the room: the dark shapes of chairs, monolithic bookshelves braced against the walls, a huge globe and its wrought iron stand, the desk blotter, a silver letter opener, and a gleaming crystal paperweight. He switched on the desk lamp; the fluorescent tube flickered darkly, suddenly blinked brightly and drove back the shadows.
After only the briefest of second thoughts, he opened the center desk drawer. The contents were neatly ordered: a box of paperclips, a stapler, a magnifying glass, a roll of stamps, two rulers, a wad of rubber bands, pencils, pens, envelopes, writing paper, and a thick sheaf of other papers. He almost closed the drawer straightaway, for he found it hard to believe that Galing would have provided this minutiae for a stage setting. Yet, now that he had come this far . . . He took the papers out of the drawer and put them on the blotter, slid the drawer shut.
Most of the stuff was correspondence and bills, all of little interest to him. The single thing of value was a full color brochure that touted what Galing Research had to sell. A quick look at the twelve-page, glossy booklet told him that the company was indeed a pharmaceutical concern. It was not involved in anything so fantastic as paranormal research.
It was strange, the thought, how his subconscious, under the influence of sybocylacose-46, had used bits and pieces of the truth to weave its illusions. He had borrowed from reality, then had twisted the truth into something eerie.
He put the correspondence back in the center drawer and searched the rest of the desk. In another drawer he found a folder that had one word stenciled on it: SYBOCYLACOSE. It contained forty flimsies which were covered with closely typed paragraphs full of technical data. He skimmed them, but he didn't read them carefully; he could see that they only confirmed what Henry Galing had told him earlier.
With nothing more interesting to show for the search, he was reaching for the light switch when he saw for the first time the photograph on the desktop. It was in color, glossy, framed in heavy antique gold: Allison and him, on their wedding day, the two of them at the top of the church steps, squinting in bright sunlight.
Somehow, more than anything else he had found, the photograph reassured him. He had seen nothing like it in any of the illusions. In those fantasies, the only proof of his past was the testimony of Galing and the others; and as duplicitous as they'd been, that was no proof at all. But here was a photograph, a connection, evidence of a sort.
He finished reaching for the switch, turned out the desk lamp. For a moment he was completely blind. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the darkness enough for him to get up and find his way out of the den. In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of milk, drank it in two long gulps, rinsed the glass in the sink.
He had about given up the idea of checking the lawn to see if it were real, when he saw the partially opened door at the far end of the kitchen. He didn't know where it led, but if it opened onto the lawn, it had best be closed and locked. He crossed to it, pulled it open, and found that it was the cellar door. Concrete steps led down into a vague, bluish light.
Close it, he thought. Just for God's sake close it.
“Anyone down there?” he asked.
No one answered.
“Uncle Henry?”
Blue light.
Nothing else.
Go to bed.
While the wide steps were concrete, the walls on both sides were white, enameled tile. He was reminded of the pod chamber in his hallucinations.
Hallucinations?
He quickly closed the door. He turned away from it and walked back across the kitchen. His legs bent under him, and he had to sit down at the table in the middle of the room.
Hallucinations? Yes. Dammit, yes, they'd only been hallucinations. The white walls in that stair-well were just something else he had appropriated and used in the illusions.
Go back to bed; make love to Allison.
He had to be certain. Reluctantly, he got
After only the briefest of second thoughts, he opened the center desk drawer. The contents were neatly ordered: a box of paperclips, a stapler, a magnifying glass, a roll of stamps, two rulers, a wad of rubber bands, pencils, pens, envelopes, writing paper, and a thick sheaf of other papers. He almost closed the drawer straightaway, for he found it hard to believe that Galing would have provided this minutiae for a stage setting. Yet, now that he had come this far . . . He took the papers out of the drawer and put them on the blotter, slid the drawer shut.
Most of the stuff was correspondence and bills, all of little interest to him. The single thing of value was a full color brochure that touted what Galing Research had to sell. A quick look at the twelve-page, glossy booklet told him that the company was indeed a pharmaceutical concern. It was not involved in anything so fantastic as paranormal research.
It was strange, the thought, how his subconscious, under the influence of sybocylacose-46, had used bits and pieces of the truth to weave its illusions. He had borrowed from reality, then had twisted the truth into something eerie.
He put the correspondence back in the center drawer and searched the rest of the desk. In another drawer he found a folder that had one word stenciled on it: SYBOCYLACOSE. It contained forty flimsies which were covered with closely typed paragraphs full of technical data. He skimmed them, but he didn't read them carefully; he could see that they only confirmed what Henry Galing had told him earlier.
With nothing more interesting to show for the search, he was reaching for the light switch when he saw for the first time the photograph on the desktop. It was in color, glossy, framed in heavy antique gold: Allison and him, on their wedding day, the two of them at the top of the church steps, squinting in bright sunlight.
Somehow, more than anything else he had found, the photograph reassured him. He had seen nothing like it in any of the illusions. In those fantasies, the only proof of his past was the testimony of Galing and the others; and as duplicitous as they'd been, that was no proof at all. But here was a photograph, a connection, evidence of a sort.
He finished reaching for the switch, turned out the desk lamp. For a moment he was completely blind. Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the darkness enough for him to get up and find his way out of the den. In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of milk, drank it in two long gulps, rinsed the glass in the sink.
He had about given up the idea of checking the lawn to see if it were real, when he saw the partially opened door at the far end of the kitchen. He didn't know where it led, but if it opened onto the lawn, it had best be closed and locked. He crossed to it, pulled it open, and found that it was the cellar door. Concrete steps led down into a vague, bluish light.
Close it, he thought. Just for God's sake close it.
“Anyone down there?” he asked.
No one answered.
“Uncle Henry?”
Blue light.
Nothing else.
Go to bed.
While the wide steps were concrete, the walls on both sides were white, enameled tile. He was reminded of the pod chamber in his hallucinations.
Hallucinations?
He quickly closed the door. He turned away from it and walked back across the kitchen. His legs bent under him, and he had to sit down at the table in the middle of the room.
Hallucinations? Yes. Dammit, yes, they'd only been hallucinations. The white walls in that stair-well were just something else he had appropriated and used in the illusions.
Go back to bed; make love to Allison.
He had to be certain. Reluctantly, he got
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