No. He didn't have it figured out. Let the witches figure it out. Let
some old forbidden books do it. Bring the problem to some warlock. But
not to him. He was only a Doctor of Philosophy in Psychology. But
maybe--
"Hallucinations," he muttered faintly. "Negative hallucinations."
"Doctor. Did you ever hear the little joke about the two psychiatrists
who met one morning and one said, 'You're feeling excellent today. How
am I feeling?'"
He shrugged. "We have insight into each other's abnormality, but are
unaware of the same in ourselves."
"That's the whole basis for psychiatry, isn't it?"
"In a way. But this is physical--functional--when psychiatry presents
situation where--" His voice trailed off.
"I have it figured this way." How eager she was. Somehow, it didn't
matter much now, to him. "We're conditioned to react to reality in
certain accepted ways. For instance that we're supposed to see our
shadows. So we see them. But in our case they were never really there to
see. Our sanity or 'normalcy' is maintained that way. But the constant
auto-illusion must always lead to neuroticism and pathology--the hidden
fears. But these fears must express themselves. So they do so in more
socially acceptable ways."
Her voice suddenly dropped as her odd eyes flickered across the street.
"But we see each other as we really are," she whispered tensely. "Though
we could never have recognized the truth in ourselves."
She pointed stiffly. Her mouth gaped, quivered slightly.
He turned slowly. His mouth twitched with a growing terrible hatred.
They were coming for him now.
* * * * *
Four men with rifles were coming toward him. Stealthily creeping, they
were, as though it were some pristine scene with caves in the
background. They were bent slightly, stalking. Hunters and hunted, and
the law of the wild and two of them stopping in the middle of the
street. The other two branched, circled, came at him from either side,
clumping down the walk. George recognized them all. The town marshal,
Bill Conway, and Mike Lash, Harry Hutchinson, and Dwight Farrigon.
Edith Bailey was backed up against the window. Her eyes were strangely
dilated. But the faces of the four men exuded cold animal hate, and
blood-lust.