The Lost Perception by Daniel F. Galouye Page B

Screamies. I showed the same ability to fight off the initial attacks. And I made it safely over the barrier. You’ve got to let us bring you to the institute.”
    “Only way you’ll take me there,” the other said adamantly, “is kicking and screaming—literally.”
    Later that night, while Helen served Gregson coffee in the kitchen, she asked, “What are we going to do?”
    “I don’t know. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone dragging me to an institute against my wishes.”
    “But it’s more than that! He’s obsessed with the idea of a sixth sense!”
    “Not really obsessed. It’s just something for him to cling to at the moment.”
    “You’re going to New York tomorrow?”
    “I have to.”
    “What am / going to do?”
    “Just stand by with a sedation kit until I get back.”
    Her face brightened. “How long will that be?”
    “Right away. I’m telling the bureau I can’t go back to work for them no matter what the job is.”
*  *  *
    From the window of Security Bureau Director Weldon Radcliff s outer office in the Secretariat Building, Manhattan impressed Gregson as not having changed appreciably during the two years of his absence.
    Apparently no additional headway had been made in reconstruction. Those buildings which had stood gaunt and gutted against the skyline in 1997 were, for the most part, still gaunt and gutted. There were fewer persons in the streets below and, proportionately, less traffic.
    But now there were the ululations of many hypodermic sirens, all blending into an ominous undertone, which was a derisive and relentless reminder of the horror that lurked everywhere.
    He turned his attention to a commotion at the corner of East Avenue and Forty-Second Street, where a line of pickets, bearing crudely lettered placards, had come marching into view. Emblazoned in bright red and deep black characters, the posters were legible even from Gregson’s distance:
“SECBU—DRAIN ON OUR RESOURCES!”
“SECBU USURPS NATIONAL POWER!”
“REPRESENTATION DEAD!”
“BILLIONS DOWN THE DRAIN—NO SCREAMIE CURE!”
“WHY AN INTERNATIONAL GUARD—WITH NO ALIEN THREAT?”
“DISSOLVE THE BUREAU!”
“NATIONAL GOVERNMENT FIRST!”
    Gregson watched an Army truck jolt to a halt at the corner and disgorge a contingent of United States Militia. Clad in ill-fitting and occasionally torn fatigues, the soldiers vividly contrasted the flawlessly unformed Guardsmen who protected the Secretariat Building.
    Adjusting masks, the militiamen hurled tear bombs, then began rounding up the demonstrators and herding them into the truck.
    A sedate, elderly receptionist called to Gregson from across the room, then ushered him into the office of the director.
    Heavy set shoulders hunched low over the desk, Radcliff sat there swiftly signing one form after another.
    Gregson approached. But he was altogether unprepared for the jarring thud that exploded behind him as the receptionist slammed the door on her way out.
    In the next instant his startled mind, stripped of its defenses, was again laid bare to the scorching, blinding radiance of the Screamies. But he quickly restored his composure and locked out all the horrors of the attack.
    Radcliff looked up and smiled. “Don’t hold that against Miss Ashley. It was a test. And apparently your control is excellent”
    “Thanks,” Gregson said stiffly. “I really needed that”
    Radcliff came around the desk, hand extended. “Welcome back to the grind. We have plenty of work cut out for you.”
    “Sorry. But all I’m interested in is a heavy dose of quiet life—and my own problems.”
    “I think you’ll change your mind.”
    Gregson accepted a chair. “Hear anything about Wellford?”
    “That British agent? The one who went Screamie just before you did? He was released from isolation six months ago.”
    Then Ken had made it safely through the barrier too! “Where is he? I’d like to get in touch with him.”
    “If you do, you’d better take along a battalion