“Not many. You’re right. That’s an uncommon man, Saul.”
“He’s got to be ripped open. All right, to hell with any more of this. We’ll try the Megal Mood next. Are the actors ready?”
“All ready.”
“Then let’s go.”
There are six directions in which delusions of grandeur can run. The Megal (short for Megalomania) Mood was therapy’s dramatic diagnosis technique for establishing and plotting the particular course of megalomania.
Foyle awoke in a luxurious four-poster bed. He was in a bedroom hung with brocade, papered in velvet. He glanced around curiously. Soft sunlight filtered through latticed windows. Across the room a valet was quietly laying out clothes.
“Hey . . .” Foyle grunted.
The valet turned. “Good morning, Mr. Fourmyle,” he murmured.
“What?”
“It’s a lovely morning, sir. I’ve laid out the brown twill and the cordovan pumps, sir.”
“What’s a matter, you?”
“I’ve—” The valet gazed at Foyle curiously. “Is anything wrong, Mr. Fourmyle?”
“What you call me, man?”
“By your name, sir.”
“My name is . . . Fourmyle?” Foyle struggled up in the bed. “No, it’s not. It’s Foyle. Gully Foyle, that’s my name, me.”
The valet bit his lip. “One moment, sir . . .” He stepped outside and called. Then he murmured. A lovely girl in white came running into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed. She took Foyle’s hands and gazed into his eyes. Her face was distressed.
“Darling, darling, darling,” she whispered. “You aren’t going to start all that again, are you? The doctor swore you were over it.”
“Start what again?”
“All that Gulliver Foyle nonsense about your being a common sailor and—”
“I am Gully Foyle. That’s my name, Gully Foyle.”
“Sweetheart, you’re not. That’s just a delusion you’ve had for weeks. You’ve been overworking and drinking too much.”
“Been Gully Foyle all my life, me.”
“Yes, I know darling. That’s the way it’s seemed to you. But you’re not. You’re Geoffrey Fourmyle. The Geoffrey Fourmyle. You’re— Oh, what’s the sense telling you? Get dressed, my love. You’ve got to come downstairs. Your office has been frantic.”
Foyle permitted the valet to dress him and went downstairs in a daze. The lovely girl, who evidently adored him, conducted him through a giant studio littered with drawing tables, easels, and half-finished canvases. She took him into a vast hall filled with desks, filing cabinets, stock tickers, clerks, secretaries, office personnel. They entered a lofty laboratory cluttered with glass and chrome. Burners flickered and hissed; bright colored liquids bubbled and churned; there was a pleasant odor of interesting chemicals and odd experiments.
“What’s all this?” Foyle asked.
The girl seated Foyle in a plush armchair alongside a giant desk littered with interesting papers scribbled with fascinating symbols. On some Foyle saw the name: Geoffrey Fourmyle, scrawled in an imposing, authoritative signature.
“There’s some crazy kind of mistake, is all,” Foyle began.
The girl silenced him. “Here’s Doctor Regan. He’ll explain.”
An impressive gentleman with a crisp, comforting manner, came to Foyle, touched his pulse, inspected his eyes, and nodded in satisfaction.
“Good,” he said. “Excellent. You are close to complete recovery, Mr. Fourmyle. Now you will listen to me for a moment, eh?”
Foyle nodded.
“You remember nothing of the past. You have only a false memory. You were overworked. You are an important man and there were too many demands on you. You started to drink heavily a month ago— No, no, denial is useless. You drank. You lost yourself.”
“I—”
“You became convinced you were not the famous Jeff Fourmyle. An infantile attempt to escape responsibility. You imagined you were a common spaceman named Foyle. Gulliver Foyle, yes? With an odd number . . .”
“Gully Foyle. AS:128/127:006. But that’s me. That’s—”
“It is not you. This is you.” Dr. Regan waved at the interesting offices they could see through the transparent glass wall.
“You can only recapture the true memory if you discharge the old. All this glorious reality is yours, if we can help you discard the dream of the spaceman.” Dr. Regan leaned forward, his polished spectacles glittering hypnotically. “Reconstruct this false memory of yours in detail, and I will tear it down. Where do you imagine you left the spaceship ‘Nomad’? How did you escape? Where do you imagine the ‘Nomad’ is now?”
