asked.
Dagenham gave him his deadly smile. `Standard F.F.C.C. Operation of Dagenham Couriers. Fun, fantasy, confusion, catastrophe . . . We'll need all four hours. Damn! I've disrupted your dolls, Presteign.' The robots were suddenly capering in lunatic fashion as Dagenham's hard radiation penetrated their electronic systems. `No matter, I'll be on my way.'
`Foyle?' Presteign asked.
`Nothing yet.' Dagenham grinned his death's-head smile.
`He's really unique. I've tried all the standard drugs and routines on him . . . Nothing. Outside, he's just an ordinary spaceman . . . if you forget the tattoo on his face . . . but inside he's got steel guts. Something's got hold of him and he won't give.'
'What's got hold of him?' Sheffield asked.
`I hope to find out.'
`How?'
`Don't ask; you'll be an accessory. Have you got a ship ready, Presteign?' Presteign nodded.
`I'm not guaranteeing there'll be any Nomad for us to find, but we'll have to get a jump on the navy if there is. Law ready, Sheffield?' `Ready. I'm hoping we won't have to use it' `I'm hoping too; but again, I'm not guaranteeing. All right. Stand by for instructions. I'm on my way to crack Foyle.'
`Where have you got him?' Dagenham shook his head. `This room isn't secure.' He disappeared.
He Jaunted Cincinnati-New Orleans-Monterrey to Mexico City where he appeared in the Psychiatry Wing of the giant hospital of the Combined Terran Universities. Wing was hardly an adequate name for this section, which occupied an entire city in the metropolis, which was the hospital. Dagenham jaunted up to the 43rd floor of the Therapy Division and looked into the isolated tank where Foyle floated, unconscious. He glanced at the distinguished bearded gentleman in attendance.
`Hello, Fritz.'
`Hello, Saul.'
`Hell of a thing, the Head of Psychiatry minding a patient for me.'
'I think we owe you favors, Saul.'
`You still brooding about Tycho Sands, Fritz? I'm not. Am I lousing your wing with radiation?'
`I've had everything shielded.'
`Ready for the dirty work?'
'I wish I knew what you were after.'
'Information.'
'And you have to turn my therapy department into an inquisition to get it?'
`That was the idea.'
`Why not use ordinary drugs?'
`Tried them already. No good. He's not an ordinary man.'
`You know this is illegal.'
`I know. Changed your mind? Want to back out? I can duplicate your equipment for a quarter of a million.'
'No, Saul. We'll always owe you favors.'
`Then let's go. Nightmare Theatre first.' They trundled the tank down a corridor and into a hundred-foot square padded room. It was one of therapy's by-passed experiments. Nightmare Theatre had been an early attempt to shock schizophrenics back into the objective world by rendering the phantasy world into which they were withdrawing uninhabitable. But the shattering and laceration of patients' emotions had proved to be too cruel and dubious a treatment.
For Dagenham's sake, the head of Psychiatry had dusted off the 3D visual projectors and reconnected all sensory projectors. They decanted Foyle from his tank, gave him a reviving shot and left him in the middle of the floor. They removed the tank, turned off the lights and entered the concealed control booth. There, they turned on the projectors.
Every child in the world imagines that its phantasy world is unique to itself. Psychiatry knows that the joys and terrors of private phantasies are a common heritage shared by all mankind. Our fears, guilts, terrors and shames could be interchanged, from one man to the next, and none would notice the difference. The therapy department at Combined Hospital had recorded thousands of emotional tapes and boiled them down to one all-inclusive all-terrifying performance in Nightmare Theatre.
Foyle awoke, panting and sweating, and never knew that he had awakened. He was in the clutch of the
Dagenham gave him his deadly smile. `Standard F.F.C.C. Operation of Dagenham Couriers. Fun, fantasy, confusion, catastrophe . . . We'll need all four hours. Damn! I've disrupted your dolls, Presteign.' The robots were suddenly capering in lunatic fashion as Dagenham's hard radiation penetrated their electronic systems. `No matter, I'll be on my way.'
`Foyle?' Presteign asked.
`Nothing yet.' Dagenham grinned his death's-head smile.
`He's really unique. I've tried all the standard drugs and routines on him . . . Nothing. Outside, he's just an ordinary spaceman . . . if you forget the tattoo on his face . . . but inside he's got steel guts. Something's got hold of him and he won't give.'
'What's got hold of him?' Sheffield asked.
`I hope to find out.'
`How?'
`Don't ask; you'll be an accessory. Have you got a ship ready, Presteign?' Presteign nodded.
`I'm not guaranteeing there'll be any Nomad for us to find, but we'll have to get a jump on the navy if there is. Law ready, Sheffield?' `Ready. I'm hoping we won't have to use it' `I'm hoping too; but again, I'm not guaranteeing. All right. Stand by for instructions. I'm on my way to crack Foyle.'
`Where have you got him?' Dagenham shook his head. `This room isn't secure.' He disappeared.
He Jaunted Cincinnati-New Orleans-Monterrey to Mexico City where he appeared in the Psychiatry Wing of the giant hospital of the Combined Terran Universities. Wing was hardly an adequate name for this section, which occupied an entire city in the metropolis, which was the hospital. Dagenham jaunted up to the 43rd floor of the Therapy Division and looked into the isolated tank where Foyle floated, unconscious. He glanced at the distinguished bearded gentleman in attendance.
`Hello, Fritz.'
`Hello, Saul.'
`Hell of a thing, the Head of Psychiatry minding a patient for me.'
'I think we owe you favors, Saul.'
`You still brooding about Tycho Sands, Fritz? I'm not. Am I lousing your wing with radiation?'
`I've had everything shielded.'
`Ready for the dirty work?'
'I wish I knew what you were after.'
'Information.'
'And you have to turn my therapy department into an inquisition to get it?'
`That was the idea.'
`Why not use ordinary drugs?'
`Tried them already. No good. He's not an ordinary man.'
`You know this is illegal.'
`I know. Changed your mind? Want to back out? I can duplicate your equipment for a quarter of a million.'
'No, Saul. We'll always owe you favors.'
`Then let's go. Nightmare Theatre first.' They trundled the tank down a corridor and into a hundred-foot square padded room. It was one of therapy's by-passed experiments. Nightmare Theatre had been an early attempt to shock schizophrenics back into the objective world by rendering the phantasy world into which they were withdrawing uninhabitable. But the shattering and laceration of patients' emotions had proved to be too cruel and dubious a treatment.
For Dagenham's sake, the head of Psychiatry had dusted off the 3D visual projectors and reconnected all sensory projectors. They decanted Foyle from his tank, gave him a reviving shot and left him in the middle of the floor. They removed the tank, turned off the lights and entered the concealed control booth. There, they turned on the projectors.
Every child in the world imagines that its phantasy world is unique to itself. Psychiatry knows that the joys and terrors of private phantasies are a common heritage shared by all mankind. Our fears, guilts, terrors and shames could be interchanged, from one man to the next, and none would notice the difference. The therapy department at Combined Hospital had recorded thousands of emotional tapes and boiled them down to one all-inclusive all-terrifying performance in Nightmare Theatre.
Foyle awoke, panting and sweating, and never knew that he had awakened. He was in the clutch of the
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