The Forever Man by Gordon R. Dickson

AndFriend and took off into space. Eventually he literally began to dream such dreams, when sleeping. Meanwhile, he was working himself physically to the bone, to pass the days and bring about sleep of any kind—which had been harder and harder to come by, in the same measure as his disinterest in food grew.
    He could and did hide from his friends that it was not wine, women and song he needed, but AndFriend and space. He was certain he had also hidden it successfully from Mollen, and from Mary—whom, in any case, he had not seen in person since that first night in the lab. What concerned him more was whether he was being successful in keeping the depth of his need hidden from the physician to whom he had to report almost daily.
    It was evidently part of the whole package of surveillance, control and so forth set up around him, that his state of health be monitored and recorded on what was effectively a twenty-four hour a day basis. The Medical Officer, also a full colonel, who examined him three times a week or more, was probably the one person to whom Jim talked at all openly.
    Part of this was because there was no one else Jim felt safe talking to about himself. The other part was that whatever the physician’s actual specialty was—and he had told Jim once, when the visits had first started, but Jim had since forgotten—Jim gradually came to feel that there was something about the other that hinted at a touch of the psychiatrist in him. Not that Jim had any experience with psychiatrists; but there was a way the other man had of listening to him that seemed different from the listening of other doctors to whom Jim had gone.
    He told himself he had an unduly suspicious mind. Nonetheless, he found himself saying more than he had intended, so that he was surprised to hear the words coming from his own mouth.
    The procedures daring Jim’s visits were ordinarily route. Unless there were lab samples to be taken from him, it was merely a matter of Jim’s being scanned by a number of esoteric instruments, after which he sat down for a few words with the physician before being turned loose once more.
    â€œYou’re losing weight again,” said the physician, checking through the papers that were the hard copy of Jim’s file and lay on the desk before him. He was a tall, gangling man in his early fifties with a high forehead, a straight nose and a surprisingly gentle, small smile that came at unexpected moments.
    â€œAll right, Doc,” said Jim. “I’ll eat more.”
    The doctor glanced up at him from the papers.
    â€œYou could try exercising less,” he said.
    â€œAnd then what’d I do with my time?”
    â€œThere’s always your job,” said the doctor.
    â€œWhat job?”
    The doctor smiled his small smile.
    â€œI don’t know what to do with you,” he said, sitting back with a sigh. “The first person I’ve ever treated who tried to kill himself with good health. But, you know, I’m serious about your cutting back on the physical activity.”
    â€œFor God’s sake, Doc,” said Jim. “Don’t ask me to do that. The only time I can forget about things is when I’m running or swimming or sweating it out to the point where I haven’t got any energy left over to think with. I’ll get more food down me. I don’t mind eating; it’s just that it’s kind of a chore these days.”
    The doctor scribbled on a prescription pad, tore off the sheet he had written on and handed it to Jim.
    â€œTake these, two a day, when you get up and when you go to bed,” he said. “They ought to increase your appetite.”
    Jim looked at the piece of paper in his hand, dubiously. He was not a pill-taker by preference.
    â€œIt won’t make me dopey, will it, Doc?” he asked. “I mean, it isn’t some sort of tranquilizer?”
    â€œI guarantee it won’t make you dopey. Let’s