Close to his ear, a voice said: "There remains some island of ego."
A second voice, a woman's, said: "But submerged."
"Totally withdrawn," the man said. "The shock of failure. When the Psi-testing collapsed. He was at the edge of the Resort, starting back out. And he couldn't."
The woman asked: "Isn't there a better solution?"
"He needed one at that instant. He couldn't return to Morec, and he had found no help at the Resort. For that I'm partly to blame; I wasted time on the testing."
"You thought it would help." The woman seemed to be moving nearer. "Can he hear us?"
"I doubt it. There's no way to tell. The catalepsy is complete, so he can't signal."
"How long will it last?"
"Hard to say. Days, weeks, maybe the balance of his life." Malparto's voice seemed to recede, and he strained to catch it. "Maybe we should inform his wife."
"Can you tell anything about his inner world?" Gretchen, too, was dimming. "What kind of fantasy is he lost in?"
"An escape." The voice vanished, then momentarily returned. "Time will tell." It was gone.
Struggling from the couch, Mr. John Coates shouted: "Did you hear them? Did you?"
At the top of the stairs Gretchen appeared, hairbrush in one hand, stockings over her arm. "What's the matter?"
He appealed in despair. "It was you and your brother. Couldn't you hear them? This is a—" He broke off.
"A what?" She came calmly downstairs. "What are you talking about?"
A pool had formed where his drink glass had fallen; he bent down to sop it up, "I have news for you," he said. "This isn't real. I'm sick; this is a psychotic retreat."
"I'm surprised at you," she said. "Really, I am. You sound like a college sophomore. Solipsism—skepticism. Bishop Berkeley, all that ultimate-reality stuff."
As his fingers touched the drink glass, the wall behind it vanished.
Still stooping, he saw out into the world beyond. He saw the street, other houses. He was afraid to lift his head. The mantel and fireplace, the rug and deep chairs... even the lamp and bric-a-brac, all were gone. Only a void. Emptiness.
"There it is," Gretchen said. "Right by your hand."
He saw no glass, now; it had vanished with the room. In spite of himself, he turned his head. There was nothing behind him. Gretchen was gone, too. He was standing alone in emptiness. Only the next house, a long way off, remained. Along the street a car moved, followed by a second. At a neighboring house a curtain was drawn. Darkness was descending everywhere.
"Gretchen," he said.
There was no response. Only silence.
CHAPTER 14
He closed his eyes and willed. He imagined the room: he pictured Gretchen, the coffee table, the package of cigarettes, the lighter beside it. He pictured the ashtray, the drapes, the couch and phonograph.
When he opened his eyes the room was back. But Gretchen was gone. He was alone in the house.
The shades were all down, and he had a deep intuition of lateness. As if, he thought, time had passed. A clock on the mantel read eight-thirty. Had four whole hours gone by? Four hours...
"Gretchen?" he said, experimentally. He went to the stairs and started up. Still no sign of her. The house was warm, the air pleasant and fresh. Somewhere an automatic heating unit functioned.
A room to his right was her bedroom. He glanced in.
The small ivory clock on the dressing table did not read eight-thirty. It read a quarter to five. Gretchen had overlooked it. She had not set it forward with the one downstairs.
Instantly he was running back downstairs, two steps at a time.
The voices had reached him as he lay on the couch. Kneeling, he pressed his hands over the fabric, across the arms and back, under the cushions. Finally he dragged the couch away from the wall.
The first speaker was mounted within a coil of back-spring. A second and then a third were concealed under the rug; they were as flat as paper. He estimated that at least a dozen speakers had been mounted throughout the room.
Since Gretchen had been upstairs the control unit was undoubtedly there. Again he climbed the stairs and entered her bedroom.
At first he failed to recognize it. The control lay in plain sight, on the woman's dressing table, with the jars and tubes and packages of cosmetics. The hairbrush. He picked it up and rotated the plastic handle.
From downstairs boomed a man's voice. "There remains some island of ego."
Gretchen's voice answered. "But submerged."
"Totally withdrawn," Malparto continued. "The shock—"
Allen snapped the handle back, and the voices departed. The tape transport, mounted somewhere in the walls of the house, had halted in the middle of its cycle.
Downstairs again, he searched for the means by which Gretchen had dissolved the house. When he found it, he was chagrined. The unit was built into the fireplace, in open view, one of the many comfort-making gadgets. He pressed the stud and the room around him with its furnishings and rich textures seeped away. The outside world remained: houses, the street, the sky. A glimmer of stars.
The device was a mere romantic gadget. For long, dull evenings. Gretchen was an active girl.
In a closet, under a heap of blankets, he found a newspaper used as a shelf-liner; it was empirical proof. The news- paper was the Vega Sentinel. He was not in a fantasy world; he was on the fourth planet of the Vega System.
He was on Other World, the permanent refuge maintained by the Mental Health Resort. Maintained for persons who had come—not for therapy—but for sanctuary.
Finding the phone, he dialed zero.
"Number please," the operator said, the faint, tinny, and terribly reassuring voice.
"Give me one of the space ports," he said. "Any one that has inter-system service."
A series of clicks, buzzes, and then he was connected with the ticket office. A methodical male voice on the other end of the wire said,
"Yes sir. What can I do for you?"
"What's the fare to Earth?" He wondered, in a stricken way, just how long he had been here. A week? A month?
"One way, first class. Nine hundred thirty dollars. Plus twenty percent luxury tax." The voice was without emotion.
He had no such money. "What's the next system in order?"
"Sirius."
"How much is that?" He didn't have over fifty dollars in his wallet. And this planet was under the jurisdiction of the Health Resort: it had acquired it with its deed.
"One way, first class. Tax included... comes to seven hundred forty-two dollars."
He calculated. "What's it cost to phone Earth?"
The ticket agent said, "You'll have to ask the phone company, mister. That's not our business."
When he had gotten the operator again, Allen said, "I'd like to place a call to Earth."
"Yes sir." She did not seem surprised. "What number, sir?"
He gave Telemedia's number, and then the number on the phone he was using. It was as simple as that.
After several minutes of buzzing, the operator said, "I'm sorry, sir. Your party does not answer."
"What time is it there?"
A moment and then: "In that time zone it is three a.m., sir."
In a husky voice he said, "Look, I've been kidnapped. I have to get out of here—back to Earth."
"I suggest you call one of the inter-system transport fields, sir," the operator said.
"All I've got is fifty bucks!"
"I'm sorry, sir. I can connect you with one of the fields if you wish."
He hung up.
There was no point staying in the house, but he lingered long enough to type out a note—a note with a vengeance. He left the note in the middle of the coffee table, where Gretchen would be sure to see it.
Dear Mrs. Coates,
You remember Molly. Damned if I didn't run into her at the Brass Poker. Says she's pregnant, but you know how that kind are. Think I better stay with her until we can get her a you-know-what.