"Don't feel ashamed. You saw the situation clearly, just as the
so-called Naturalists do. And just as the government does. Only the
government can't dare admit it--hence the secrecy behind this
project."
"A hush-hush government plan to stimulate further breeding? I still
don't see--"
"Look at the world," Ritchie repeated. "Look at it realistically.
What's the situation at present? Population close to six billion, and
rising fast. There was a leveling-off period in the Sixties, and then
it started to climb again. No wars, no disease to cut it down. The
development of synthetic foods, the use of algae and fungi, rules out
famine as a limiting factor. Increased harnessing of atomic power has
done away with widespread poverty, so there's no economic deterrent to
propagation. Neither church nor state dares set up a legal
prohibition. So here we are, at the millennium. In place of
international tension we've substituted internal tension. In place of
thermonuclear explosion, we have a population explosion."
"You make it look pretty grim."
"I'm just talking about today. What happens ten years from now, when
we hit a population-level of ten billion? What happens when we reach
twenty billion, fifty billion, a hundred? Don't talk to me about more
substitutes, more synthetics, new ways of conserving top-soil. There
just isn't going to be _room_ for everyone!"
"Then what's the answer?"
"That's what the government wants to know. Believe me, they've done a
lot of searching; most of it _sub rosa_. And then along came this man
Leffingwell, with _his_ solution. That's just what it is, of
course--an endocrinological solution, for direct injection."
"Leffingwell? The Dr. Leffingwell whose name was on that photostat?
What's he got to do with all this?"
"He's boss of this project," Ritchie said. "He's the one who persuaded
them to set up a breeding-center. You're _his_ guinea pig."
"But why all the secrecy?"
"That's what I wanted to know. That's why I scurried around, pulled
strings to get a lab technician's job here. It wasn't easy, believe
me. The whole deal is being kept strictly under wraps until
Leffingwell's experiments prove out. They realized right away that it
would be fatal to use volunteers for the experiments--they'd be bound
to talk, there'd be leaks. And of course, they anticipated some
awkward results at first, until the technique is refined and
perfected. Well, they were right on that score. I've seen some of
their failures." Ritchie shuddered. "Any volunteer--any military man,
government employee or even a so-called dedicated scientist who broke
away would spread enough rumors about what was going on to kill the
entire project. That's why they decided to use mental patients for
subjects. God knows, they had millions to choose from, but they were
very particular. You're a rare specimen, Collins."
"How so?"
"Because you happen to fit all their specifications. You're young, in
good physical condition. Unlike ninety percent of the population, you
don't even wear contact lenses, do you? And your aberration was
temporary, easily removed by removing you from the tension-sources
which created it. You have no family ties, no close friends, to
question your absence. That's why you were chosen--one of the two
hundred."
"Two hundred? But there's only a dozen others here now."
"A dozen males, yes. You're forgetting the females. Must be about
fifty or sixty in the other building."
"But if you're talking about someone like Sue, she's a nurse--"
Ritchie shook his head. "That's what she was _told_ to say. Actually,
she's a patient, too. They're all patients. Twelve men and sixty
women, at the moment. Originally, about thirty men and a hundred and
seventy women."
"What happened to the others?"
"I told you there were some failures. Many of the women died in
childbirth. Some of them survived, but found out about the
results--and the results, up until now, haven't been perfect. A few of
the men found out, too. Well, they have only one method of dealing
with failures here. They dispose of them. I told you about that
chimney, didn't I?"
"You mean they killed the offspring, killed those who found out about
them?"
Ritchie shrugged.
"But what are they actually _doing_? Who is this Dr. Leffingwell?
What's it all about?"
"I think I can answer those questions for you."
Harry wheeled at the sound of the familiar voice.
Dr. Manschoff beamed down at him from the top of the river bank.
"Don't be alarmed," he said. "I wasn't following you with any intent
to eavesdrop. I was merely concerned about him." His eyes flickered as
he directed his gaze past Harry's shoulder, and Harry turned again to
look at Arnold Ritchie.
