“Fine,” said Conway, and yawned.
“Don’t show off,” said O’Mara, and threw the switch.
Conway came to a few seconds later in a small, square, alien room whose planes and outlines, like its furnishings, were too straight and sharp-edged. Two grotesque entities-a small part of his mind insisted they were his friends-towered over him, studying him with flat, wet eyes set in two faces made of shapeless pink dough. The room, its occupants and himself were motionless and…
He was dying!
Conway was aware suddenly that he had pushed O’Mara onto the floor and that he was sitting on the edge of the treatment couch, fists clenched, arms crossed tightly over his chest, swaying rapidly back and forth. But the movement did not help at all-the room was still too horrifying, dizzyingly steady! He was sick with vertigo, his vision was fading, he was choking, losing all sense of touch…
“Take it easy, lad,” said O’Mara gently. “Don’t fight it. Adapt.”
Conway tried to swear at him but the sound which came out was like the bleat of a terrified small animal. He rocked forward and back, faster and faster, waggling his head from side to side. The room jerked and rolled about but it was still too steady. The steadiness was terrifying and lethal. How, Conway asked himself in utter desperation, does one adapt to dying?
“Pull up his sleeve, Lieutenant,” said O’Mara urgently, “and hold him steady.”
Conway lost control then. The alien entity who apparently had control would not allow anyone to immobilize its body-that was unthinkable! He jumped to his feet and staggered into O’Mara’s desk. Still trying to find a movement which would pacify the alien inside his mind Conway crawled on hands and knees through the organized clutter on top of the desk, rolling and shaking his head.
But the alien in his mind was dizzy from standing still and the Earth human portion was dizzy from too much movement. Conway was no psychologist but he knew that if he did not think of something quickly he would end up as a patient-of O’Mara’s-instead of a doctor, because his alien was firmly convinced that it was dying, right now.
Even by proxy, dying was going to be a severe traumatic experience.
He had had an idea when he climbed onto the desk, but it was hard to recall it when most of his mind was in the grip of panic reaction. Someone tried to pull him off and he kicked until they let go, but the effort made him lose his balance and he tumbled head first onto O’Mara’s swivel chair. He felt himself rolling toward the floor and instinctively shot out his leg to check the fall. The chair swiveled more than 180 degrees, so he kicked out again, and again. The chair continued to rotate, erratically at first, but then more smoothly as he got the hang of it.
His body was jackknifed on its side around the back of the chair, the left thigh and knee resting flat on the seat while the right foot kicked steadily against the floor. It was not too difficult to imagine that the filing cabinets, bookshelves, office door and the figures of O’Mara and Craythorne were all lying on their sides and that he, Conway, was rotating in the vertical plane. His panic began to subside a little.
“If you stop me,” said Conway, meaning every word, “I’ll kick you in the face…
Craythorne’s expression was ludicrous as his face wobbled into sight. O’Mara’s was hidden by the open door of the drug cabinet.
Defensively Conway went on, “This is not simply revulsion to a suddenly introduced alien viewpoint-believe me, Surreshun as a person is more human than most of the taped entities I’ve had recently. But I can’t take this one! I’m not the psychologist around here, but I don’t think any sane person can adapt to a continually recurring death agony.
“On Meatball,” he continued grimly, “there is no such thing as pretending to be dead, sleeping or unconsciousness. You are either moving and alive or still and dead. Even the young of Surreshun’s race rotate during gestation until-”
“You’ve made your point, Doctor,” said O’Mara, approaching once again. His right hand, palm upward, held three tablets. “I won’t give you a shot because stopping you to do so will cause distress, obviously. Instead I’ll give you three of these sleep-bombs. The effects will be sudden and you will be out for at least forty-eight hours. I shall erase the tape while you’re unconscious. There will be a few residual memories and impressions when you awaken, but no panic.