As soon as Phelps was gone, I took a careful look at my new living
quarters. The room itself was about fourteen by eighteen, but the end in
which I was confined was only fourteen by ten, the other eight feet of
end being barred off by a very efficient-looking set of heavy metal rods
and equally strong cross-girdering. There was a sliding door that fit in
place as nicely as the door to a bank vault; it was locked by heavy
keeper-bars that slid up from the floor and down from the ceiling and
they were actuated by hidden motors. In the barrier was a flat
horizontal slot wide enough to take a tray and high enough to pass a
teacup. The bottom of this slot was flush with a small table that
extended through the barrier by a couple of feet on both sides so that a
tray could be set down on the outside and slipped in.
I tested the bars with my hands, but even my new set of muscles wouldn't
flex them more than a few thousandths of an inch.
The walls were steel. All I got as I tried them was a set of
paint-clogged fingernails. The floor was also steel. The ceiling was a
bit too high for me to tackle, but I assumed that it, too, was steel.
The window was barred from the inside, undoubtedly so that any visitor
from the outside could not catch on to the fact that this building was a
private calaboose.
The--er--furnishings of this cold storage bin were meager of minimum
requirements. A washstand and toilet. A bunk made of metal girders
welded to the floor. The bedding rested on wide resilient straps fixed
to the cross-bars at top and bottom of the bed. A foam-rubber mattress,
sheets, and one blanket finished off the bed.
It was a cell designed by Mekstroms to contain Mekstroms and by
wiseacres to contain other wiseacres. The non-metallic parts of the room
were, of course, fireproof. Anything I could get hold of was totally
useless as a weapon or lever or tool; anything that might have been
useful to a prisoner was welded down.
Having given up in the escape department, I sat on my bunk and lit a
cigarette. I looked for tell-tales, and found a television lens set
above the door of the room eight feet outside of my steel barrier.
Beside the lens was a speaker grille and a smaller opening that looked
like a microphone dust cover.
With a grunt, I flipped my cigarette at the television lens. I hit just
above the hole, missing it by about an inch. Immediately a
tinny-sounding voice said,
"That is not permitted, Mr. Cornell. You are expected to maintain some
degree of personal cleanliness. Since you cannot pick up that cigarette
butt, you have placed an unwelcome task upon our personnel. One more
infraction of this nature and you will not be permitted the luxury of
smoking."
"Go to the devil!" I snapped.
There was no reply. Not even a haughty chuckle. The silence was worse
than any reply because it pointed out the absolute superiority of their
position.
Eventually I dozed off, there being nothing else to do. When I awoke
they'd shoved a tray of food in on my table. I ate unenthusiastically. I
dozed again, during which time someone removed the tray. When I woke up
the second time it was night and time to go to bed, so I went. I woke up
in the morning to see a burly guy enter with a tray of breakfast. I
attempted to engage him in light conversation but he did not even let on
that I was in the cell. Later he removed the tray as silently as he'd
brought it, and I was left with another four hours of utter boredom
until the same bird returned with a light lunch. Six hours after lunch
came a slightly more substantial dinner, but no talk.
By bedtime the second night I was getting stir-crazy.
I hit the sack at about nine thirty, and tossed and turned, unable to
drop off because I was not actually tired. I was also wondering when
they'd come around with their brain-washing crew, or maybe someone who'd
enter with an ultimatum.
On the following morning, the tray-bearer was Dr. Thorndyke, who sat on
the chair on the outside of my bars and looked at me silently. I tried
giving him stare for stare, but eventually I gave up and said, "So now
where do we go?"
"Cornell, you're in a bad spot of your own making."
"Could be," I admitted.
"And yet, really, you're more of a victim of circumstances."
"Forgetting all the sideplay, I'm a prisoner," I told him curtly. "Let's
face a few facts, Thorndyke, and stop tossing this guff."
"All right," he said shortly, "The facts are these: We would prefer that
you help us willingly. We'd further prefer to have you as you are. That
is, un-reoriented mentally."
"You couldn't afford to trust me," I grunted.
"Maybe we can. It's no secret that we've latched on to quite a number of
your friends. Let's assume that they will all be well-treated if you
agree to join us willingly."
"I'm sure that the attitude of any of my friends is such that they'd
prefer me to stand my ground rather than betray their notions of right
and wrong." I told him.
"That's a foolish premise," he replied. "You could no more prevail
against us than you could single-handedly overthrow the Government.
