And then the other two, in the afternoon—they had been in even worse shape. Gistin 190, the schoolteacher, that lovely frail woman with the dark, intelligent eyes—she hadn’t been able to stop sobbing for a moment, and though she was able to speak clearly and well, at least in the beginning, her story had degenerated into mere incoherent blurtings within a few sentences. And Chimmilit 97, the high school athlete, obviously a perfect physical specimen—Sheerin wasn’t going quickly to forget how the boy had reacted to the sight of the afternoon sky when Sheerin opened the blinds in his room. There was Onos blazing away in the west, and all that huge handsome boy could manage to say was, “The Darkness—the Darkness—” before he turned away and tried to scuttle down under his bed!
The Darkness—the Darkness—
And now, Sheerin thought gloomily, it’s my turn to take a ride in the Tunnel of Mystery.
Of course, he could simply refuse. There was nothing in his consulting contract with the Municipality of Jonglor that required him to risk his sanity. He’d be able to render a valid enough opinion without actually sticking his neck into peril.
But something in him rebelled at such timidity. His professional pride, if nothing else, was pushing him toward the Tunnel. He was here to study the phenomenon of mass hysteria, and to help these people work out ways not only of healing the present victims but of preventing recurrences of these tragedies. How could he deign to explain what had happened to the Tunnel’s victims if he didn’t make a close study of the cause of their disturbances? He had to. It would be sheer malfeasance to back out.
Nor did he want anyone, not even these strangers here in Jonglor, to be able to accuse him of cowardice. He remembered the taunts of his childhood: “Fatty is a coward! Fatty is a coward!” All because he hadn’t wanted to climb a tree that was obviously beyond the capabilities of his heavy, ill-coordinated body.
But Fatty wasn’t a coward. Sheerin knew that. He was content with himself: a sane, well-balanced man. He simply didn’t want other people making incorrect assumptions about him because of his unheroic appearance.
Besides, fewer than one out of ten of those who had gone through the Tunnel of Mystery had come out of it showing any symptoms of emotional disturbance. And those people must have been vulnerable in some special way. Precisely because he was so sane, Sheerin told himself, because he was so well balanced, he had nothing to fear.
Nothing—
To—
Fear—
He kept repeating those words to himself until he felt almost calm.
Even so, Sheerin was something other than his customary jolly self as he went downstairs to wait for the hospital car to pick him up.
Kelaritan was there, and Cubello, and a striking-looking woman named Varitta 312, who was introduced to him as one of the engineers who had designed the Tunnel. Sheerin greeted them all with hearty handshakes and a broad smile that he hoped seemed convincing.
“A nice day for a trip to the amusement park,” he said, trying to sound jovial.
Kelaritan looked at him oddly. “I’m glad you feel that way. Did you sleep well, Dr. Sheerin?”
“Very well, thanks.—As well as could be expected, I should say. After seeing those unhappy people yesterday.”
Cubello said, “You aren’t optimistic about their chances of recovery, then?”
“I’d like to be,” Sheerin told the lawyer ambiguously.
The car moved smoothly down the street.
“It’s about a twenty-minute drive to the Centennial Exposition grounds,” Kelaritan said. “The Exposition itself will be crowded—it is every day—but we’ve had a big section of the amusement area roped off so that we won’t be disturbed. The Tunnel of Mystery itself, as you know, has been shut down since the full extent of the troubles became apparent.”
“You mean the deaths?”
“Obviously we couldn’t allow the ride to remain open after that,” Cubello said. “But you must realize that we were considering shutting down much earlier. It was a question of determining whether the people who appeared to have been disturbed by their trips through the Tunnel were actually suffering harm or were merely falling in with popular hysteria.”
“Of course,” Sheerin said, his tone a dry one. “The City Council wouldn’t have wanted to close down such a profitable attraction except for a really good reason. Such as having a bunch of the customers drop dead from fright, I suppose.”
The atmosphere in the car became exceedingly chilly.
Kelaritan said, after a time, “The Tunnel was not only a profitable attraction but also one that nearly everyone who attended the Exposition was eager to experience, Dr. Sheerin. I understand that thousands of people had to be turned away every day.”
“Even though it was obvious from the very first day that some of those who rode through the Tunnel, like Harrim and his family, were coming out of it in psychotic states?”
“Especially because of that, Doctor,” Cubello said.
“What?”
“Forgive me if I seem to be explaining your own specialty to you,” the lawyer said unctuously. “But I’d like to remind you that there’s a fascination in being frightened when it’s part of a game. A baby is born with three instinctive fears: of loud noises, of falling, and of the total absence of light. That’s why it’s considered so funny to jump at someone and shout ‘Boo!’ That’s why it’s such fun to ride a roller coaster. And that’s why the Tunnel of Mystery was something everybody wanted to see at first hand. People came out of that Darkness shaking, breathless, half dead with fear, but they kept on paying to get in. The fact that a few of those who took the ride came out of it in a rather intense state of shock only added to the appeal.”
“Because most people assumed that they’d be tough enough to withstand whatever it was that had shaken up the others so much, is that it?”
“Exactly, Doctor.”
“And when some people came out not just highly upset but actually dead of fright? Even if the Exposition managers couldn’t see their way clear to shutting the thing down after that, I’d imagine that potential customers would have become few and far between, once the news of the deaths got around.”
“Ah, quite the contrary,” said Cubello, smiling triumphantly. “The same psychological mechanism operated, though even more strongly. After all, if people with weak hearts wanted to go through the Tunnel, it was at their own risk—why be surprised at what happened to them? The City Council discussed the whole thing at great length and agreed finally to put a doctor in the front office and have every customer undergo a physical examination before getting into the car. That actually boosted ticket sales.”
“In that case,” Sheerin said, “why is the Tunnel shut down now? From what you’ve told me, I’d expect it to be doing terrific business, lines stretching from Jonglor all the way to Khunabar, mobs of people going in the front way and a steady stream of corpses being hauled out the back.”
“Dr. Sheerin!”
“Well, why isn’t it still open, if even the deaths didn’t trouble anybody?”
“The liability insurance problem,” Cubello said.
“Ah. Of course.”
“Despite your grisly little turn of phrase just now, actual deaths were very few and far between—three, I think, or maybe five. The families of those who passed away were given adequate indemnities and the cases were closed. What ultimately became a problem for us was not the death rate but the survival rate among those who underwent traumatic disturbance. It began to become clear that some might require hospitalization for prolonged periods—an ongoing expense, a constant financial drain on the municipality and its insurers.”