A voice was talking across the room, a muffled, mysterious rumble of
up-and-down sounds. Slowly Jeff dragged his mind out of the clinging
depths of nightmare, back to the stuffy, dimly lit room. How long had
he slept? And how late was it now? The soft voices across the room gave
no clue, and his aching mind was too tired to care any more. He just
lay in the dim light, every muscle aching, his mind returning again and
again to the nightmare he had been reliving for the thousandth time.
It had been horribly sharp this time, clear as noonday: the same
subject as always, the same face, the same horrible knowledge, and the
same soul-wrenching hatred welling up and bubbling over in his mind.
Always it was hatred without plan or form, pure, disorganized animal
fury. But this time the dream had been more coherent, clearer, more
unmistakable and vicious.
He had been walking down the street in the heart of the city. Yes, it
was mid-morning. The sun's heat was unbearable already, and his jacket
and shirt were damp. What was he doing that morning? Was he on his way
to the survey depot with some information on the next Mars run? It
didn't really matter. But he turned into the building and then it hit
him.
_It was like the shock that had struck him in the testing room_, he
thought. He had run into the man bodily. Stepping back to beg his
pardon, he saw the man's face. That's where the dream went wild, just
as his mind had gone wild on that sunny morning so long ago. He saw
the man turn and run like the wind, snaking into the flowing stream
of people on the street. Jeff followed, shouting, his fists and legs
churning through the masses of people. He screamed in hoarse, maddened
despair as he saw the figure vanish before his eyes.
And then he was leaning against the wall, panting, tears streaming down
his face. Unable to understand, knowing only that this was the man
whose face had haunted his dreams all his life, he acknowledged this
was the man he would have to kill.
His eyes snapped open. The voices across the room were louder. Jeff
listened. One voice was a woman's--Blackie's, of course. There was no
mistaking the Nasty Frenchman's nasal twang. But the third voice--Jeff
blinked his eyes. He moved his head to see the little group across the
room.
They were huddled around a small infra-red coffee maker: Blackie, the
Nasty Frenchman, and the huge, bald-headed man called Harpo. Blackie's
voice was sharp and pleading as she echoed the Nasty Frenchman in angry
protest. Harpo's heavy bass rumbled an undertone to the whispered
discussion. Painfully, Jeff drew himself up on an elbow and turned
his ear in the direction of the huddle, as the words drifted to him,
unclearly:
"I say find out who and do something about it," the Nasty Frenchman
was insisting angrily. His face was red and spiteful, and his eyes
flashed as he glared up at Harpo. "We're out of it completely. Don't
you see that? Because of this switch, we're off the payroll--ditched
like common scum! Well, the job I've been on was to pay two hundred
thousand dollars, with practically no risk involved. And I'll kill the
man that's cutting me out of it."
Harpo's voice was soothing. "So maybe you're daydreaming. Maybe there
won't be any switch of jobs at all."
"I saw the report, I tell you. It was signed by Schiml himself."