_The needle moved, probed ever so slightly, stimulating deep, deep in
the soft, fragile tissue ... seeking, probing, recording. A twinge, the
barest trace of shock, a sharp series of firing nerve cells, a flicker
of light, a picture--Jeff Meyer shifted, his eyelids lowering very
slightly, and a muscle in his jaw began twitching involuntarily...._
* * * * *
He was floating gently on his back, resting on huge, fluffy, billowing
clouds. He didn't know where he was, nor did he care. He just lay
still, spinning gently, like a man in free fall, feeling the gentle
clouds around him pressing him downward and downward. His eyes were
closed tightly--so tightly that no ray of light might leak in. He knew
as he floated that whatever happened, he dare not open them.
But then there were sounds around him. He felt his muscles tighten
and he clasped his chest with his arms. There were _things_ floating
through the air around him, and they were making little sounds: tiny
squeaks and groans. He shuddered, suddenly horribly afraid. The noises
grew louder and louder, whispering into his ear, laughing at him.
He opened his eyes with a jolt, staring at the long, black, hollow
tunnel he was falling through. He was spinning, end over end, faster
and faster down the tunnel. He strained to see through the darkness
to the bottom, but he couldn't. Then the laughter started. First
little, quiet giggles, quite near his ear, but growing louder and
louder--unpleasant laughs, chuckles, guffaws. They followed each
other, peal upon peal of insane laughter, reverberating from the curved
tunnel walls, growing louder and louder, more and more derisive. They
were laughing at him--whoever they were--and their laughs rose into
screams in his ears. Then to gain silence he was forced to scream
out himself. And he clasped his hands to his ears and shut his eyes
tight--and abruptly the laughter stopped. _Everything_ stopped.
He lay tense, listening. No, not everything. There were some sounds.
Somewhere in the distance he could hear the bzz-bzz-bzz of a cicada. It
sounded sharp in the summer night air. He rolled over, felt the crisp
sheets under him, the soft pillow, the rustling of the light blanket.
Where?...
And then it came to him, clearly. He was in his room, waiting, waiting
and expecting.
Daddy! Quite suddenly, he knew that Daddy had come home. There had been
no sound in the dark house; he hadn't even heard the jet-car go into
the garage, nor the front door squeak. But he had known, just the same,
that Daddy was here. He blinked at the darkness, and little chills of
fright ran up his spine. It was so dark, and he didn't like the dark,
and he wished Daddy would come up and turn on the light. But Daddy had
said ever since Mommy died that he must be a brave little man, even if
he was only four....
He lay and shivered. There were other noises: outside the window, in
the room--frightening noises. It was all very well to be a brave little
man, but Daddy just didn't understand about the dark and the noises.
And Daddy didn't understand about how he wanted somebody to hold him
close and cuddle him and whisper to him.
And then he heard Daddy's step on the stair and felt him coming nearer.
He rolled over and giggled, pretending to be asleep. Not that he'd fool
Daddy for a minute. Daddy would already know he was awake. They played
the same game night after night. But it was fun to play little games
like that with Daddy. He waited, listening until he heard the door
open, and the footsteps reach his bed. He heard Daddy's breathing.
And then he rolled over and threw the covers off and jumped up like a
little white ghost, shouting, "Boo! Did I scare you, Daddy?"
And then Daddy took him up on his shoulders and laughed, and said he
was a big white horse come to carry little Jeff on a long journey. So
they took the long journey down to the study for milk and cookies, just
as they always did when Daddy came home. He knew Daddy didn't want any
milk, of course. Daddy never drank milk at night with him. Daddy was
much more interested in the funny cards, the cards he had watched Daddy
make that day a year ago. Daddy had him run through them over and over
and over ... circle, spiral, figure eight, letter B, letter R.... _It
was a letter R, Daddy? But it couldn't have been, I know--oh, you're
trying to catch me! Can we play with the marbles now, Daddy? Or the
dice tonight? The round-cornered ones--they're much easier, you know._
But Daddy would watch him as he read the cards, wrinkling up his nose
and calling out the figure. And he would see Daddy mark down each right
one and each wrong one. And then he would feel Daddy almost beaming
happiness and satisfaction. And he would wait eagerly for Daddy to
get out the dice, because they were so much more fun than the cards.
_The square-cornered dice, Daddy? Oh, Daddy, they're so much harder.
Oh, another game, a new one? Oh, good, Daddy. Teach me a new game with
them, please. I'll try very hard to make them come out right._
And then after the new game, Daddy told him a story before bed. It was
one of his funny stories, where he _talked_ the story, but put in all
the fun and jokes and private things without any words.
It was funny. None of the others, like Mary Ann down the block, could
feel their daddies like he could. Sometimes he wondered about it. He
would tell Mary Ann about it as a special secret, but she wouldn't
believe him. Nobody can hear their daddies without their daddies
talking, she said. But he knew better.
