couple of sheets of paper from an EEG printout. “This,” he said, tapping a wavy line on the top sheet, “is Chandler’s beta wave pattern after I gave him a combination of Thorazine and Valium to put him to sleep. And this”—the doctor pulled out the second sheet—“is Chandler’s beta wave immediately after an LSD session, before I’d given him anything.”
Melchior studied the two documents. “They look the same.”
“Exactly! Chandler’s nervous system seems to go into a kind of stasis after he’s been given LSD. First there’s an incredible acceleration—his heart rate reaches two hundred beats per minute, yet at the same time he doesn’t seem to feel any cardiac distress. And the trip itself only lasts for an hour or two, even though the normal duration is anywhere from eight to twenty-four. And then immediately afterwards he appears to go into some kind of hibernation so that his body can recover.”
“Hibernation?”
“Look,” the doctor said, pointing at Chandler through the glass.
“At what?”
“His face.”
Melchior looked. “He’s a good-looking guy, Doctor, but not exactly my type.”
“There’s no stubble! It’s been at least four days since he shaved, but his cheeks are completely smooth! Nor has he urinated or had a bowel—”
“I get the picture, Doctor. So, what next?”
“There are still a thousand tests to run. But I need a subject. Someone on whom I can gauge the extent and effect of Chandler’s abilities.”
Melchior looked back at Chandler for a moment, and then his gaze flicked to the right. To a second bed, accoutred with straps like Orpheus’s, but empty.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Chandler felt the needle’s prick, the adrenaline entering his bloodstream. For the first time in days he became aware of his body, although it felt heavy, immobile, less flesh and blood than steel sarcophagus. Something flashed far off in the darkness that surrounded him, bright, fiery. The boy! The one who’d led Naz inside him, the one who had tried to save her right before she, before she … before she disappeared. He tried to follow but his legs wouldn’t obey him, and almost as soon as he’d appeared, the boy winked out of existence. The adrenaline was coursing through his veins now, nudging, prodding, accelerating.
Strange, but he knew what the room was going to look like before he saw it. The unpainted drywall, the crooked asbestos tiles in the ceiling, the metal cabinetry. A typical examining room, sure, but he knew this particular one before he opened his eyes. Knew, for example, that there was a wastebasket in the corner behind him. Army green on the outside, black on the inside, rust on the bottom from a mop pushing against it a thousand times.
He turned. There was the can. But how did he know it was there?
“Welcome back to the land of the living.”
Chandler jerked his head around even as a wheeled stool creaked up to the side of the bed. He knew he was tied to the bed but he pulled once anyway, felt the restraints bite into his wrists and ankles. A man in his fifties sat on the stool, graying blond hair combed back from a pinched, pale face, white coat draped over his shoulders. Chandler thought he was the one who’d spoken until he saw the second bed off to the right, the second man.
“Howdy,” this man said. A big man, with olive skin and curly hair coming free from a layer of brilliantine. The shit-eating grin on his face seemed at odds with the fact that he, too, was tied in place.
“Who are you?” Chandler said.
“You’d be amazed how often I get asked that.”
There was a clink, and Chandler turned to see that the older man had set a vial containing clear liquid on a metal tray. More to the point, he had a syringe in his hand, from which he was squeezing the air. A tiny bubble emerged from the tip of the syringe, and Chandler felt an ice cube of fear slide down his back. He pulled at the restraints again, uselessly.
“Where am I? What are you doing with me?”
“Settle down, Mr. Forrestal,” the man on the bed said. “You’re state property now, no point getting all worked up.” He twitched one of his hands against his bonds. “Scratch my nose, would you, Keller?”
The man on the stool ignored him. Instead he wiped the hollow of Chandler’s elbow with an alcohol swab. Chandler jerked at the chilly sensation, but of course his arm only moved a fraction of an inch.
“What are you talking about? And what in the hell have you done with Naz?”
“Miss Haverman is no longer of concern.”
“I swear to God, if you’ve hurt her—”
Chandler broke off as the needle entered his arm like a sliver of ice, freezing the blood in his veins.
“What are—what—” It was hard to speak. Even his jaw seemed frozen.
“Relax, Chandler,” the man on the bed said. “It’s just a little acid. Well, not a little. About two thousand mics, which, if I understand these things, is several hundred times the normal dose.”
Almost as quickly as the ice came, it thawed. Within seconds his blood was boiling. Beads of sweat appeared on his skin and popped like balloons, releasing vaporous genies. Already the room was starting to swim.
“You see it happens quickly,” Keller said, even as he pulled a second syringe from his pocket. “Faster every
