The pinwheel slowed, became a mandala figure—at the four points of the figure an open window, a coffin, a transitus-tree and a human face which Eric suddenly recognized as a distorted picture of himself. The face was boyish, slightly vacant.
    Eric thought, The analyst, too, is tied to what he believes is his patient . With the thought, he willed himself to move gently, unobtrusively into the image of himself, began to expand his area of dominion over the other’s unconscious. He pushed a tentative thought against the almost palpable wall which represented Dr. Ordway’s focus of consciousness: Line (a whisper), don’t jump. Do you hear me, Line? Don’t jump. The city needs your help .
    With part of his mind, Eric realized that if the analyst sensed his mental privacy being invaded that realization could tip the balance, send the man plunging out the window. Another part of Eric’s mind took that moment to render up a solution to why he needed this man and others like him: The patterns of insanity broadcast by Pete Serantis could only be counterbalanced by a rebroadcast of calmness and sanity.
    Eric tensed, withdrew slightly as he felt the analyst move closer to the window. In the other’s mind, he whispered, “Come away from the window. Come away—” Resistance! A white light expanded in Eric’ thoughts, rejected him. He felt himself swimming out into the gray maelstrom, receding. A red