harkins slept only lightly, turning restlessly in the large control chair. finally the pain of his headache increased to the point he could no longer sleep at all, even lightly. just before he wakened, he thought he heard a sound at once intolerably loud and somehow soothing. which was impossible, of course.
opening the viewport shutter a crack, he found the land outside lit ambiguously by the false dawn that was beginning to spread against the eastern hills.
he took several more of the white pills for his headache. briefly he considered eating something, but abandoned the idea. the pain was so intense, he didn't think he could keep anything down.
he found the illusion he had noted yesterday—the whispering sound he could not hear when he tried—was still there. it was even worse now.
all about him was the flickering shadow of a sound, demanding his attention, requesting. and still—when he tried to hear it, it was gone.
he pressed his knuckles against his forehead and clenched his eyes tightly shut.
if only he had something to do to take his mind off the headache and the elusive sound.... but there was nothing to do. with neither the skipdrive nor the atomics operating, he had not even the routine powerchecks to keep him occupied.
then why am i here?
his function was to operate the ship. that much he knew without doubt. and he was well suited to operate it. his hands were properly shaped to manipulate the controls, and he could do it automatically, without thinking about it. he was ship-operator.
but the ship was not operating....
what was his function then, when the ship was not operating?
the other control devices, when not controlling, automatically shut off. perhaps something had gone wrong in his shut-off relay.
that was not it, either. he was not the same as the other controlling mechanisms. he was different. different materials, different potential functions in his structure, all kinds of differences.
but even if it were true that he was not intended to switch off when not functioning as ship-operator, what was he to do?
think it out. think this thing out very carefully.
pain was a signal of improper functioning. all right. he was not functioning properly, then, and he knew it because of the level of pain in his head. if he could get rid of the headache, he would at the same time be finding his proper function.
step one, then: get rid of the headache. and he had to do that anyway, because he was unable to think clearly while he had it.
the headache had alleviated several times, then come back again. that meant he had performed properly, then drifted away into—into—wrong was the word that came to his mind. wrong. he had drifted into improper functioning, and the word for that was wrong, and his headache had come back as a result.
all right. when had the headache alleviated?
he tried to think back. the first time, the first time was when he had found himself speaking the meaningless words into the microphone, announcing his estimated time-to-destination. and then, when he had closed the viewports. and throwing that receive switch....
what did these actions have in common? what factor did they share?
only one thing. two, really. first, they had some connection with the transmit-receive apparatus. or two of the three did, at any rate. the other factor, shared by all three acts, was that they were done almost without his conscious will.
this, then, might be the critical factor. that he act without volition.
relax. completely. allow yourself to act.
he leaned back in the control chair and tried to blank his mind, tried not to give his body any commands.
without volition, without willing.
he closed his eyes.
for a long while there was nothing. then he heard the whir of servomotors. he opened his eyes, delicately probed with his mind ... and the headache had lessened.
he glanced up at the console, to see what he had done. a red bulb glowed over the label airlock. he had thrown the airlock switch, then. and it had been the "proper function" for him, because the headache had lessened. but the out-of-range whispering had not diminished.
the airlock? he shook his head in puzzlement. but the technique seemed to be working. what now?
he closed his eyes again, and this time the delay was shorter. he knew before he looked what had happened. he had lowered the landing ladder.
well, this began to be obvious. he was to leave the ship.
and yet, the headache had been worst when he had left the ship. what did that mean? it seemed to mean leaving the ship was a wrong function. but it was certainly indicated this time, from his opening of the airlock and lowering the ladder.
well, what was wrong function at one time might well be right function another time. that could happen.
leave the ship....
there was an edge of pleasantness and warmth to that thought, and the headache diminished.
"please leave the ship, dick...." it was almost as if he could hear a warmth in the air saying that to him.
try the alternative. deliberately he thought: stay in the ship.
a flash of pain soared up the back of his head and across the top to settle swirling and agonizingly in his temples.
leave the ship, he thought quickly, and the pain abated.
clear enough.
he got to his feet and carefully made his way out of the control room down the catwalk toward the airlock that stood open and waiting to let him out of phoenix i....
an excited non-com slammed open the door to the radio room and shouted, "the airlock's opening!"
banning and colin dashed to the broad window and stared out at the bulky shape of phoenix i, resting monolithic on the landing pad. banning took the proffered binoculars from the non-com, focussed them on the broad flank of the ship.
"it's open, all right," he said. "here." he handed the binoculars to colin.
after a long delay, the landing ladder slid down the side of the ship.
"i think he's going to come out."
"there he is."
"what's he doing?"
"standing in the airlock, looking around. now he's starting to come down. now he's at the bottom of the ladder, looking around again.... now he's walking this way."
"give me the glasses," banning said. he looked for a long moment, making sure the colonel's direction did not change. "still coming this way," he said, putting the glasses carefully on the table by the window. he turned to look at the psychiatrist. "what now?"
colin shrugged. "get him."
