“Maintained in a sleeping state in the Thronsen Home, their psychic energies were then united in a common pool through the formation of the dreamfield. Dream experiences, based on each individual’s psychological history, were then administered to heighten the degree of emotional tension, increasing in turn the amount of psychic energy in the pool.
“Eventually, as in a nuclear pile, levels of energy are reached where further increases take on an exponential growth curve, the energy increasing faster and faster without any further input. This chain reaction continues, eventually resulting in the bomb’s fantastic destructive capacity, unless somehow controlled.
“To control the rate of reaction in a nuclear pile, a damping material such as cadmium can be used. This metal, inserted into a nuclear pile, soaks up some of the energy and maintains the reaction at a safe level.”
That’s right, thought Ralph. Zip rods.
“To keep Operation Dreamwatch’s ‘psychic bomb’ from premature explosion, a similar method has been employed. Individuals characterized by low psychic energy levels—the so-called ‘watchers’—were inserted into the dreamfield to soak up enough of the dreaming children’s released energy to keep the process from reaching its exponential growth curve. Just as some individuals are capable of infinitely higher levels of psychic energy, the watchers are capable of unlimited absorption of that energy without altering their own nature. This was confirmed by the secret electronic monitoring of the serotonin/melatonin activity in each watcher’s brain. While these hormonal levels are not themselves the psychic energy process, they are an indicative side effect of it. To further insulate the watchers from the energy released on the dreamfield, large amounts of ethyl alcohol—in the form of beer—were made available to them. Thus, the children’s psychic energy levels were kept damped until the psychological frustration experiences on the dreamfield had developed their capacities to the point of a world-annihilating release of energy.”
The woman paused again before going on. “Unfortunately, Operation Dreamwatch has reached that point. The psychic bomb’s assembly has been completed. At this moment, the children’s collective psychic energy has entered its exponential growth curve, and is increasing to the levels necessary for detonation.”
The screen suddenly went blank except for the words “End of Orientation.”
“Just in time, too,” said Spencer. “Here we are.”
Ralph looked up from the now empty viewing screen, then out the helicopter’s side. Curving up towards them were the roofs of the base’s familiar buildings. Beyond the apartments he could see that Muehlenfeldt’s jetliner was no longer there. And where’s Sarah now? he wondered.
Ralph said, “Wait a minute.” The helicopter settled among clouds of dust. Figures could be seen emerging from the administration building and heading toward them. “That tape didn’t explain enough.”
“That sort of thing never does.” Spencer took the viewer and set it on the helicopter’s floor. “So what else do you want to know?”
“If all the watchers’ energy levels were being monitored, how come your brother wasn’t ever suspected of being different? I mean, his energy level must have been pretty high.”
Spencer nodded. “Just goes to show what a first class operation this Beta group is. They knew about the monitoring before they sent Mike to hire on as a watcher. So they modified his brain chemistry—this is what I was told when I asked about it—so that instead of his producing normal serotonin, a molecular tail was added to the hormone. That way, his serotonin/melatonin activity couldn’t be accurately determined by the Opwatch monitors, making his psychic energy level seem much lower than it really was.”
Puzzled, Ralph scratched his chin. “But what about, me?” he said. “If the watchers are only good for soaking up other people’s energy, then why did Mike think I could be of any use to the Beta group? What am I supposed to be able to do?”
“Mike figured you were different from the other watchers. There was something that made him think that your psychic energy level wasn’t naturally low, that actually it’s normal or even higher. But before you hired on as a watcher you must have gone through a period of being surrounded by very low-energy persons, and a subconscious telepathic ability picked up on that and depressed your energy level to match.”
The Juvenile Hall, thought Ralph. The helicopter’s cramped interior seemed to fade away as his memory shot back to the long night-shift hours at the correctional facility below L.A. Of course, he thought. The kids there hadn’t gotten into trouble because of too much energy and frustration. They were the ones who drifted into dope and petty theft because they didn’t have enough energy to resist. So passive that life just blew them along like leaves. And there I was surrounded by them every night, their dreams oozing under the doors of their little locked rooms. Tangling my feet as I walked down the corridor with my flashlight. No wonder I was ready to become a watcher after that.
“But what was the clue?” he said, focusing again on Spencer. “What made Mike suspect all that?”
“Really want to know?” Spencer grinned. “You were the only watcher—besides him and Helga, of course—that didn’t have a television in your apartment. Not even a little portable one. That’s a very un-watcherish thing to do. A TV is always the most important thing a low-energy person owns.”
“Maybe,” said Ralph. He briefly wondered what his energy level was like now, after all that he had gone through. “But what am I supposed to do now? I mean, what did you bring me back here to do?”
Someone unlatched the helicopter’s door from outside. Spencer laughed and pushed Ralph toward the opening. “Do?” he said. “Save the world, schmuck! What else is there to do?”
Ralph stumbled out of the helicopter, his heel catching on the rim of the door. A man wearing some kind of military uniform caught him. “Mr. Metric?” the man shouted over the helicopter’s noise.
He nodded, shielding his eyes from the grit tossed up by the whirling blades. Behind him he heard Spencer’s feet hit the ground.
“Come on, then.” The uniformed man steered him by the elbow away from the wind and noise.
The army seemed to have taken over the base. As they headed for the administration building, Ralph pushed his hair away from his eyes and saw groups of soldiers standing at regular intervals around the fence. Dark green military trucks were parked in the base’s center. The buildings and the grounds were bathed a harsh electric blue by enormous floodlights at the top of wheeled towers.
A rifle-bearing guard at the door of the administration building saluted as they went in. With Spencer behind, the uniformed man—some kind of Intelligence officer, Ralph guessed—hurried him down the corridor.
Another guard saluted and held open the door of Commander Stiles’s office.
Inside, a gray-haired man with the face of a crabby eagle set around a briar pipe was sitting at the desk. He was wearing a dark green jumpsuit with four metal stars on each shoulder. This time the man who had met them at the helicopter saluted, then withdrew, closing the door behind him.
“Here he is. General.” Spencer turned to Ralph. “This is General Loren. He’s in charge of the whole Beta group’s operations.”
“Mr. Metric.” The general stood up and extended a massive brown hand over the desk. As Ralph took it, he could see behind him the torn corner in the window screen and the bloodstain on the carpet where Stiles’s head had been. “Glad to have you here with us at last,” said the general. “There’s very little time left, I’m afraid.”