was like mapping a distant planet, the surface of which could be seen only through breaks in the cloud layer that were tantalizingly brief.
She was late because of her mother. After Larry left for school, Billie had gone to get the heart pills and returned home to find Becky-Ma lying on her bed, fully dressed, gasping for breath. The doctor had come right away, but he had nothing new to say. Becky-Ma had a weak heart If she felt breathless, she should lie down. She must remember to take her pills. Any stress was bad for her.
Billie wanted to say: 'What about me? Isn't stress bad for me', too?' But instead she resolved anew to walk on eggshells around her mother.
She stopped by the admissions office and glanced at the overnight register. A new patient had been brought in late yesterday, after she had left Joseph Bellow, a schizophrenic. The name rang a bell, but she could not recall why. Surprisingly, the patient had been discharged during the night. That was odd.
She passed through the day room on the way to her office. The TV was on, and a reporter standing on a dusty beach was saying: 'Here at Cape Canaveral, the question on everyone's lips is: 'When will the army attempt to launch its own rocket?' It must be within the next few days.
The subjects of Billie's research sat around, some watching TV, some playing games or reading, a few gazing vacantly into space. She waved to Tom, a young man who did not know the meaning of words. 'How are you, Tommy?' she called. He grinned and waved back. He could read body language well, and often responded as if he knew what people were saying, so it had taken Billie months to figure out that he did not understand a single word.
In a corner Marlene, an alcoholic, was flirting with a young male nurse. She was fifty years old, but she could not remember anything that had happened since she was nineteen. She thought she was still a young girl, and refused to believe that the 'old man who loved and cared for her was her husband.
Through the glass wall of an interview room she saw Ronald, a brilliant architect who had suffered head injuries in a car crash. He was doing tests on paper. His problem was that he had lost the ability to deal with numbers. He would count with excruciating slowness on his fingers in the attempt to add three and four.
Many patients had forms of schizophrenia, an inability to relate to the real world.
Some of the patients could be helped, by drugs or , electric-shock treatment or both; but Billie's job was to trace the exact contours of their disabilities. By studying minor mental handicaps, she was outlining the functions of the normal mind. Ronald, the architect, could look at a group of objects on a tray and say whether there were three or four of them, but if there were twelve and he had to count them, he would take a long time and might make a mistake. This suggested to Billie that the ability to see at a glance how many kerns are in a small group is a separate skill from the ability to count-In this way, she was slowly charting the depths of the mind, locating memory here, language there, mathematics somewhere else. And if the disability was related to minor brain damage, Billie could speculate that the normal ability was located in the part of the brain that had been destroyed. Eventually, her conceptual picture of the mind's functions would be mapped oil to a physical diagram of the human brain.
At her present rate of progress, it would take about two hundred years. However, she was working alone. With a team of psychologists she could progress much faster. She might see the map completed in her lifetime. That was her ambition.
It was a long way from her father's suicidal depression. There were no quick cures in mental illness. But the mind was still largely a mystery to scientists. It would be much better understood if Billie could speed up her work. And then, perhaps, people like her father could be helped.
She went up the stairs to the next floor, thinking about the mystery patient Joseph Bellow sounded like Joe Blow, the kind of name someone might make up. And why had he been discharged in the middle of the night?'
She reached her office and looked out of the window on to a building site. A new wing was being added to the hospital - and a new post was to be created to go with if Director of Research. Billie had applied for the job. But so had one of her colleagues, Dr Leonard Ross. Len was older than Billie, but she had wider experience and had published more: several articles and a textbook, An Introduction to the Psychology of Memory She felt sure she could beat out Len, but she did not. know who else might be in the running. And she wanted the job badly. As Director, she would have other scientists working under her.
On the building site she noticed, among the workmen, a small group of men in business clothes -with topcoats and Homburgs instead of overalls and hard hats. They looked as if they might be getting a tour. Looking more closely, she saw that Len Ross was with them.
She spoke to her secretary. 'Who are those guys being shown around the site by Len Ross?'
'They're from the Sowerby Foundation.'
Billie frowned. The Foundation was financing the new post. They would have a big say in who got the job. And there was Len making nice to them. 'Did we know they were coming today?'
'Len said he had sent you a note. He came by this morning to pick you up, but you weren't here.'
There had never been a note, Billie felt sure. Len had deliberately failed to warn her. And she had been late.
'Damn,' Billie said with feeling. She rushed out to join the party on the building-site.
She did not think about Joseph Bellow again for several hours.
.
11 A. M.
Because the missile was put together in a rush, 'the upper stages use a rocket motor that has been in production for some years, rather than anew design. The scientists have chosen a small version of the tried-and- tested Sergeant rocket. The upper stages of the missile are powered by clustered assemblies of these small rockets known as Baby Sergeants.
As Luke negotiated the grid of streets leading to Union Station, he found himself checking, every minute or two, to see whether he was being followed.
He had lost his shadows more than an hour ago, but they might now be searching for him. The thought made him fearful and bewildered. Who were they and what were they doing? His instincts told him they were malevolent. Otherwise, why watch him secretly?
He shook his head to clear it This baseless speculation was frustrating. There was no point in guessing. He had to find out First he had to clean himself up. His plan was to steal a suitcase from a train passenger. He felt sure he had done this before, at some time in his life. When he tried to remember, French words came into his head: 'La valise dun type qui descend du train.'
It would not be easy. His dirty, ragged clothing would stand out in a crowd of respectable travelers. He would have to move fast to get away. But he had no alternative. Dee-Dee the whore had been right. No one would listen to a bum.
If he were arrested, the police would never believe he was anything but a deadbeat He would end up in jail. The thought made him shiver with fear. It was not prison itself that scared him so much as the prospect of weeks or months of ignorance and confusion, not knowing who he was and helpless to make any progress finding out. Ahead of him on Massachusetts Avenue he saw the white granite arcade of Union Station, like - a Romanesque cathedral transplanted from Normandy. Thinking ahead, he figured that after the theft he would have to disappear fast He needed a car. The knowledge of how to steal one came into his mind immediately.
Close to the station, the street was lined with parked cars. Most would belong to people who had taken trains. He slowed his pace as a car pulled into a slot ahead of him. It was a two-tone Ford Fairlane, blue and white, new but not ostentatious. It would do fine. The starter would be operated with a key, not a handle, but it would be easy to pull out a couple of wires behind the dash and bypass the ignition.
He wondered how he knew that. A man in a dark topcoat got out of the Ford, took a briefcase from the trunk, locked the car, and headed for the station.
How long would he be gone? It was possible he had some business at the station and would be back in a few minutes. Then he would report his car stolen. Driving around in it, Luke would be in danger of arrest at any minute. That was no good. He had to find out where the man was going.
He followed him into the station.
The grand interior, which this morning had seemed like a disused temple, was now bustling. He felt conspicuous. Everyone else seemed so clean and well dressed. Most people averted their eyes, but some looked at him with expressions of disgust or contempt. It occurred to him that he might run into the officious man who had thrown him out earlier. Then there would be a fuss. The guy was sure to remember.
