Джон Макдональд - Wine of the Dreamers [= Planet of the Dreamers]

And then he knew. He did not speak for a long time. He called to her and his voice was old.

“What is it, Raul?”

“The planet has nine moons, Leesa. Theirs has but one.”

In the long silence he heard the muffled sound of her weeping. The planet grew steadily.

“Raul, are we still heading toward it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember your promise?”

“I remember.”

“Close your eyes, Raul. Do not touch the controls. It will be quick, Raul.” Her voice had a curiously haunting quality, as though she were already dead.

He closed his eyes. Resignation. An end of struggle and rebellion. It would have been better to accept, to force belief in the warm, slow world of the Watchers. He thought of Earth. Possibly he had misread the metallic sheets, selected the wrong index. Out of so many millions of numbers, it could easily have been the wrong one.

Bard Lane and Sharan Inly would never be able to convince Earth that the Watchers existed. Just as he could not convince the Watchers that Earth was another reality, as true as their own.

He opened his eyes. The planet was alarmingly close. They were diving toward it. He closed his eyes again.

Someday maybe Earth would build such ships as this one. First they would go to the other planets of their own...

As the thought came he opened his eyes wide. He gave the replica ship a brutal twist and in the same instant the vowel sound. As the acceleration hammered him into unconsciousness he kept the thin impression of the face of the planet sweeping slowly off the screen.

In Bard Lane’s dream he was back at Tempo watching the Beatty One rise into the arc of destruction. But this time the drive impetus was not steady. It came in hard flaring jolts that made the ship rise erratically on her suicide course. The dream faded and the jolting sounds turned to a heavy knocking at the door. He rubbed sleep-stuck eyes, rose painfully from his cramped position in the chair in which he had fallen asleep after Sharan had gone to bed.

“Coming, coming,” he called with annoyance. He stretched and looked at his watch. Ten in the morning. The windows were gray, patterned with rain flung against them by a gusty wind. For a moment he could not remember why he felt so thoroughly depressed. And then he remembered Hallmaster’s talk the night before.

He was in a completely foul mood when he yanked the suite door open. “Why didn’t you just batter it down?” he said.

A thick-jowled man mouthing a cigar stub stood planted in front of the door, two uniformed policemen behind him.

“Another minute and that’s just what we would have done, friend,” the man said. He walked flatfooted toward Bard, forcing Bard to step aside. The two policemen followed him into the suite.

“Maybe it would help if you tell me what you want,” Bard said.

The jowled man knuckled his hat back off his forehead. “You’re Lane.” It was a statement of fact rather than a question.

“Nice of you to come and let me know so early on Monday,” Bard said.

“I could learn to dislike you, friend.” The stocky man turned and nodded at one of the two policemen. The uniformed man walked casually over and trod heavily on Bard’s foot.

“Gee, excuse me,” he said. He took his weight away, trod heavily on the other foot. Bard’s fist swung automatically, all the strain and heartache and disappointments of months erupting into a rage that was like ice.

The policeman partially blocked the blow, but it slipped off his forearm and landed on the heavy cheekbone with a satisfying crack.

The two policemen moved in with deft efficiency and pinned both of Bard’s arms. The jowled man took the cigar from his mouth and rolled it between his fingers.

“It was reported to me, Dr. Lane, by the management of this hotel, that you were acting strangely. I am Hemstrait, the health officer. I came here to investigate the report and find that it was true. You attacked Patrolman Quinn without provocation.”

“Just what do you want?”

“I don’t want anything. I’m committing you to the state hospital for sixty days of observation and treatment. Nuts like you can’t run around loose.”

“Whose orders are you following, Hemstrait?”

The man had the grace to blush. “Hell, Lane. They’ll do you some good out there. Where’s the Inly woman?”

“You don’t need her too.”

“The hotel says that she’s crazy too. I got a job to do. I got to investigate all reports.”

At that moment Sharan, flushed with sleep, a white robe belted around her, opened the bedroom door and came out. “Bard, what is—” She stopped and her eyes widened as she saw Bard being held.

“You let him go!” she said.

“Lady, you’re irrational,” Hemstrait said.

“Don’t say or do anything,” Bard said quickly.

Hemstrait gave Bard a look of annoyance. He moved close to Sharan, rested a beefy hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off. He replaced it. She moved away. He followed her, grinning. She cracked her palm off his thick cheek. He grinned and grabbed her. “Lady, as health officer I’m committing you to the state hospital for sixty days of observation and treatment. You ought to know better than to attack the health officer.”

“It’s no good, Sharan,” Bard said in a bleak tone. “Somebody gave him his orders. The same people who took care of Path, probably. And gave Hallmaster that paper to read. We’re a disturbing influence.”

“Shut up, friend,” Hemstrait said jovially. “Come on, lady. They’ll be good to you out there. We picked up Lurdorff and Kornal in the lobby this morning. Kornal made such a fuss we had to put him in a jacket. Now you people are going to be more sensible than that.”

On the following Wednesday morning, Sharan Inly, clad in the gray shapeless hospital garment, was taken by a matron-attendant to the office of the young state psychiatrist. The matron waited behind Sharan’s chair. The psychiatrist was a thin-faced young man with an earnest, dedicated look.

“Dr. Inly, I’m very happy to meet you. I had hoped that when we did meet, it would be under... more pleasant circumstances. I particularly remember some of your papers that appeared in the Review.”

“Thank you.”

“I know that you must be interested in your own case. An unusually persistent delusion and, what is more startling, a shared delusion. Most unusual. And, as you may be aware, an unfavorable prognosis.” He hitched himself uncomfortably in the chair. His smile was wan. “Usually I have to explain to the patient the implications of deep shock. Of course, you worked with Belter when he was perfecting the technique...”

His voice trailed off.

Sharan fought the fear back. She made her voice calm. “Isn’t that treatment a bit extreme in this case, Doctor? Memory patterns never return. That means complete reeducation from mindlessness, and sufficient damage so that on the Belter Scale, intelligence never goes beyond the DD level.”

“Frankly,” he said, “it makes me feel uncomfortable to prescribe it in the case of this delusion the four of you share. Dr. Lurdorff grew quite violent. He will be treated this afternoon. A shame, actually. So brilliant a mind... but misdirected, of course. All of you can be turned into productive members of society. You’ll be quite capable of leading a satisfying life, of doing routine work. And you know how we’ve speeded up reeducation. Speech is adequate in a month. Incontinence ends in a week.”

“May I ask if a consulting psychiatrist can be called in, Doctor?”

“Oh, this treatment is the result of consultation, Dr. Inly. Very good men. Now, outside the delusionary cycle, you are quite capable of making decisions. With the nonviolent cases it is policy here to give you time to write letters, make wills, dispose of property, that sort of thing. We’ll give you false memory of a different life, a new name, a slightly altered face. You’ll be sent, of course, to one of the critical labor areas, and a competent social worker will get you started.”