see you at his office Monday.”
An hour later, after they had seen Miles off at the bull’s-eye, Helen said dejectedly, “I suppose you’ll be leaving Monday.”
“I wouldn’t be endowed with human curiosity if I didn’t And if I can stop just a single person from going through what I did, that trip will be worth the effort”
She watched the craft disappear over the hedgerow, then looked down at her hands. “I wasn’t going to tell you this—not now. I was going to pick a time when I could be sure there’d be no chance of a relapse. But, since you’re leaving day after tomorrow…”
He seized her shoulders. “What is it, Helen?”
“I know why Bill’s so quiet and withdrawn, why he’s secluded most of the time. I found a supply of sedative vials in his room.”
“You mean…?”
“Quietly, without complaining, without even uttering a sound, he’s going Screamie.”
CHAPTER VIII
It wasn’t until Sunday night, under pressure of Monday morning’s departure, that Gregson decided he could no longer put off his confrontation with Forsythe.
There was no doubt that Bill was doggedly trying to fight off the disease. That morning Gregson had watched from the kitchen while Forsythe had leaned against the barn and suddenly lowered his face into his hands, shuddering violently. It was obvious, then, that the nuclear fires of hell were raging in his brain.
Still, all that day, Gregson had procrastinated, not knowing how to approach him on the subject. And it wasn’t until late in the evening that Helen led him upstairs and into Forsythe’s room.
She turned on the table light, gently folded back the covers and eased the sleeve of Forsythe’s nightshirt up along his arm, exposing an area of livid flesh mottled with hypodermic punctures.
“He’s been injecting himself with a diluted solution for weeks!” she exclaimed.
Forsythe snorted himself awake. “Greg? Helen?”
“Yes, Bill—Helen and I are here.”
“Then you know. But I don’t suppose I had much of a chance of hiding it, did I?”
“I’m going to call the Pickup Squad.”
Forsythe reached for his robe. “Not until I start screaming and can’t stop. Until now, though, I’ve been doing all right”
“I thought I was too,” Gregson reminded. “But the roof caved in on my seventh attack.”
“Seventh? Hell, I’ve had seventy. Still going strong.” Forsythe sat on the edge of the bed. “Figure you have to learn’ how to turn the stuff on and off before you can see what it’s all about.”
“And what do you suppose it’s all about?”
“Helen told you, and then me—two years ago. A sixth sense.”
“I didn’t say that,” Helen protested. “I just said that talking about a sixth sense was one of the tricks Kavorba used to confuse me.”
“And I don’t believe he was trying to confuse you. I say he was just trying to tell you, in terms he could only hope you would understand, what the Screamies really are.”
“And what’s that?” Gregson asked.
“As I said, something basic, natural—a new form of perception.”
Gregson wondered whether the other’s mind had been affected by his resistance to the disease.
“Hell,” Forsythe went on, “the Security Bureau itself just admitted the plague might be caused by ‘radiation from space.’”
“But bombardment of the brain by some sort of radiation is a long way from a new form of perception.”
“Is it?” Forsythe laughed dryly. “What is any form of perception except excitation of a specially sensitive area?”
* * *
Gregson saw now that he could readily discount everything the old man was saying, for Forsythe had evidently convinced himself the Screamies were something to be accommodated.
Helen dropped into a chair. “You mean you’re going through all this just because of what that Valorian told me two years ago?”
Forsythe shook his head vigorously. “For reasons of my own. Consider an entire world that’s never known light, even
An hour later, after they had seen Miles off at the bull’s-eye, Helen said dejectedly, “I suppose you’ll be leaving Monday.”
“I wouldn’t be endowed with human curiosity if I didn’t And if I can stop just a single person from going through what I did, that trip will be worth the effort”
She watched the craft disappear over the hedgerow, then looked down at her hands. “I wasn’t going to tell you this—not now. I was going to pick a time when I could be sure there’d be no chance of a relapse. But, since you’re leaving day after tomorrow…”
He seized her shoulders. “What is it, Helen?”
“I know why Bill’s so quiet and withdrawn, why he’s secluded most of the time. I found a supply of sedative vials in his room.”
“You mean…?”
“Quietly, without complaining, without even uttering a sound, he’s going Screamie.”
CHAPTER VIII
It wasn’t until Sunday night, under pressure of Monday morning’s departure, that Gregson decided he could no longer put off his confrontation with Forsythe.
There was no doubt that Bill was doggedly trying to fight off the disease. That morning Gregson had watched from the kitchen while Forsythe had leaned against the barn and suddenly lowered his face into his hands, shuddering violently. It was obvious, then, that the nuclear fires of hell were raging in his brain.
Still, all that day, Gregson had procrastinated, not knowing how to approach him on the subject. And it wasn’t until late in the evening that Helen led him upstairs and into Forsythe’s room.
She turned on the table light, gently folded back the covers and eased the sleeve of Forsythe’s nightshirt up along his arm, exposing an area of livid flesh mottled with hypodermic punctures.
“He’s been injecting himself with a diluted solution for weeks!” she exclaimed.
Forsythe snorted himself awake. “Greg? Helen?”
“Yes, Bill—Helen and I are here.”
“Then you know. But I don’t suppose I had much of a chance of hiding it, did I?”
“I’m going to call the Pickup Squad.”
Forsythe reached for his robe. “Not until I start screaming and can’t stop. Until now, though, I’ve been doing all right”
“I thought I was too,” Gregson reminded. “But the roof caved in on my seventh attack.”
“Seventh? Hell, I’ve had seventy. Still going strong.” Forsythe sat on the edge of the bed. “Figure you have to learn’ how to turn the stuff on and off before you can see what it’s all about.”
“And what do you suppose it’s all about?”
“Helen told you, and then me—two years ago. A sixth sense.”
“I didn’t say that,” Helen protested. “I just said that talking about a sixth sense was one of the tricks Kavorba used to confuse me.”
“And I don’t believe he was trying to confuse you. I say he was just trying to tell you, in terms he could only hope you would understand, what the Screamies really are.”
“And what’s that?” Gregson asked.
“As I said, something basic, natural—a new form of perception.”
Gregson wondered whether the other’s mind had been affected by his resistance to the disease.
“Hell,” Forsythe went on, “the Security Bureau itself just admitted the plague might be caused by ‘radiation from space.’”
“But bombardment of the brain by some sort of radiation is a long way from a new form of perception.”
“Is it?” Forsythe laughed dryly. “What is any form of perception except excitation of a specially sensitive area?”
* * *
Gregson saw now that he could readily discount everything the old man was saying, for Forsythe had evidently convinced himself the Screamies were something to be accommodated.
Helen dropped into a chair. “You mean you’re going through all this just because of what that Valorian told me two years ago?”
Forsythe shook his head vigorously. “For reasons of my own. Consider an entire world that’s never known light, even
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