Read Online Tiger! Tiger! by Alfred Bester - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alfred Bester
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serpent-haired, bloody-eyed Eumenides. He was pursued, entrapped, precipitated from heights, burned, flayed, bow-stringed, vermin-covered, devoured. He screamed. He ran. The radar Hobble-Field in the Theatre clogged his steps and turned them into the ghastly slow-motion of dream running. And through the cacophony of grinding, shrieking, moaning, pursuing that assailed his ears, muttered the thread of a persistent voice.
`Where is Nomad where is Nomad where is Nomad where is Nomad where is Nomad?'
`Vorga,' Foyle croaked. ` Vorga.' He had been inoculated by his own fixation. His own nightmare had rendered him immune.
`Where is Nomad? Where have you left Nomad? What happened to Nomad? Where is Nomad?'
` Vorga,' Foyle shouted. ` Yorga. Vorga. Vorga.' In the control-booth, Dagenham swore. The head of psychiatry, monitoring the projectors, glanced at the clock.
`One minute and forty-five seconds, Saul. He can't stand much more.' 'He's got to break. Give him the final effect.' They buried Foyle alive, slowly, inexorably, hideously. He was carried down into black depths and enclosed in stinking slime that cut off light and air. He slowly suffocated while a distant voice boomed: 'WHERE IS NOMAD? WHERE HAVE YOU LEFT NOMAD? YOU CAN ESCAPE IF YOU FIND NOMAD. WHERE IS NOMAD?' But Foyle was back aboard Nomad in his lightless, airless coffin, floating comfortably between deck and roof. He curled into a tight fetal ball and prepared to sleep. He was content. He would escape. He would find Vorga.
`Impervious bastard!' Dagenham swore. `Has anyone ever resisted Nightmare Theatre before, Fritz?'
`Never. You're right. That's an uncommon man, Saul.'
`He's got to be ripped open. All right, to hell with any more of this. We'll try the Megal mood next. Are the actors ready?'
`All ready.'
`Then let's go.' There are six directions in which delusions of grandeur can run. The Megal (short for Megalomania) Mood was therapy's dramatic diagnosis technique for establishing and plotting the particular course of megalomania.
Foyle awoke in a luxurious four-poster bed. He was in a luxurious bedroom, hung with brocade; papered in velvet. He glanced around curiously. Soft sunlight filtered through latticed windows. Across the room a valet was quietly laying out clothes.
`Hey . . .' Foyle grunted.
The valet turned. ` Good morning, Mr. Fourmyle,' he murmured.
`What?'
`It's a lovely morning, sir. I've laid out the brown twill and the cordovan pumps, sir.'
`What's a matter, you?'
`I've -' The valet gazed at Foyle curiously. `Is anything wrong, Mr. Fourmyle?'
`What you call me, man?'
`By Your name, sir.'
'My name is . . . Fourmyle?' Foyle struggled up in the bed. `No, it's not. It's Foyle. Gully Foyle, that's my name, me.' The valet bit his lip.
`One moment, sir . . .' He stepped outside and called. Then he murmured. A lovely girl in white came running into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed. She took Foyle's hands and gazed into his eyes. Her face was distressed.
`Darling, darling, darling,' she whispered. `You aren't going to start all that again, are you? The doctor swore you were over it.'
`Start what again?' `All that Gulliver Foyle nonsense about your being a common sailor and -'
`I am Gully Foyle. That's my name, Gully Foyle.'
`Sweetheart, you're not. That's just a delusion you've had for weeks. You've been overworking and drinking too much.'
`Been Gully Foyle all my life, me.' `Yes, I know, darling. That's the way it's seemed to you. But you're not. You're Geoffrey Fourmyle. The Geoffrey Fourmyle. You're - Oh, what's the sense telling you? Get dressed, my love. You've got to come downstairs. Your office has been frantic.' Foyle permitted the valet to dress him and went downstairs in a daze. The lovely girl, who evidently adored him, conducted him through a giant studio littered with drawing-tables, easels, and
`Where is Nomad where is Nomad where is Nomad where is Nomad where is Nomad?'
`Vorga,' Foyle croaked. ` Vorga.' He had been inoculated by his own fixation. His own nightmare had rendered him immune.
`Where is Nomad? Where have you left Nomad? What happened to Nomad? Where is Nomad?'
` Vorga,' Foyle shouted. ` Yorga. Vorga. Vorga.' In the control-booth, Dagenham swore. The head of psychiatry, monitoring the projectors, glanced at the clock.
`One minute and forty-five seconds, Saul. He can't stand much more.' 'He's got to break. Give him the final effect.' They buried Foyle alive, slowly, inexorably, hideously. He was carried down into black depths and enclosed in stinking slime that cut off light and air. He slowly suffocated while a distant voice boomed: 'WHERE IS NOMAD? WHERE HAVE YOU LEFT NOMAD? YOU CAN ESCAPE IF YOU FIND NOMAD. WHERE IS NOMAD?' But Foyle was back aboard Nomad in his lightless, airless coffin, floating comfortably between deck and roof. He curled into a tight fetal ball and prepared to sleep. He was content. He would escape. He would find Vorga.
`Impervious bastard!' Dagenham swore. `Has anyone ever resisted Nightmare Theatre before, Fritz?'
`Never. You're right. That's an uncommon man, Saul.'
`He's got to be ripped open. All right, to hell with any more of this. We'll try the Megal mood next. Are the actors ready?'
`All ready.'
`Then let's go.' There are six directions in which delusions of grandeur can run. The Megal (short for Megalomania) Mood was therapy's dramatic diagnosis technique for establishing and plotting the particular course of megalomania.
Foyle awoke in a luxurious four-poster bed. He was in a luxurious bedroom, hung with brocade; papered in velvet. He glanced around curiously. Soft sunlight filtered through latticed windows. Across the room a valet was quietly laying out clothes.
`Hey . . .' Foyle grunted.
The valet turned. ` Good morning, Mr. Fourmyle,' he murmured.
`What?'
`It's a lovely morning, sir. I've laid out the brown twill and the cordovan pumps, sir.'
`What's a matter, you?'
`I've -' The valet gazed at Foyle curiously. `Is anything wrong, Mr. Fourmyle?'
`What you call me, man?'
`By Your name, sir.'
'My name is . . . Fourmyle?' Foyle struggled up in the bed. `No, it's not. It's Foyle. Gully Foyle, that's my name, me.' The valet bit his lip.
`One moment, sir . . .' He stepped outside and called. Then he murmured. A lovely girl in white came running into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed. She took Foyle's hands and gazed into his eyes. Her face was distressed.
`Darling, darling, darling,' she whispered. `You aren't going to start all that again, are you? The doctor swore you were over it.'
`Start what again?' `All that Gulliver Foyle nonsense about your being a common sailor and -'
`I am Gully Foyle. That's my name, Gully Foyle.'
`Sweetheart, you're not. That's just a delusion you've had for weeks. You've been overworking and drinking too much.'
`Been Gully Foyle all my life, me.' `Yes, I know, darling. That's the way it's seemed to you. But you're not. You're Geoffrey Fourmyle. The Geoffrey Fourmyle. You're - Oh, what's the sense telling you? Get dressed, my love. You've got to come downstairs. Your office has been frantic.' Foyle permitted the valet to dress him and went downstairs in a daze. The lovely girl, who evidently adored him, conducted him through a giant studio littered with drawing-tables, easels, and
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