And then there were thoughts creeping through his mind, feelings
coming from Daddy that were uncomfortable feelings. He sat up suddenly
in Daddy's arms and felt the chill pass through him.
"Daddy...."
"Yes, son."
"Why--why are you afraid, Daddy? What are you afraid of?"
And Daddy laughed and looked at him in a strange way and said, "Afraid?
What do you mean, afraid?" But the afraidness was still there. Even
when he went to bed and Daddy left him again, he could still feel the
afraidness....
And then, abruptly, he was swinging into a vast, roaring whirlpool that
swung around his head. He felt his body twisting in the blackness,
swirling about, carried along without effort. He knew, somehow, that he
was Jeff Meyer. And he knew that the needle was there, probing in his
mind; he could feel it approach and withdraw. He could feel the twinge
of recognition, the almost intangible sudden awareness and realization
of a truth.
Then the seeker was gone: the probe finished in that area and moved
on to the next. The whirlpool was a tunnel of rushing water, swinging
about him, whirling him with lightning speed up ... up ... up; around,
then down with a sickening rush. Then up again, as though he were
riding the Wall of Death in a circus, around and around ... yet always
drawing him in closer ... closer ... closer....
_To what?_
He knew he was fighting it, twisting with all his strength to fight
against the impossible whirlpool which choked and carried him like
a feather. He clenched his fists and fought, gritting his teeth,
desperate, suddenly horribly afraid, more horribly afraid than he had
ever been in his life. Down at the end of the tumultuous whirlpool,
something lay--something horrid and ugly, something that had been wiped
out of his mind, scoured out and disposed of long, long ago. _It was
something he dared not face, never again._ Suddenly Jeff screamed and
tried to force his mind back to that place. He tried desperately to
remember, tried to see where the whirlpool was leading him before it
was too late--_before it killed him!_
Something lay down there, waiting for him. It was more hideous than his
mind could imagine--_something which could kill him_. Closer and closer
he swept, helpless, his body growing rigid with fear, fighting, blood
rushing through his veins. But he couldn't escape that closed, frantic
alleyway to death.
_Daddy was afraid._ The thought screamed through Jeff's mind with the
impact of a lightning bolt. It paralyzed his thoughts, tightened his
muscles into rigid knots. Daddy was afraid ... afraid ... _afraid_--so
horribly afraid.
The thought swept through him, congealing his blood. He cried out,
shaking his head, trying to fight away the seeping stench of deadly
fear, trying to clear it out of his mind. His face twisted in agony
and his whole body wrenched. Suddenly, he was screaming and pounding
his face against the ground. He was alone and his mind was wracked and
obsessed by that horrible fear.
He opened his eyes and saw the turf under his head. Dimly, through the
pain sweeping through his mind, he saw the grassy meadow on which he
lay, completely by himself. The little singing brook was a few feet
away. The afternoon sun was high, but the willow tree hung over him,
covering him with cool shade. From somewhere a bird was singing.
"Daddy!" The word broke from his lips in a small scream, and he sat
bolt upright, his hair tousled, his small, keen-featured eight-year-old
face twisted with the pain and fear that tore through his mind. Some
corner of his brain, so very remote, told him that he was not eight,
that he was a grown man. But he saw his tiny hands, grubby with the
dirt of the barnyard and lane through which he had walked in coming
here. He had been driven here by the pain and fear and hatred that had
been streaming into his mind.
It was Daddy. He knew it was Daddy, and Daddy was afraid. Daddy was
running, with the desperation of a hunted animal, running down a
corridor, his mind in a frenzy of fear. He was peering back over his
shoulder, his breath coming in great gasps as he reached the end of the
hall, wrenched vainly at the door and then collapsed against it. And
while he sobbed in great gasps, tears of fear and desperation ran down
his cheeks.
Jeff saw the door; he felt Daddy's body heaving, heard the furious
pulse pounding in his own head. He saw the cold, darkened corridor, and
his mind was picked up in the frenzied sweep of his father's thoughts,
carried in a rush he could neither understand nor oppose. Stronger than
ever before, his thoughts were Daddy's thoughts. He saw through Daddy's
eyes; he felt through Daddy's body. In the closest rapport they had
ever known, though Jeff lay here on the grassy plot, his body writhed
with the pain and fear that Daddy was suffering miles distant.
_They're coming_, his mind screamed. _Trapped, trapped--what can
I do?_ Daddy was racing back up the corridor now, his eye catching
an elevator standing open. He ran inside, groped frantically for the
switch. He had to get away, had to get down below, somehow get to the
street! Oh, God, what a mistake to walk into this place--an office
building, of all places, where they could so easily follow him in, cut
him off, trap him!