"sergeant!" banning called. "sergeant, take five men...."
the room in which they put him was comfortable and secure. very secure. the bed was firmly welded to the wall, the table bolted to the floor. there was nothing movable or detachable in the room.
the three microphones picked up little but the shuffle of feet; cameras dutifully imprinted on film the image of a man pacing restlessly back and forth, examining the fixtures of the room without apparent anxiety or curiosity.
"no trouble at all," banning answered colin's question. "he didn't even see the patrol. spray shot of somnol in the arm and that was it."
"he doesn't seem particularly upset," colin mused, watching the screen on which the lean figure of colonel harkins paced.
"nervous," banning said.
"not as badly as the situation would warrant. i don't think it's getting through to him. he's apathetic."
"how did he react to seeing his wife?" banning asked.
"bewildered him. gave him a hell of a headache."
"that all?"
"that's all."
"what now?"
colin sighed. "get through to him some way." he tamped tobacco in his pipe, his eyes still on the spyscreen. harkins was now sitting on the bed, his hands immobile on his knees, staring straight ahead.
"how do you intend to do that?"
colin reached for a pad of paper and began scribbling, talking as he wrote. "how are you feeding him?"
"double door compartment. put the food in, close the outside door, open the inside."
"put this on his tray next time, will you?" colin handed the general a slip of paper. on it was written a single sentence: richard harkins, i want to talk to you.
"all right," banning said, reading it. "he's due for lunch in about an hour."
on the screen, colin could see the light come on over the food compartment, and the microphones picked up the sound of a bell. harkins, who had not moved from the bed since his initial examination of the cubicle, looked up. the inner door of the compartment opened, revealing a tray with several steaming dishes, a pitcher of milk and a pot of coffee on a self-warm pad.
harkins stood up. he looked at the food, walked over to the tiny open door and picked up the tray. calmly he carried it over to the table, sat down, unfolded the napkin and put it in his lap.
"my god," banning whispered, "you'd think he'd eaten this way all his life."
"apathetic," colin said shortly. "he refuses to admit anything unusual."
"how the hell could he rationalize losing consciousness and waking up in a windowless room?"
colin shrugged. "brain's a funny thing," was his only comment. his eyes were fixed intently on the screen. suddenly harkins noticed the slip of paper tucked under the corner of one of the dishes.
colin leaned forward, took his pipe out of his mouth.
harkins withdrew the paper and looked at it. even on the screen, colin could see the writing, almost make out the words.
harkins stared briefly at the paper, turned it over and looked at the other side in puzzlement. he rubbed the back of his neck and frowned.
finally he gave a little shrug, put the message back on the tray and resumed eating.
colin sat heavily back in his chair. he sighed.
"he didn't even see it," banning said disgustedly.
"he saw the paper, not the message."
"why?"
"personal communication. it implies the existence of another communicating—entity. he won't admit it." colin re-lit his pipe.
"ah, hell!"
"i guess we'll have to take the direct approach," colin said thoughtfully.
he lay relaxed on the bed in the little room, his eyes closed, his face calm and quiet. pulse normal, temperature normal. above and in the walls recorders and cameras purred almost silently with the bland indifference of omniscience.
harkins.
yes.
can you hear me?
... no ... the strain of the question twisted the man's face into a grimace of pain.
pause. then:
you are richard harkins.
yes.
colonel....
yes.
can you hear me?
i.... no. anxious contortion. all right. it's all right.
the man's face returned to relaxation.
how old are you?
thirty-two.
have you always been thirty-two?
...
have you always been thirty-two?
... no ... hesitantly.
you were once younger.
yes.
you were once a child and grew to be a young man and grew to be thirty-two.
... yes ...
why do you hesitate?
i don't understand all the words you say.
what words don't you understand?
well—man. the expression of pain and anxiety flitted across his relaxed features.
i will explain the words later. don't worry about them now.
all right.
richard harkins, we are going to move back to a time when you were nineteen. you are nineteen years old. you are nineteen.
how old are you?
nineteen.
what are you doing?
i—i'm a cadet, i—
what kind of cadet?
... spaserv ...
all right, now we'll move ahead two years. you are twenty-one years old. twenty-one. how old are you?
gradually colin brought harkins forward in time, carefully, feeling his way gingerly along the dark corridors of his mind. he brought him through cadets, graduation, his marriage to martha (touchy: gently, gently)—his service in the planetary fleet.
then: a mysterious phrase; rumors—phoenix project.
—nobody seems to know. something secret, but no telling. everything's secret this year. testing officers right and left and up and down. but nobody knows what for....
... card waiting for me at breakfast ...
months of testing. still nobody knows, but the rumors are running fast and heavy. whole base preoccupied with the misty phoenix project. secret construction hangar, security precautions to the point of absurdity....