* * * * *
The little man was no longer standing and he was no longer alone. Two
attendants now supported him, one on either side, and Ritchie himself
sagged against their grip with eyes closed. A hypodermic needle in one
attendant's hand indicated the reason for Ritchie's sudden collapse.
"Merely a heavy sedative," Dr. Manschoff murmured. "We came prepared,
in expectation of just such an emergency." He nodded at his
companions. "Better take him back now," he said. "I'll look in on him
this evening, when he comes out of it."
"Sorry about all this," Manschoff continued, sitting down next to
Harry as the orderlies lifted Ritchie's inert form and carried him up
the slanting slope. "It's entirely my fault. I misjudged my
patient--never should have permitted him such a degree of freedom.
Obviously, he's not ready for it yet. I do hope he didn't upset you in
any way."
"No. He seemed quite"--Harry hesitated, then went on
hastily--"logical."
"Indeed he is." Dr. Manschoff smiled. "Paranoid delusions, as they
used to call them, can often be rationalized most convincingly. And
from what little I heard, he was doing an excellent job, wasn't he?"
"Well--"
"I know." A slight sigh erased the smile. "Leffingwell and I are mad
scientists, conducting biological experiments on human guinea pigs.
We've assembled patients for breeding purposes and the government is
secretly subsidizing us. Also, we incinerate our victims--again, with
full governmental permission. All very logical, isn't it?"
"I didn't mean that," Harry told him. "It's just that he said Sue was
pregnant and he was hinting things."
"Said?" Manschoff stood up. "_Hinted?_ I'm surprised he didn't go
further than that. Just today, we discovered he'd been using the
office facilities--he had a sort of probationary position, as you may
have guessed, helping out the staff in administration--to provide
tangible proof of his artistic creations. He was writing out 'official
reports' and then photostating them. Apparently he intended to
circulate the results as 'evidence' to support his delusions. Look,
here's a sample."
Dr. Manschoff passed a square of glossy paper to Harry, who scanned it
quickly. It was another laboratory report similar to the one Ritchie
had shown him, but containing a different set of names.
"No telling how long this sort of thing has been going on," Manschoff
said. "He may have made dozens. Naturally, the moment we discovered
it, we realized prompt action was necessary. He'll need special
attention."
"But what's wrong with him?"
"It's a long story. He was a reporter at one time--he may have told
you that. The death of his wife precipitated a severe trauma and
brought him to our attention. Actually, I'm not at liberty to say any
more regarding his case; you understand, I'm sure."
"Then you're telling me that everything he had to say was a product of
his imagination?"
"No, don't misunderstand. It would be more correct to state that he
merely distorted reality. For example, there _is_ a Dr. Leffingwell on
the staff here; he is a diagnostician and has nothing to do with
psychotherapy _per se_. And he has charge of the hospital ward in Unit
Three, the third building you may have noticed behind Administration.
That's where the nurses maintain residence, of course. Incidentally,
when any nurses take on a--special assignment, as it were, such as
yours, Leffingwell does examine and treat them. There's a new oral
contraception technique he's evolved which may be quite efficacious.
But I'd hardly call it an example of sinister experimentation under
the circumstances, would you?"
Harry shook his head. "About Ritchie, though," he said. "What will
happen to him?"
"I can't offer any prognosis. In view of my recent error in judgment
concerning him, it's hard to say how he'll respond to further
treatment. But rest assured that I'll do my best for his case. Chances
are you'll be seeing him again before very long."
Dr. Manschoff glanced at his watch. "Shall we go back now?" he
suggested. "Supper will be served soon."
The two men toiled up the bank.
Harry discovered that the doctor was right about supper. It was being
served as he returned to his room. But the predictions concerning
Ritchie didn't work out quite as well.
It was after supper--indeed, quite some hours afterwards, while Harry
sat at his window and stared sleeplessly out into the night--that he
noted the thick, greasy spirals of black smoke rising suddenly from
the chimney of the Third Unit building. And the sight may have
prepared him for the failure of Dr. Manschoff's prophecy regarding his
disturbed patient.
Harry never asked any questions, and no explanations were ever
forthcoming.
But from that evening onward, nobody ever saw Arnold Ritchie again.