Foyle wavered before the romantic glamour of the scene which seemed to be just within his grasp.
“It seems to me I left ‘Nomad’ out in—” He stopped short.
A devil-face peered at him from the highlights reflected in Dr. Regan’s spectacles . . . a hideous tiger mask with N MAD blazoned across the distorted brow. Foyle stood up.
“Liars!” he growled. “It’s real, me. This here is phoney. What happened to me is real. I’m real, me.”
Saul Dagenham walked into the laboratory. “All right,” he called. “Strike. It’s a washout.”
The bustling scene in laboratory, office, and studio ended. The actors quietly disappeared without another glance at Foyle. Dagenham gave Foyle his deadly smile. “Tough, aren’t you? You’re really unique. My name is Saul Dagenham. We’ve got five minutes for a talk. Come into the garden.”
The Sedative Garden atop the Therapy Building was a triumph of therapeutic planning. Every perspective, every color, every contour had been designed to placate hostility, soothe resistance, melt anger, evaporate hysteria, absorb melancholia and depression.
“Sit down,” Dagenham said, pointing to a bench alongside a pool in which crystal waters tinkled. “Don’t try to jaunte— you’re drugged. I’ll have to walk around a bit. Can’t come too close to you. I’m ‘hot.’ D’you know what that means?”
Foyle shook his head sullenly. Dagenham cupped both hands around the flaming blossom of an orchid and held them there for a moment. “Watch that flower,” he said. “You’ll see.”
He paced up a path and turned suddenly. “You’re right, of course. Everything that happened to you is real. . . . Only what did happen?”
“Go to hell,” Foyle growled.
“You know, Foyle, I admire you.”
“Go to hell.”
“In your own primitive way you’ve got ingenuity and guts. You’re Cro-Magnon, Foyle. I’ve been checking on you. That bomb you threw in the Presteign shipyards was lovely, and you nearly wrecked General Hospital getting the money and material together.” Dagenham counted fingers. “You looted lockers, stole from the blind ward, stole drugs from the pharmacy, stole apparatus from the lab stockrooms.”
“Go to hell, you.”
“But what have you got against Presteign? Why’d you try to blow up his shipyard? They tell me you broke in and went tearing through the pits like a wild man. What were you trying to do, Foyle?”
“Go to hell.”
Dagenham smiled. “If we’re going to chat,” he said. “You’ll have to hold up your end. Your conversation’s getting monotonous. What happened to ‘Nomad’?”
“I don’t know about ‘Nomad,’ nothing.”
“The ship was last reported over seven months ago. Are you the sole survivor? And what have you been doing all this time? Having your face decorated?”
“I don’t know about ‘Nomad,’ nothing.”
“No, no, Foyle, that won’t do. You show up with ‘Nomad’ tattooed across your face. Fresh tattooed. Intelligence checks and finds you were aboard ‘Nomad’ when she sailed. Foyle, Gulliver: AS:128/127:006, Mechanic’s Mate, 3rd Class. As if all this isn’t enough to throw Intelligence into a tizzy, you come back in a private launch that’s been missing fifty years. Man, you’re cooking in the reactor. Intelligence wants the answers to all t
hese questions. And you ought to know how Central Intelligence butchers its answers out of people.”
Foyle started. Dagenham nodded as he saw his point sink home. “Which is why I think you’ll listen to reason. We want information, Foyle. I tried to trick it out of you; admitted. I failed because you’re too tough; admitted. Now I’m offering an honest deal. We’ll protect you if you’ll co-operate. If you don’t, you’ll spend five years in an Intelligence lab having information chopped out of you.”
It was not the prospect of the butchery that frightened Foyle, but the thought of the loss of freedom. A man had to be free to avenge himself, to raise money and find “Vorga” again, to rip and tear and gut “VORGA.”
“What kind of deal?” he asked.
“Tell us what happened to ‘Nomad’ and where you left her.”
“Why, man?”
“Why? Because of the salvage, man.”
“There ain’t nothing to salvage. She’s a wreck, is all.”
“Even a wreck’s salvageable.”
