Kennedy’s shoulder, but was immaculately dressed in black coat and striped grey trousers, pale spats, a diamond tiepin in a silvery grey tie. His voice was high pitched, almost shrill.
“Good morning, good morning. So you’re the patient.”
“For what?” asked Roger.
“You’ll see,” said Kennedy.
“Yes, yes,” said the little man. “Yes, I see. Mr.—ah King, go over to the window, please, sit sideways to it, and look at the wall. Please.”
Roger obeyed.
The little man came closer, peered, breathed on him, and kept nodding. It went on for an age. Then the man pinched his cheeks, his forehead, and the flesh beneath his chin. Roger felt like a biological specimen.
“Yes, yes, that will do.”
“A good subject?” asked Kennedy.
“Quite satisfactory.”
“Mind it is, damn you!”
“There is no need to be abusive,” said the sparrow perkily. “When?”
“This morning.”
“Very well, I will get ready.” The sparrow went out, bustling and confident.
Roger felt the glittering eyes on him; he felt hot and frightened, but schooled his voice to calmness.
“What’s on?”
“The second stage in the transformation of Roger West. You don’t need to worry, you won’t feel anything.” Kennedy laughed, and then Marion came in with a tray on which were two cups of coffee; a departure from daily practice and therefore suspicious. She spoke, as if to lull his suspicions.
“As you were here, Mr. Kennedy, I thought I would bring two cups.”
“That’ll do.”
“Thank you.”
“Drink coffee. West?”
“I prefer tea.”
“You’ll like this for a change.”
He drank it.
* * * *
It was drugged. He knew that from Kennedy’s grin, and had proof in his own drowsiness, ten minutes after he’d had the drink. Kennedy left him and the male nurse came in, said: “Follow me” and went out again, expecting unquestioning obedience. Roger followed him along the narrow, plain-walled passages. The nurse opened a door. A powerful smell of antiseptics stung Roger’s nostrils; the bleak white austerity of an operation theatre met him. Panic rose inside him like a tempest, he stopped and gripped the door.
His mind was numbed with the drug, or he might have drawn back then, and fought to escape.
Beneath a single bright light was a chair; a barber’s chair. It stood beyond the operating-table. The nurse led him to it, and said: “Coat off.” He took off his coat and the nurse pushed him into the chair. As he sat down, the sparrow came hopping in. He went straight to a steaming metal pan, where surgical instruments gleamed through steam. Roger closed his eyes and leaned back against the chair; the neck rest was of hard rubber, quite comfortable. The mist rising from the pan seemed to become thicker, a billowing cloud, hiding the window, turning the light to an iridescent haze. The sparrow loomed out of it, or else was enveloped and almost invisible. He kept clicking his tongue; or was it his false teeth? He put on a long white coat. The mist looked like ectoplasm, and the sparrow a wraith. Roger’s head whirred as if the cine-projector were inside it. The speed increased, the harsh sound grated in his ears, eyes, the whole of his head. The mist became a billowing cloud stirred up by a strong wind. Men became shapes. On a tray in front of him instruments gleamed— glittered—it was as if Kennedy were staring at him from the tray.
He lost consciousness.
* * * *
He groaned. Someone spoke, softly, soothingly. He groaned again, but not from pain. There was no pain, only fear of something he could not comprehend.
A hand was at his shoulder, and the voice came again.
He tried to open his eyes.
He could not.
Panic, a hundred times worse than when he had been in the chair, took hold of him and shook him violently, his whole body seemed to be in physical turmoil. He felt pressure on his hands and—worse—on his eyes; that was why he couldn’t open them, something pressed firmly against the lids. That wasn’t all; there was pressure against his cheeks, chin, lips, and throat, a constricting pressure, as if his face were in a special “strait jacket”.
“Mr. West!”
He knew that voice.
“Please don’t struggle, please don’t.”
