Jeremy nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Well? What’s your decision?” Jeremy’s hands clenched in his lap. He wasn’t faking, he knew he wasn’t faking. He had seen the hallucination.
But what good would it do to convince this man he was telling the truth? The psychiatrist was right, an insane asylum was a lot worse than the Air Force.
No. It was the truth. This thing had happened, and if Jeremy didn’t get some help soon, it would drive him crazy.
Then he wondered, What kind of help do I want?
I want someone to explain it away. That was it, that was the core of it. No matter how much he knew that it had been an hallucination, no matter how often he convinced himself of that, he still didn’t believe it. Way down inside, he believed it had really happened, he had really gone home.
And that was what he wanted, somebody to shake that belief, somebody to prove to him that he was wrong, somebody to explain that hallucination away. Until that was done, he would just go on worrying about it and being frightened of it.
“I’ll stay, sir,” he said.
The psychiatrist said, “Um-m-m,” again. He nodded, and got to his feet. “Come with me.”
There was a high leather-covered cot in the next room, beside some complicated-looking apparatus. At the psychiatrist’s orders, Jeremy rolled up his left sleeve and stretched out on the cot. The intravenous injection began, and the psychiatrist alternated between studying his watch and peering at Jeremy’s face.
It was a strange sensation. First the prick of the needle, and then a spreading warmth and a drowsiness, and the end to worry. It was so pleasant, so pleasant to know that there was nothing to be afraid of, nothing to worry about, that nothing in all the world was really very important. He could even stop hiding the truth.
Time passed sluggishly, and when the psychiatrist spoke at last his voice was far away and muffled. “What is your name?”
It took no effort to talk. He was easy and relaxed, and he didn’t care. “Jeremy Masters,” he said.
“And how old are you?”
“Twenty.”
“How tall?”
“Six foot.”
“Did you have an hallucination a week ago yesterday?”
Why not tell him the truth? It didn’t matter. “No.”
There was a pause, and then the psychiatrist said, “What’s your mother’s first name?”
Jeremy smiled. “Alma.”
“What’s your father’s first name?”
“Richard.”
“Why did you lie about the hallucination?”
“I was afraid to tell the truth.”
“I see. And what is the truth?”
Why not? “I went home.”
The pause this time was longer, and when the psychiatrist spoke again his voice was somewhat sharper. “You really went home?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was afraid.”
“How did you do it?”
Jeremy frowned, trying to concentrate. But it was too much trouble, the answer was too far down. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t remember.”
“Could you do it again?”
No hesitation this time. “Yes.”
“Let’s see you.”
Jeremy thought it over, and slowly shook his head. “I can’t. Not now.”
“Why not?”
“You’re looking at me.”
“I’ll turn my back.”
“No. It isn’t dark.”
“It has to be dark?”
“Yes. And nobody seeing me. And… and right now I have to be scared.”
“What do you mean, right now?”
“Maybe… maybe I’ll get better. I don’t know.”
“I see. And have you ever done this before?”
“No.”
“Then how did you know you could do it?”
“I didn’t. It scared me.”
“But you really did go home?”
“Yes. I really did go home.”
The psychiatrist sighed, and moved around the room a bit, and then he came back and asked Jeremy some questions about girls, and whether or not he liked the Air Force (he didn’t), and whether or not there was any epilepsy in his family (there wasn’t). Then the psychiatrist said, “All right. You take a nap now, and I’ll talk to you later.” He did something with the needle that was still in Jeremy’s arm, and Jeremy went to sleep.
The psychiatrist’s name was Holland, and his rank was Captain. And he was very very curious. “Quite frankly,” he said, “I wonder what your interest in this man is.”
“Quite frankly,” said the colonel, “it’s none of your business. I don’t mean to be overly tough with you, but I’m afraid that’s the way it has to be. I’ll be the one asking all the questions, and you’ll be the one giving all the answers.”
Captain Holland’s face froze. He had plainly decided that he didn’t like this overbearing colonel very much at all. Well, that was too bad. It would be nice to be liked, but it wouldn’t get much accomplished. And the colonel meant to get things accomplished.
“You gave him sodium amytal, is that right?”
Captain Holland nodded, stiffly. “What did he say beforehand?”
“That he had had an hallucination.”
“And under the narcoanalysis?”
“He admitted that he believed the delusion. That he believed he had gone home. Wish-fulfillment, nothing more.”
“It’s a little early for an analysis,” said the colonel. He got to his feet and paced the floor, ignoring the cold gaze of the captain. At length, he said, “What do you plan to do with him?”
“Send him back to his outfit,” said the captain. “This is only a temporary thing. Given other things to think about, it’ll wear off.”
“No,” said the colonel.
“What’s that?”
“You’ll send him to the hospital at Dover,” said the colonel. “For observation and treatment.”
“But… but that’s absurd. He doesn’t need observation and treatment, all he needs is a few days to forget all this.”
“It could be,” said the colonel, “that I don’t want him to forget it.”
“Sir,” said the captain stiffly, “my first duty is to my patient. I must strongly protest any attempt to make this delusion seem overly important to him. We could blow it up now to
the point where there would be—”
“Your first duty,” cut in the colonel, “is to the Air Force, and through the Air Force to your country.”
“I don’t see how badgering a poor airman basic is going to be of any advantage at all to either the Air Force or the nation.”
“You don’t have to see that, Captain. All you have to do is take my word for it.”
“I assure you, sir, that I fully intend to protest this action of yours—”
“Ketchup!” snorted the colonel. “Protest all you want.”
“In all my years in the service—”
“You still haven’t learned to obey orders. Now, listen to me. This is important. You are to tell that boy that he is being sent to another hospital for observation. You are not to mention me at all, and you are not to tell him your own personal feelings on the subject.”
“Until I have a direct order from the surgeon general,” said the captain hotly, “I have no intention of so mishandling a simple case like—”
“You have a direct order, Captain, from me.”
The office door opened, and Ed Clark stuck his head in. “The plane’s ready, Colonel,” he said.
“Fine.” The colonel started for the door, and paused to look back at the captain. “This is important, Captain,” he said, “vitally important. You can be sure I’m not making myself difficult for the fun of it.”