“You mean you’d jet out a million miles to pick up pieces? Don’t joker me, man.”
“All right,” Dagenham said in exasperation. “There’s the cargo.”
“She was split wide open. No cargo left.”
“It was a cargo you don’t know about,” Dagenham said confidentially. “ ‘Nomad’ was transporting platinum bullion to Mars Bank. Every so often, banks have to adjust accounts. Normally, enough trade goes on between planets so that accounts can be balanced on paper. The war’s disrupted normal trade, and Mars Bank found that Presteign owed them twenty odd million credits without any way of getting the money short of actual delivery. Presteign was delivering the money in bar platinum aboard the ‘Nomad.’ It was locked in the purser’s safe.”
“Twenty million,” Foyle whispered.
“Give or take a few thousand. The ship was insured, but that just means that the underwriters, Bo’ness and Uig, get the salvage rights and they’re even tougher than Presteign. However, there’ll be a reward for you. Say . . . twenty thousand credits.”
“Twenty million,” Foyle whispered again.
“We’re assuming that an O.S. raider caught up with ‘Nomad’ somewhere on course and let her have it. They couldn’t have boarded and looted or you wouldn’t have been left alive. This means that the purser’s safe is still— Are you listening, Foyle?”
But Foyle was not listening. He was seeing twenty million . . . not twenty thousand . . . twenty million in platinum bullion as a broad highway to “Vorga.” No more petty thefts from lockers and labs; twenty million for the taking and the razing of “Vorga.”
“Foyle!”
Foyle awoke. He looked at Dagenham. “I don’t know about ‘Nomad,’ nothing,” he said.
“What the hell’s got into you now? Why’re you dummying up again?”
“I don’t know about ‘Nomad,’ nothing.”
“I’m offering a fair reward. A spaceman can go on a hell of a tear with twenty thousand credits . . . a one-year tear. What more do you want?”
“I don’t know about ‘Nomad,’ nothing.”
“It’s us or Intelligence, Foyle.”
“You ain’t so anxious for them to get me, or you wouldn’t be flipping through all this. But it ain’t no use, anyway. I don’t know about ‘Nomad,’ nothing.”
“You son of a ——” Dagenham tried to repress his anger. He had revealed just a little too much to this cunning, primitive creature. “You’re right,” he said. “We’re not anxious for Intelligence to get you. But we’ve made our own preparations.” His voice hardened. “You think you can dummy up and stand us off. You think you can leave us to whistle for ‘Nomad.’ You’ve even got an idea that you can beat us to the salvage.” “No,” Foyle said.
“Now listen to this. We’ve got a lawyer waiting in New York. He’s got a criminal prosecution for piracy pending against you; piracy in space, murder, and looting. We’re going to throw the book at you. Presteign will get a conviction in twenty-four hours. If you’ve got a criminal record of any kind, that means a lobotomy. They’ll open up the top of your skull and burn out half your brain to stop you from ever jaunting again.”
Dagenham stopped and looked hard at Foyle. When Foyle shook his head, Dagenham continued.
“If you haven’t got a record, they’ll hand you ten years of what is laughingly known as medical treatment. We don’t punish criminals in our enlightened age, we cure ’em; and the cure is worse than punishment. They’ll stash you in a black hole in one of the cave hospitals. You’ll be kept in permanent darkness and solitary confinement so you can’t jaunte out. They’ll go through the motions of giving you shots and therapy, but you’ll be rotting in the dark. You’ll stay there and rot until you decide to talk. We’ll keep you there forever. So make up your mind.”
“I don’t know nothing about ‘Nomad.’ Nothing!” Foyle said.
“All right,” Dagenham spat. Suddenly he pointed to the orchid blossom he had enclosed with his hands. It was blighted and rotting. “That’s what’s going to happen to you.”
Five
South of Saint-Girons near the Spanish-French border is the deepest abyss in France, the Gouffre Martel. Its caverns twist for miles under the Pyrenees. It is the most formidable cavern hospital on Terra. No patient has ever jaunted out of its pitch darkness. No patient has ever succeeded in getting his bearings and learning the jaunte co-ordinates of the black hospital depths.
