The anesthetist and two other nurses stood ready, and Morrissey, in his white gown, seemed to have forgotten his worry and had settled down to his usual quiet competence. Gregson was on one of the tables, already prepped and unconscious. Intravenous anesthesia would presently supplement the apomorphine in his system, as it would also be administered to Bruno himself.
Ferguson and Dale, two other doctors, were present. At worst quick cerebral surgery might be necessary, if anything went badly amiss. But nothing could, Bruno thought. Nothing could.
He glanced at the sleek, shining machines, with their attachments and registering dials. Not medical equipment, of course. They were in Parsons’ line; he had planned and built them. But the idea had been Bruno’s to begin with, and Bruno’s psychiatric knowledge had complemented Parsons’ technology. Two branches of science had met, and the result would be—a specific for insanity.
Two spots on Bruno’s head had been shaved clean. Parsons carefully affixed electrodes, which were already in place on Gregson’s skull.
“Remember,” Parsons said, “you should be as relaxed as possible.”
“You took no sedative, Doctor,” Morrissey said.
“I don’t need one. The anesthetic will be enough.”
The nurses moved with silent competence about the table. The emergency oxygen apparatus was tested. The adrenalin was checked; the sterilizer steamed on its table. Bruno emptied his mind and relaxed as a nurse swabbed his arm with alcohol.
Superimposure of the electronic mental matrix of sanity … psychic rapport … the pattern of his sanity-dampers would be fixed unalterably in the twisted, warped mind of the manic-depressive.
He felt the sting of the needle. Automatically he began counting. One. Two. Three. …
He opened his eyes. The face of Morrissey, intent and abstracted, hung over him. Beyond Morrissey was the bright ceiling fluorescent, glaring down with a brilliance that made Bruno blink. His arm stung slightly but otherwise there were no after effects.
“Can you hear me, Doctor?” Morrissey said.
Bruno nodded. “Yes. I’m awake now.” His tongue was a little thick. That was natural. “Gregson?”
But Morrissey’s face was growing smaller. No, it was receding. The ceiling light shrank. He was falling—
He shot down with blinding rapidity. White walls rushed up past him. Morrissey’s face receded to a shining dot far above. It grew darker as he fell. Winds screamed, and there was a slow, gradually increasing thundering like an echo resounding from the floor of this monstrous abyss.
Down and down, faster and faster, with the white walls fading to gray and to black, till he was blind, till he was deafened with that roaring echo.
Visibility returned. Everything was out of focus. He blinked, swallowed, and made out the rectangular shape of a bedside screen. There was something else, white and irregular.
“Are you awake, Doctor?”
“Hello, Harwood,” Bruno said to the nurse. “How long have I been out?”
“About two hours. I’ll call Dr. Morrissey.”
She stepped out of the room. Bruno flexed his muscles experimentally. He felt all right. Not even a headache. His vision was normal now. He instinctively reached for his wrist and began counting the pulse. Through the window he could see the slow motion of a branch, the leaves fluttering in a gentle wind. Footsteps sounded.
“Congratulations,” Morrissey said, coming to the bed. “Gregson’s in shock, but he’s already beginning to come out of it. No prognosis yet, but I’ll bet a cookie you’ve done it.”
Bruno let out his breath in a long sigh. “You think so?”
Morrissey laughed. “Don’t tell me you weren’t sure!”
“I’m always sure,” Bruno said. “Just the same, confirmation’s always pleasant. I’m thirsty as the devil. Get me some ice, Ken, will you?”
“All right.” Morrissey leaned out of the door and called the nurse. Then he came back and lowered the Venetian blind. “Sun in your eyes. That better? How do you feel, or need I ask?”
“Quite normal. No ill effects at all. Say, you’d better notify Barbara I’m alive.”
“I already have. She’s coming over. Meanwhile, Parsons is outside. Want to see him?”
“Sure.”
The physicist must have been near the door, for he appeared almost instantly.
“I’ll have to depend on you now,” he said. “Psychiatric examinations are out of my line, but Dr. Morrissey tells me we’ve apparently succeeded.”
“We can’t be sure yet,” Bruno said cautiously, reaching for cracked ice. “I’m keeping my fingers crossed.”
“How do you feel?”
“If there’s a healthier specimen in this hospital than Dr. Bruno,” Morrissey said, “I’ve yet to hear of it. I’ll be back. I’ve got to check a patient.” He went out.
Bruno lay back on his pillow.
“I’ll be up and around tomorrow,” he said, “and I’ll want to make some tests on Gregson then. Meanwhile, I’ll relax—for a change. One good thing about this place; the routine’s so perfect that you can unhitch yourself completely and let yourself rest, if you want to. A dependable staff.”
The Venetian blind clattered in the wind. Parsons grunted and went toward it, taking hold of the cord.
He raised the blind and stood there, his back to Bruno. But it was dark outside the window.
“The sun was in my eyes,” Bruno said. “Wait a minute! That was only a little while ago. Parsons, something’s wrong!”
“What?” Parsons asked, without turning.
“Morrissey said I was unconscious for only two hours. And I took anesthesia at half-past nine. At night! But the sun was shining in that window when I woke up, a few minutes ago!”
“It’s night now,” Parsons said.
“It can’t be. Get Morrissey. I want to—”
But Parsons suddenly leaned forward and opened the window. Then he jumped out and vanished.
“Morrissey!” Bruno shouted.
Morrissey came in. He didn’t look at Bruno. He walked quickly across the room and jumped out of the window into the darkness.
Ferguson and Dale entered, still in their operating gowns. They followed Morrissey through the window.
Bruno hoisted himself up. Three nurses came through the door. An intern and an orderly followed. Then others.
In nightmare procession the staff filed into Bruno’s room. In deadly silence they walked to the window and jumped out.
The blankets slipped down from Bruno’s body. He saw them sail slowly toward the window—
The bed was tilting! No—the room itself was turning, revolving, till Bruno
