“You’ve done it, Doc,” Crockett said, something like hero worship in his eyes.
But Ford wasn’t listening. “I’m tired,” he muttered. “Oh, my God, I’m tired! The tension’s been terrific. Fighting that damned ghost every moment … I haven’t dared allow myself a sedative, even. Well, I’m going to break out the amytal now.”
“What about a drink? We ought to celebrate. If –” Crockett looked doubtfully at the nearest integrator. “If you’re sure.”
“There’s little doubt about it. No, I want to sleep. That’s all!”
He took the lift and was drawn up out of sight. Left alone in the Brainpan, Crockett managed a lopsided grin. There were still shadows lurking in the distance, but they were fading.
He called the integrators an unprintable name. They remained imperturbable.
“Oh, sure,” Crockett said, “you’re just machines. Too damn sensitive, that’s all. Ghosts! Well, from now on, I’m the boss. I’m going to invite my friends up here and have one drunken party from sunrise to sunset. And the sun doesn’t set for a long time in these latitudes!”
On that cogent thought, he followed Ford. The psychologist was already asleep, breathing steadily, his face relaxed in tired lines. He looked older, Crockett thought. But who wouldn’t?
The pulse was lessening; the downbeat was fading. He could almost detect the ebb. That unreasoning depression was no longer all-powerful. He was – yeah! – beginning to make plans!
“I’m going to make chilli,” Crockett decided. “The way that guy in El Paso showed me. And wash it down with Scotch. Even if I have to celebrate by myself, this calls for an orgy.” He thought doubtfully of Quayle, and looked in on the man. But Quayle was glancing over a late novel, and waved casually at his guest.
“Hi, Crockett. Anything new?”
“N-no. I just feel good.”
“So do I. Ford says I’m cured. The man’s a wonder.”
“He is,” Crockett agreed heartily. “Anything you want?”
“Nothing I can’t get for myself.” Quayle nodded toward the wall automat slot. “I’m due to be released in a few days. You’ve treated me like a brother Christian, but I’ll be glad to get back home. There’s a job waiting for me – one I can fill without trouble.”
“Good. Wish I were going with you. But I’ve a two-year stretch up here, unless I quit or finagle a transfer.”
“You’ve got all the comforts of home.”
“Yeah!” Crockett said, shuddering slightly. He hurried off to prepare chilli, fortifying himself with smoky- tasting, smooth whisky. If only he wasn’t jumping the gun – Suppose the downbeat hadn’t been eliminated? Suppose that intolerable depression came back in all its force?
Crockett drank more whisky. It helped.
Which, in itself, was cheering. Liquor intensifies the mood. Crockett had not dared to touch it during the downbeat. But now he just got happier, and finished his chilli with an outburst of tuneless song. There was no way of checking the psychic emanation of the integrators with any instrument, of course; yet the cessation of that deadly atmosphere had unmistakeable significance.
The radioatom brains were cured. Bronson’s mental explosion, with its disastrous effects, had finally run its course and been eliminated – by induction. Three days later a plane picked up Quayle and flew back northward toward South America , leaving Ford to clean up final details and make a last checkup.
The atmosphere of the station had changed utterly. It was bright, cheerful, functional. The integrators no longer sat like monstrous devil-gods in a private hell. They were sleek, efficient tubes, as pleasing to the eye as a Branusci, containing radioatom brains that faithfully answered the questions Crockett fed them. The station ran smoothly. Up above, the grey sky blasted a cleansing, icy gale upon the polar cap.
Crockett prepared for the winter. He had his books, he dug up his sketch pad and examined his water colours, and felt he could last till spring without trouble. There was nothing depressing about the station
Ford was standing before the integrators, studying them speculatively. He refused Crockett’s offer of a highball.
“No, thanks. These things are all right now, I believe. The downbeat is completely gone.”
“You ought to have a drink,” said Crockett. “We’ve been through something, brother. This stuff relaxes you. It eases the letdown.”
“No … I must make out my report. The integrators are such beautifully logical devices it would be a pity to have them crack up. Luckily, they won’t. Now that I’ve proved it’s possible to cure insanity by induction.”
Crockett leered at the integrators. “Little devils. Look at ’em, squatting there as though butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.”
“Hm-m-m. When will the blizzard let up? I want to arrange for a plane.”
“Can’t tell. The one before last didn’t stop for a week. This one –” Crockett shrugged. “I’ll try to find out, but I won’t make any promise.”
“I’m anxious to get back.”
“Well –” Crockett said. He took the lift, went back to his office, and checked incoming calls, listing the questions he must feed into the integrators. One of them was important; a geological matter from the California Sub-Tech Quake Control. But it could wait till all the calls were gathered.
Crockett decided against another drink. For some reason he hadn’t fulfilled his intention of getting tight; ordinary relief had proved a strong intoxicant. Now, whistling softly, he gathered the sheaf of items and started back toward the Brainpan. The station looked swell, he thought. Maybe it was the knowledge that he’d had a reprieve from a death sentence. Only it had been worse than knowledge of certain death – that damned downbeat. Ugh!
He got into the lift, a railed platform working on old-fashioned elevator principles. Magnetic lifts couldn’t be used near the integrators. He pushed the button and, looking down, saw the Brainpan beneath him, the white cylinders dwarfed by perspective.
Footsteps sounded. Turning, Crockett discovered Ford running toward him. The lift was already beginning to drop, and Crockett’s fingers went hastily toward the stop stud.
He changed his mind as Ford raised his hand and exhibited a pistol. The bullet smashed into Crockett’s thigh. He went staggering back till he hit the rail, and by that time Ford had leaped into the elevator, his face no longer prim and restrained, his eyes blazing with madness, and his lips wetly slack.
He yelled gibberish and squeezed the trigger again. Crockett desperately flung himself forward. The bullet missed, though he could not be sure, and his hurtling body smashed against Ford. The psychologist, caught off balance, fell against the rail. As he tried to fire again, Crockett, his legs buckling, sent his fist toward Ford’s jaw.
The timing, the balance, were fatally right. Ford went over the rail. After a long time Crockett heard the body strike, far down.
The lift sank smoothly. The gun still lay on the platform. Crockett, groaning, began to tear his shirt into an improvised tourniquet. The wound in his thigh was bleeding badly.
The cold light of the fluorescents showed the towers of the integrators, their tops level with Crockett now, and then rising as he continued to drop. If he looked over the edge of the platform, he could see Ford’s body. But he would see it soon enough anyway.
It was utterly silent.
Tension, of course, and delayed reaction. Ford should have got drunk. Liquor would have made a buffer against the violent reaction from those long weeks of hell. Weeks of battling the downbeat, months in which Ford had kept himself keenly alert, visualising the menace as a personified antagonist, keying himself up to a completely abnormal pitch.
Then success, and the cessation of the downbeat. And silence, deadly, terrifying – time to relax and think.
And Ford – going mad.
He had said something about that weeks ago, Crockett remembered. Some psychologists have a tendency toward mental instability; that’s why they gravitate into the field, and why they understand it.
The lift stopped. Ford’s motionless body was about a yard away. Crockett could not see the man’s face.