Why had he come? Why? He'd known they were hunting for him, knew they'd
been getting closer and closer. But how could he have sensed that
this day would bring a panic, that the stock market would take its
nosedive this one particular day, putting the finger on him without any
question, spotting him, pointing out his exact location to his hunters,
beyond shadow of doubt?
How could he have known? This was to have been the final test, the
test to prove the force he had in his mind--the force which had been
destroying and destroying and destroying. And it had emanated from
his own mind in some unspeakable way, uncontrolled, unbelieved and
misunderstood. It was the force which had brought the hunters to him.
_But not now!_ Oh, please, please, not now--not when he was so close
to the answer. Not when he was so close. Slowly, helpless anger seethed
through his mind. They had no right to stop him now. In another day,
another week, he could have the answer. In another few days he would
have corralled this frightening power, controlled it. He knew he could
find the answer. He stood on the very brink. But now the hunters had
trapped him--
_Why, Daddy? Why are they hunting you? Oh, Daddy, Daddy, please, I'm
so scared! Please, Daddy, come home. Please don't be so much afraid,
Daddy. I'm so frightened...._
The elevator gave a lurch. He fell against the door as the car ground
to a halt between floors. Frantically, he pounded the button, waited
through long eternities as the car sat, silent, motionless. Then his
fingers ran hastily along the cracks in the car door, seeking a hold,
trying desperately to wrench open the locked door.
He felt them coming, somewhere above him, somewhere below him. Then
something tore loose in his mind; some last dam of control broke,
and he was screaming his defiance at them, screaming his hatred, his
bitterness. They had him, they were going to kill him without trial,
shoot him down like a mad dog. He felt them flinch and cower back at
the stream of hatred roaring out of his mind, felt them move back. They
were afraid of him, but they were determined to kill him.
_A sound above!_ He flattened back against the elevator wall, wrenching
at the metal grating with superhuman strength, trying to twist open
the metal, to find some way into the shaft below. Someone was coming
down from above, down onto the top of the elevator; someone whose mind
was filled with fear, but who moved with determination. There was a
scraping sound from above, a dull twang of cable striking against cable.
_They could be cutting the car loose._
He leaped for the ceiling of the car, stabbing up with his fingers for
the little escape doorway. Sheer hatred drove his legs as he jumped
and jumped again, until the door flew up. His hand caught the rim, and
he dragged his body up. He jerked his shoulders through the small
opening, heaving and lunging through to the top of the car.
He looked up. He saw a face, a single face, hanging mistily above him.
Dimly he made out the form of a man hanging on the cable twenty feet
above. His legs were wrapped around the cables and one hand carried
the small, dully gleaming weapon. His mind screamed hatred at the man,
and he grabbed at the cables, wrenching them, shaking them like a
huge tree. He saw the man slowly moving down, spinning back and forth
helplessly as the cables vibrated. But he held on tenaciously, moving
closer.
_Daddy! Stop him! Daddy, don't let him kill you._
The face came into clearer view: a thin face, an evil one, twisted with
fear and pain. The figure moved slowly down the cables, slowly turning,
lifting the arm with the weapon, patiently trying to take aim. It was
a gaunt face, with high cheekbones, slightly bulging eyes, high flat
forehead, graying hair. _Remember that face, Jeff. Never forget that
face, that face is the face of the man who is butchering your father._
Hatred streamed out at the face; he crouched back against the wall of
the shaft, wrenching at the cables, trying vainly to shake the killer
loose. He had to get him first; he had to stop him. _He's so close;
he's turning; the gun is raising. I'll never get him--_
The face, hovering close, eyes wide--the face of a ghoul--and below the
face was the dull, round hole of the gun muzzle, just inches away. A
finger tightened. A horrible flash came, straight in the eyes--
_Daddy!_
The thoughts screamed through his mind: the bitter, naked hatred, the
hatred of madness, streaming out in one last searing inferno. Then came
a sickening lurch, a lurch of maddened fear and hate. And there was the
snuffing out of a light, leaving darkness....
_Daddy! No, Daddy. No, I can't feel you any more, Daddy. What have they
done to you? Oh, please, Daddy, talk to me. Talk to me. No, no, no. Oh,
Daddy, Daddy, Daddy...._
Dr. Schiml looked up from the pale, prostrate form after a long time;
his forehead was beaded with sweat. The color had drained almost
completely from Jeff's face, and his skin had taken a waxy cast. His
breathing was so shallow it was hardly audible in the still room, and
the panel of flickering lights had become almost completely still.
"We can't go on yet," said Dr. Schiml, his voice hoarse. "We'll have to
wait." He turned and walked across the room, trying to keep his eyes
away from the prostrate form on the bed; yet everywhere he went, it
seemed his eyes caught the idiotic stare in the man's blank eyes. "Well
have to wait," he repeated, and his voice was almost a sob.