Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send a
parting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. "Big gun in the
psychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc.
They did put _some_ learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy,
hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me!"
"I don't know," MacKenzie said softly. "I wish I did."
Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming a
fresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelve
hours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go.
Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd--that fool psychiatrist hadn't
seemed to take up that much of his time.
He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, he
lost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization that
nothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He was
going. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of "Marty!" ringing
in the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster,
as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now.
Ish looked up bitterly at the Receptionist. "No," he said.
"But _everybody_ fills out an application," she protested.
"No. I've _got_ a job," he said as he had been saying for the last half
hour.
The Receptionist sighed. "If you'll _only_ read the literature I've
given you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments have
been cancelled."
"Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut this
nonsense. I've got to get back."
"But _nobody_ goes back."
"Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but--" He stopped
at the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. The
reception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD baskets
on the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinary
about it. But the room--a big room, he realized--seemed to fade out at
the edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too....
"Let's see your back!" he rapped out, his voice high.
She sighed in exasperation. "If you'd read the _literature_ ..." She
swiveled her chair slowly.
"No wings," he said.
"Of course not!" she snapped. She brushed her hair away from her
forehead without his telling her to. "No horns, either."
"Streamlined, huh?" he said bitterly.
"It's a little different for everybody," she said with unexpected
gentleness. "It would have to be, wouldn't it?"
"Yeah, I guess so," he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe,
and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Six
hours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go.
"Who do I see?"