I took the paper and looked at it. "A doctor?"
"A psychiatrist."
"I don't understand."
"Have you ever heard of survivor's syndrome?" I shook my head.
He said quietly, "When you wipe out three-quarters of the human race, all you have left are orphans. There isn't a human being on this planet who hasn't been affected in some deep way. The dying has touched us all. I'm sure you've seen some of the reactions, the herds of walking wounded, the manics, the zombies, the suicides, the sexual obsessives, the ones who are so desperate for stability that they've become drones, and so on. I don't know if you've seen much of the opposite side of that coin though. Like any ordeal, the plagues destroyed the weak and tempered the strong. There are a lot of people who are just coming alive now because they have something worthwhile to do. Before you can become a real member of this Special Forces, we have to know which kind of survivor you are."
I blurted, "I don't know. I never thought about it. I mean, I just picked myself up and kept on going. It seemed the only logical thing to do-"
Wallachstein held up a hand. "Don't tell me. Tell the doctor. We'll recess this hearing until . . ." He glanced at his watch, scowled. ". . . until further notice. Take a scooter from the car pool, McCarthy. Major Tirelli will show you where to go. Don't talk to anyone else. Go directly back to base and plug into Dr. Davidson. Get something to eat at the base commissary. Better get a change of clothes too, and then come back here immediately."
"Uh, sir?"
He looked up. "Eh?"
"I thought I was ... under arrest. I mean, what's to keep me from getting on the scooter and heading west?"
"Nothing," he said. "In fact, it'd probably solve a lot of problems if you did. It's not something many people know, but not a lot of traffic is getting over the Rockies these days. Something keeps stopping the cars and peeling them open like sardine cans. Besides"-he looked me straight in the eye and his expression was taut "you're not the kind who bolts. You'll come back. By then we'll have Dr. Davidson's report and we'll know what to do with you. Major Tirelli, will you escort McCarthy to the car pool? We have some talking to do here."
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE ROOM was empty.
A rug. A chair. A table with a pitcher of water and a glass on it. Nothing else. No other doors except the one behind me. "Please sit down," said a disembodied female voice. I looked, but I couldn't see a speaker system. I sat down. The chair creaked, but it was comfortable. It was a swivel-rocker, upholstered in dark brown leather. It felt reassuring.
"Your name, please?"
"McCarthy, James Edward."
"Ah, yes. We've been expecting you. Dr. Davidson will be with you shortly. While you wait, I'll play a short film for you."
"Um-" But the room was already darkening. The wall in front of me began to glow and images began to solidify in the air. I shut up, decided to relax and enjoy it.
The film was ... a montage. What they call a tone poem. Music and images wrapping around each other, some sexual, some violent, some funny, some happy-two naked children splashing in a rocky stream dissolved into a tiny jeweled spider weaving a diamond tapestry against a blue and velvet background-that shimmered into an eagle soaring high above a desolate landscape as if looking for a haven-the eagle became a silver sailship hanging effortlessly in space below an emerald-shiny Earth, and then a pair of male dancers, clad only in briefs, whirled around each other, their bodies glistening with sweat-resolving now into a cheetah racing hard across the veldt and bringing down a zebra, terrified, in a cloud of stinging dust...
It went on like that for ten or fifteen minutes, a tumble of pictures, one after the other, faster than I could assimilate. A couple of times I felt frightened; I didn't know why. Once I felt angry. I didn't like the film. I wondered why they were showing it to me. This was boring. And then, just when I started to get interested again, it ended.
When the lights came back up, a quiet voice said, "Good afternoon." The voice was male. Quiet. Very mature. Grandfatherly.
I cleared my throat again, and I found my voice. "Where are you?" I asked.
"Atlanta."
"Who are you?"
"You may call me Dr. Davidson, if you wish. That's not my real name, but that's the name I use for these sessions."
"Why is that?"
He ignored the question. "If you'd like to smoke, please feel free," said Dr. Davidson. "I won't mind."
"I don't smoke," I said.
"I meant dope."
I shrugged. "I don't do much of that either."
"Why not?" he asked. "Do you have strong feelings about it?"
"No. I just don't like it much." Something was making me uncomfortable. I said, "Can you see me?"
"Yes, I can."
"Is there any way I can see you?"
"If you mean, is there a screen for two-way video, I'm sorry, there isn't. If you mean you'd like to see me face to face, you'll have to come to Atlanta. I'm something of an invalid. That's one of the reasons why we don't have two-way hookups. Sometimes my ... ah, condition can be disconcerting."
"Oh." I felt embarrassed. I didn't know what to say.
Dr. Davidson said, "Please tell me about yourself."
"What do you want to know?"
"Why do you think you're here?"
"I was told to come here."
"Why?"
"They want to know if I'm too crazy to be trusted." "What do you think?"
"I don't know. The way I always heard it, the crazy person is the worst one to judge."
"Just the same, what do you think?" Dr. Davidson's voice was mild-and incredibly patient. I began to like him. A little.
I said, "I think I'm doing okay. I'm surviving."
"Is that your gauge of success? That you're surviving?" I thought about it. "I guess not."
"Are you happy?"
"I don't know. I don't know what happiness feels like anymore. I used to. I don't think anyone's happy since the plagues."
"Are you unhappy? Do you feel depressed?"
"Sometimes. Not a lot."
"Hurt? Confused?"
"Yeah. A little."
"Angry."
I hesitated. "No."
There was silence for a moment. Then Dr. Davidson asked, "Do you ever feel angry?"
"Yeah. Doesn't everybody?"
"It's a normal response to frustrating situations," Dr. Davidson admitted. "So what makes you angry?"
"Stupidity," I said. Even talking about it, I could feel my muscles tightening.
Dr. Davidson sounded puzzled. "I'm not sure I understand that, Jim. Could you give me some examples?"
"I don't know. People lying to each other. Not being honest. . . ."
"Specifically?" he urged.
"Um-well, like the people I met at the reception last night. And the scientists this morning. And even Colonel Wa-the people who sent me here. Everybody's talking to me. But so far, nobody wants to listen."
"I'm listening, Jim."
"You're a shrink. You have to listen. That's your job."
"Did you ever wonder what kind of person becomes a psychiatrist, Jim?"
"No."
"I'll tell you. Somebody who is interested in other people enough to want to listen to them."
"Well ... but it's not the same. I want to talk to the people who can answer my questions about the Chtorrans. I want to tell them what I saw. I want to ask them what it meant-but it doesn't seem like anyone wants to listen. Or, if they listen, they don't want to believe. And I know I saw a fourth Chtorran come out of that nest!"
"It's difficult to prove, isn't it?"
"Yeah," I grumbled. "It is."