Short of prefrontal lobotomy, there are only three ways to stop a man from jaunting: a blow on the head producing concussion, sedation which prevents concentration, and concealment of jaunte co-ordinates. Of the three, the jaunting age considered concealment the most practical.
The cells that line the winding passages of Gouffre Martel are cut out of living rock. They are never illuminated. The passages are never illuminated. Infrared lamps flood the darkness. It is black light visible only to guards and attendants wearing snooper goggles with specially treated lenses. For the patients there is only the black silence of Gouffre Martel broken by the distant rush of underground waters.
For Foyle there was only the silence, the rushing, and the hospital routine. At eight o’clock (or it may have been any hour in this timeless abyss) he was awakened by a bell. He arose and received his morning meal, slotted into the cell by pneumatic tube. It had to be eaten at once, for the china surrogate of cups and plates was timed to dissolve in fifteen minutes. At eight-thirty the cell door opened and Foyle and hundreds of others shuffled blindly through the twisting corridors to Sanitation.
Here, still in darkness, they were processed like beef in a slaughter house: cleansed, shaved, irradiated, disinfected, dosed, and inoculated. Their paper uniforms were removed and sent back to the shops to be pulped. New uniforms were issued. Then they shuffled back to their cells which had been automatically scrubbed out while they were in Sanitation. In his cell, Foyle listened to interminable therapeutic talks, lectures, moral and ethical guidance for the rest of the morning. Then there was silence again, and nothing but the rush of distant water and the quiet steps of goggled guards in the corridors.
In the afternoon came occupational therapy. The TV screen in each cell illuminated and the patient thrust his hands into the shadow frame of the screen. He saw three-dimensionally and he felt the broadcast objects and tools. He cut hospital uniforms, sewed them, manufactured kitchen utensils, and prepared foods. Although actually he touched nothing, his motions were transmitted to the shops where the work was accomplished by remote control. After one short hour of this relief came the darkness and silence again.
But every so often . . . once or twice a week (or perhaps once or twice a year) came the muffled thud of a distant explosion. The concussions were startling enough to distract Foyle from the furnace of vengeance that he stoked all through the silences. He whispered questions to the invisible figures around him in Sanitation.
“What’s them explosions?”
“Explosio
ns?”
“Blow-ups. Hear ’em a long way off, me.”
“Them’s Blue Jauntes.”
“What?”
“Blue Jauntes. Every sometime a guy gets fed up with old
Jeffrey. Can’t take it no more, him. Jauntes into the wild blue yonder.”
“Jesus.”
“Yep. Don’t know where they are, them. Don’t know where they’re going. Blue Jaunte into the dark . . . and we hear ’em exploding in the mountains. Boom! Blue Jaunte.”
He was appalled, but he could understand. The darkness, the silence, the monotony destroyed sense and brought on desperation. The loneliness was intolerable. The patients buried in Gouffre Martel prison hospital looked forward eagerly to the morning Sanitation period for a chance to whisper a word and hear a word. But these fragments were not enough, and desperation came. Then there would be another distant explosion.
Sometimes the suffering men would turn on each other and then a savage fight would break out in Sanitation. These were instantly broken up by the goggled guards, and the morning lecture would switch on the Moral Fiber record preaching the Virtue of Patience.
Foyle learned the records by heart, every word, every click and crack in the tapes. He learned to loathe the voices of the lecturers: the Understanding Baritone, the Cheerful Tenor, the Man-to-Man Bass. He learned to deafen himself to the therapeutic monotony and perform his occupational therapy mechanically, but he was without resources to withstand the endless solitary hours. Fury was not enough.
He lost count of the days, of meals, of sermons. He no longer whispered in Sanitation. His mind came adrift and he began to wander. He imagined he was back aboard “Nomad,” reliving his fight for survival. Then he lost even this feeble grasp on illusion and began to sink deeper and deeper into the pit of catatonia: of womb silence, womb darkness, and womb sleep.
There were fleeting dreams. An angel hummed to him once. Another time she sang quietly. Thrice he heard her speak: “Oh God . . .” and “God damn!” and “Oh . . .” in a heart-rending descending note.
He sank into his abyss, listening to her.
American Science Fiction Five Classic Novels 1956-58 Page 23