The psychologist looked up, and his eyes were tired. "I know it," he
said calmly. "Listen to this." He started the machine playing the new
tape.
Johnny listened to it through. The voice that came out was high and
wavering. It shook, it chattered, words were indistinguishable. It was
thin with tension, and it rang in Johnny's ears with unwanted
familiarity.
"What's it sound like to you?" Lambert asked when it had finished.
"Like Mitch's voice," Johnny admitted reluctantly.
"It did to me, too. What do you think it is?"
"Don't know," said Johnny shortly. "Might be a pilot whose plane is
shaking apart."
"No."
"I don't know."
Lambert sat back down behind his desk and sucked on his pipestem. He
regarded Johnny impassively, seeming to consider some problem remote
from the room.
Abruptly, he stood again and went to the window, watching the ant-like
activity around the base of Ship II.
"That was a madman's voice," he said. "I made the recording while I was
interning at a state institution."
"So?"
"Mad with fear," Lambert said. "Pure. Simple. Unadulterated. That was
the sound of terror you heard, Johnny. Terror such as few humans have
ever known. That man knew such fear he could not remain sane and live
with it."
_I had a true wife but I left her ... oh, oh, oh._
"You think Mitch--"
"You said yourself the voices were alike." Lambert pointed out.
"I don't believe it."
"Don't have to," said Lambert, turning from the window. "But I'll tell
you something, Johnny. That Ship--" he hooked his thumb out the
window--"is a very big toy. Maybe too big."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning it's possible we've reached beyond Man's limitations. Meaning
it's possible we've built something too big for a man to handle and stay
sane. Maybe we've finally gone too far."
"Maybe."
"I don't insist it's true," said the psychologist. "It's an idea. Fear.
Fear of the unknown, maybe. Too much fear to hold."
"You think I'll crack?" asked Johnny.
The psychologist didn't answer directly. "It's an idea, as I said. I
just wanted you to think it over."
"I will," said Johnny. He stood again, his jaw held tight. "Is that
all?"
"Yes, Colonel, that's all," said Lambert.
When Johnny left, the psychologist sat in brooding silence, staring
morosely at a trail of blue smoke rising from his pipe bowl. He sat
there until the afternoon light faded from the desert base. Then he
stood in the darkened office, sighed, lit his pipe and went home. He was
very tired.
* * * * *
Six weeks later, Johnny Youngbear walked out of the Control blockhouse
into the cold desert morning, carrying his helmet under his arm.
He ran his eyes swiftly up the length of Ship II, trying to forget those
other eyes staring at his back from the blockhouse. The Ship rippled and
gleamed, alive, eager, the thundering power in her belly waiting to be
born.
_Oh, you bitch! You beautiful bitch_, Johnny thought. _Pregnant with
power like a goddess with a god's child. Bitch, bitch, bitch! I love
you. I hate you. You kill me._
The crew-chief walked by his side. "Nice morning, Colonel," he said.
"Very," said Johnny.
_I had a true wife but I left her ... oh, oh, oh. For you, you beautiful
bitch._
"Say something, Colonel?" asked the crew-chief.
"No. Song running through my head," he explained.
"Yeah," the other man chuckled. "I know how it is."
They strapped him into the padded control chair, the controls arranged
around him in a neat semicircle, easy to reach.
_This is my day._