_It only she weren't a fanatic._
And if she had to be a fanatic, why did she have to be the one kind
that was my natural enemy, a member of the group of irresponsible
troublemakers that Defoe had ordered me to "handle"?
What, I wondered, did he mean by "handle"? Did it include
chlorpromazine in a lytic solution and a plastic cocoon?
I put that thought out of my mind; there was no chance whatever
that her crazy belief, that the Company was using suspension as a
retaliatory measure, was correct. But thinking of Defoe made me think
of my work. After all, I told myself, Rena was more than a person. She
was a key that could unlock the whole riddle. She had the answers--if
there was a movement of any size, she would know its structure.
I thought for a moment and withdrew the "if." She had admitted the riot
of that afternoon was planned. It _had_ to be a tightly organized group.
And she had to have the key.
* * * * *
At last, I had been getting slightly drowsy, but suddenly I was wide
awake.
There were two possibilities. I faced the first of them shakily--_she
might be right_. Everything within me revolted against the notion, but
I accepted it as a theoretical possibility. If so, I would, of course,
have to revise some basic notions.
On the other hand, she might be wrong. I was certain she _was_ wrong.
But I was equally certain she was no raddled malcontent and if she
was wrong, and I could prove it to her, she herself might make some
revisions.
Propped on one elbow, I peered at her. "Rena?" I whispered
questioningly.