Having faced that fact, it becomes sound and sensible to accept the
premise and then see what sort of niche you can carve out of the new
order."
"I don't like your new order," I grunted.
"Many people will not," he admitted. "But then, people do not really
know what's good for them."
I almost laughed at him. "Look," I said, "I'd rather make my own
ignorant mistakes than to have some Great Father supervise my life. And
speaking of fathers, we've both got to admit that God Himself permits us
the complete freedom of our wills."
Thorndyke sneered at me. "If we're to quote the Scripture," he said
sourly, "I'll point out that 'The Lord Thy God is a jealous God,
visiting His wrath even upon seven generations of those who hate Him.'"
"Granted," I replied calmly, "But whether we love Him or hate Him is
entirely up to our own particular notion. Now--"
"Cornell, stop talking like an idiot. Here, too, you can take your
choice. I'm not ordering you. I'm just trying to point out that whether
you go on suffering or enjoying life is entirely up to your own
decision. And also your decision will help or hinder others."
"You're entirely too Godlike," I told him.
"Well," he said, "think it over."
"Go to the devil!"
"Now, that's a very weak response," he said loftily, "Doing nobody any
good or harm. Just talk. So stop gabbing and think."
Thorndyke left me with my thoughts. Sure, I had bargaining power, but it
was no good. I'd be useful only until they discovered some method of
inoculating normal flesh with Mekstrom's Disease, and once that was
taken care of, Steve Cornell would be a burden upon their resources.
So that was the morning of my third day of incarceration and nothing
more took place all day. They didn't even give me anything to read, and
I almost went nuts. You have no idea of how long fourteen hours can be
until you've been sitting in a cell with absolutely nothing to do. I
exercised by chinning myself on the bars and playing gymnastics. I
wanted to run but there was not enough room. The physical thrill I got
out of being able to chin myself with one hand wore off after a half
hundred pull-ups because it was no great feat for a Mekstrom. I did
push-ups and bridges and other stunts until I was bored again.
And all the while, my thinking section was going around and around. The
one main point that I kept coming back to was a very unpleasant future
to face:
It was certain that no matter what I did, nor how I argued, I was going
to help them out. Either I would do it willingly or they'd grow tired of
the lecture routine and take me in for a mental re-evaluation, after
which (Being not-Steve Cornell any more) I'd join their ranks and do
their bidding. About the only thing I could look at with self-confidence
was my determination to hold out. If I was going to join them, it would
be after I were no longer the man I am, but reoriented into whatever
design they wanted. And that resolve was weakened by the normal human
will to live. You can't make a horse drink water, but you can lead a
human being to a well and he will drink it dry if you keep a shotgun
pointed in his direction.
And so it ended up with my always wondering if, when the cards were all
dealt out face up, whether I would have the guts to keep on saying 'No'
right up to the point where I walked into their department of
brain-washing. In fact, I was rather afraid that in the last moment I'd
weaken, just to stay being me.
That uncertainty of mine was, of course, just the idea they wanted to
nourish in my mind. They were doing it by leaving me alone with my
mental merry-go-round.
Again I hit the sack out of sheer boredom and I turned and tossed for
what seemed like hours before I dropped off to sleep, wondering and
dreaming about who was to be the next visitor with a bill of goods to
sell.
The next visitor came in about midnight, or thereabouts. I woke up with
the realization that someone had come in through the outer door and was
standing there in the semi-dark caused by a bright moon shining in
through my barred window.
"Steve," she said, in a near whisper.
"Go away," I told her. "Haven't you done enough already?"
"Oh, please, Steve. I've got to talk to you."
I sat on the edge of my bunk and looked at her. She was fully dressed;
her light printed silk was of the same general pattern and fit that she
preferred. In fact, Catherine looked as I'd always seen her, and as I'd
pictured her during the long hopeless weeks of our separation.
"You've got something to add?" I asked her coldly.
"I've got to make you understand, Steve," she pleaded.
"Understand what?" I snapped. "I know already. You deliberately set out
to marry, or else-how tie some emotional cable onto me. God knows that
you succeeded. If it hadn't been for that accident, I'd have been nailed
down tight."
"That part is true," she whispered.
"Naturally, you've got justification."
"Well, I have."
"So has any burglar."
She shook her head at me. "Steve, you don't really understand. If only
you could read my mind and know the truth--"
She let this trail off in a helpless awkwardness. It was one of those
statements that are meaningless because it can be said by either friend
or foe and cannot be checked.