Nelson crashed. Went into a dive somehow and ran smack into a mountain. The experts think he must have turned and come down too fast; there's no evidence of mechanical failure.
I nodded within myself. In those last seconds I'd been in the Comanche's cockpit as well as in my own car-and in the latter I'd turned left, hit the leftmost pedal, and pushed on the wheel. Apparently, I'd done the same in the plane. But I couldn't tell the others what had happened. Not yet.
Calvin was speaking again. You've been under sedation for the last three days while a handful of top psychiatrists did some tests. They say you've got all the symptoms of dissociative hysteria, but that you have a good chance of recovering with proper care and some hard work.
Unbidden, tears formed in my eyes, and I clenched my teeth to keep them back. Maybe. But who's going to come out of this recovery? Dale Ravenhall? Or a Dale/Nelson mixture?
There was a pause. We don't know, exactly, Colleen said gently. But whatever changes have been forced on you, you're still Dale Ravenhall. Hang onto that thought, that reality. You're still our friend, and we'll stick by you and give you all the help we can.
Even if I turn out to be partly Nelson?
We would have done the same for Nelson, Calvin said. He was one of us, too. Try not to hate him, Dale.
I don't hate him for me. But I won't soon forgive him for killing Amos the same way he tried to kill me.
What do you mean, the same way?
But that's where his conditioned hijackers took the plane. Colleen sounded confused.
Which is exactly what he wanted. Don't you see? Picture Amos rushing helplessly toward a fatal contact with Nelson, who is pretending he is there just by chance. You all know how noble and selfless Amos was. What would he do in that situation?
There was a long pause, the texture of which changed from puzzled to horrified to very sad. He would have committed suicide rather than let them both die, Calvin said at last. That's what happened, isn't it?
I nodded wearily, and Colleen must have sensed my fatigue. I think we'd better go now and let Dale get some rest, she said. Dale, we'll be here as long as you are, so just call whenever you want to talk. Okay?
Sure. Thank you-all of you.
Take care, Dale. We'll talk to you later.
I turned my head to the side against my pillow. Sleep was pulling at me, and I welcomed the temporary oblivion it would bring. I am Dale Ravenhall, I said to myself and to the universe around me. You hear me? I am Dale Ravenhall. I am Dale Ravenhall....
I was saying it right up to the moment I fell asleep. Down deep, I knew it wasn't completely true.
DARK THOUGHTS AT NOON
Like a crazed hawk the Piper Comanche dives at me through the red mist. I am flying her; desperately, I grip the wheel, trying to keep the cars screeching tires on the road winding through the mountains. Agony clouds my vision, permeates every fiber of my being. In the distance I hear a bell ring. Ask not for whom the bell rings... no, that's not right, but I can't remember how it should be. Beneath me the road sweeps past/the toy-like mountains crawl past. I am Dale Ravenhall/I am Nelson Follstadt/I am Dale/I am Nelson-pain pain pain. The bell rings again- And as quickly as it began, the daymare was over. I was back in my house on the outskirts of Des Moines, trembling slightly with reaction. Downstairs, the front doorbell rang.
I took a deep breath and got up from the desk chair where I'd been sitting, feeling my shirt stick to my back as I did so. I headed out of the room, and was halfway down the stairs when the call came.
Dale, are you all right?
It was Colleen, of course; she's usually the only one who can tell when I've hit one of my daymares. Sure, Colleen, I assured her. It wasn't too bad this time.
At a hundred thirty-odd miles away in Chillicothe, Missouri, she was still far enough away from me to edit the thoughts I sent her, but even so the fib was a waste of time. Oh, Dale, she sighed, and I instantly felt like a heel as warmth and strength flowed from her, chasing away the final bits of the vision's darkness. It'll get better, darling-it has to. Do you want to tell me about it?
Not really. I'd found out months ago that talking about the daymares didn't do anything to eliminate them.
Look, honey, there's someone at the door. I'll call you back when I'm free.
Not really. I'd found out months ago that talking about the daymares didn't do anything to eliminate them.
Look, honey, there's someone at the door. I'll call you back when I'm free.
I love you, too.
We broke contact, and I felt the usual frustration well up inside me. Frustration at my daymares, at Colleen's quiet refusal to return to her beloved Saskatchewan as long as I still needed her close by; but most of all, frustration at the universe's uncaring decree that had kept us apart all our lives. And once more I swore I was going to find a way around that law, no matter what it cost me.
I continued down the stairs, and as I reached the front hall I caught the first wisps of thought from those waiting outside my door. There were two of them, one of whom I recognized almost immediately from the texture of his surface thoughts. The other was a stranger, but knowing Rob Peterson had brought him here made his business obvious. Reaching the door, I opened it wide. "Come in, Rob; Mr.-ah-Green," I said, pulling Ted Green's name from Rob's thoughts.
Green blinked, and I felt him reflexively shrink back as he realized what I'd just done. Rob just grinned and strolled on in; after four months of working for me he'd long since gotten used to telepathic shortcuts.
With only a brief hesitation and a measuring look at me Green followed. Pretending I hadn't noticed, I closed the door behind them, then led the way to the living room. We sat down, and I got right down to business.
"First of all," I said, addressing Green, "what has Rob told you about my project?"
"Nothing, really." He shrugged. He'd taken the farthest chair from me that courtesy permitted, and while he wasn't quite out of range there, the thoughts I could get were barely surface ones. But Rob was closer, and his thoughts verified Green's words. "He told me you needed something electronic built, and that I'd be working with the most intriguing bit of gadgetry I'd ever see." He smiled shyly. "How could I pass up a come-on like that?"
It was right then that I decided I didn't like Ted Green. The shy smile was pure affectation, completely out of sync with the cool, calculating mind I'd already glimpsed there. That sort of gambit used by that sort of person, I've found, is usually an attempt at emotional manipulation, a practice I detest. "How indeed," I said shortly. "Before I tell you more, I want it clearly understood that this information is strictly confidential, and that whether you take the job or not you'll keep it to yourself."
"I understand."
"All right." I pursed my lips, mentally preparing myself. I didn't want another daymare now. "Have you ever heard of Amos Potter?"
"Sure," was the prompt reply. "He was a telepath from California-worked as a psychologist, I think. He died last April during a plane hijacking, stabbed by one of the hijackers. Seems to me that was just a few days before your own accident, wasn't it?"
I forced a nod. Amos hadn't been killed by the hijackers, but had been forced into suicide by a megalomaniac Nelson Follstadt; and my "accident," as he called it, was Nelson's attempt to do the same to me. But there was no point in telling Green how much of the story the official version had left out.
"Amos also had a master's degree in electrical engineering, and he left us an interesting device: a black box that locates telepaths."
"Amos also had a master's degree in electrical engineering, and he left us an interesting device: a black box that locates telepaths."
I gestured to Rob. "We don't know yet," he said. "Most of the electronics are perfectly straightforward, but there are two components that Amos apparently made himself. They're the heart of the finder-and we still don't know how they work."