... i'm it! ...
... it's faster-than-light drive, that's what phoenix project is. faster-than-light. the big dream, the dream of the stars ...
training. slower through the two years of intensive training. this may be a critical phase. two years, endless repetitive drill, drill practice drill drill drill.... colin's forehead feels cool as he sits beside the bed. perspiration. a glance at his watch shows him two hours since they began.
how did you take to this intensive training?
all right. it was all right. dull, you know, but it was all right generally. after the first year it was pretty automatic. conditioned response, i didn't have to think. if and when such and such happens, press this button, throw that switch. automatic.
automatic, colin thought. that's why he came back then. without volition, responding to given signals according to training.
... walking toward the ship. she's big and bulky, but we're friends by now. now i'm climbing the ladder up to the lock ...
... listening to the count down ... two ... one ... fire! ...
harkins grunted as the re-lived acceleration slammed him back in the control chair with a relentless and unabating pressure. he was silent for thirty seconds.
... blacked out, not long. report in to gila base, launching successful. they acknowledge, give me course. i'm moving "up", at right angles to the plane of the ecliptic. fastest way to get away from large mass bodies ...
time then on atomic rockets, almost a full day. colin brushed over this phase, which was routine. as far as he could tell, harkins' duties had been designed principally to keep him from getting bored before it was time to cut in the skipdrive, and this corresponded with what general banning had told him.
as he approached the time of the skip, he moved more slowly, taking in detail.
... three minute bell. the bell is a pretty sound. i am checking the controls again. everything is fine. i am sitting down in the control chair with my hands relaxed over the ends of the arms. when my fingers brush against the buttons, they tingle, or seem to. we're all ready. there's the two minute bell ...
pause.
one minute bell ...
suddenly harkins sat stiffly upright on the bed. his eyes snapped open, staring with fear and disbelief at something colin could not see.
oh, my god, he whispered.
what is it?
but there was no direct answer. harkins repeated:
oh, my god, my god, my god ...
what do you see? what is there?
oh jesus the stars the stars the stars god in heaven i can't jesus make them go make them go make them go ...
his voice had risen almost to a scream, his eyes open wide and staring, his body rigid.
with a whimper, he clenched his eyes shut and fell back on the bed. he drew his knees slowly and jerkily up to his chest, as if resisting the movement, clasped his arms around his legs tightly.
he began to rock back and forth, gently, gently, as if immersed in water, his breath making an involuntary whining sound as it passed his constricted throat.
move forward in time. move ahead. you are coming out of the skip. you are coming out of the skip. you are returning to normal space.
colin's voice was steady and calm over the high-pitched whines coming from the throat of the man on the bed. suddenly his face relaxed. the eyes remained closed, but closed as if in sleep, rather than anguish. his arms and shoulder released their clenched grip around his knees.
evenly, smoothly, his legs straightened on the bed, his feet digging into the covers and pushing them into a roll at the bottom. he finally lay as he had begun, stretched straight with his hands beside his thighs and his face relaxed. when he spoke, it was in a normal, almost conversational tone.
... belled out. i like the sound of that bell, it is relaxing. it's a good signal and i'm glad it happens that way. i stand up from the control chair and stretch. i have the strong notion something very pleasant has happened.
how do you feel? do you feel strange?
no, i feel fine. everything is fine. i check the instruments, and they show that a skip has been completed. that's good. i don't—i don't—somehow i can't remember why i wanted to ...
his voice broke off, puzzled. colin waited, and in a minute harkins began to speak again.
... hear the sound of the skipdrive. it comforts me. funny, i don't remember ever hearing it before ...
go back before. go back. you hear the one minute bell. you can hear the one minute bell and you are ready to make your skip. you are getting ready to make your skip.
harkins snapped upright again and repeated his actions. he shouted and screamed, his body was forced into the foetal position jerkily....
oh god the stars the stars the stars
whimpering.
go forward. you are returning to normal space....
i feel fine, everything is fine. i check the instruments ...
go back....
there was no lessening.
colin's shirt was slick on his body with sweat, his face looked old, older, his breath came in almost imperceptible quaverings, but his voice remained calm and assured, in violent and distinct contrast to the strain that showed plainly as age in his face—
move ahead....
move back....
twenty-three minutes later, colin closed his eyes and said:
in ten minutes from this time you will waken feeling refreshed and relaxed, as after a good sleep. you will be alert and fresh when you waken. you will feel as if you have just had a pleasant nap. you will remember nothing of what has happened while you were asleep, but you will feel fresh and relaxed when you waken ten minutes from this time.
he finished the waking-formula mechanically and left the little room. he walked slowly and deliberately to his quarters on the base, as though holding himself rigidly in control. he did not answer banning's excited questions except to say, "i can't talk about it now."
reaching his room he fell full length on the bed and was asleep nearly before the swaying of the bed had quieted.
