"Are they dangerous in here?" Dalt asked uneasily.
"Only to themselves. These patients are totally cut off from reality and anything could happen to them if they got loose."
"But what's wrong with them? I saw a man go into one of these fits on the orbit station."
Webst twisted his mouth to the side. "Unfortunately, these aren't 'fits' that come and go. The victim gets hit with whatever it is that hits him, screams hysterically, and spends the rest of his life—at least we assume so, although the first recorded case was only ten years ago—cut off from the rest of the world. Cases are popping up on every planet in the Federation. It's even rumored that the Tarks are having problems with it. We need a breakthrough."
Webst paused, then said, "Let's look in here." He opened a door marked 12 and allowed Dalt to precede him into the room. It was a nicely appointed affair with a bed, two chairs, and indirect lighting. And it was empty, or at least Dalt thought it was until Webst directed his attention to a corner behind one of the chairs. A young girl of no more than eighteen years crouched there in a shivering state of abject terror.
"First name, Sally," Webst intoned. "We dubbed her that. Last name: Ragna—that's the planet on which she was found. A typical 'horrors' case: We've had her for one and a half standard years and we haven't been able to put even a chink into that wall of terror."
Webst went to a plate in the wall by the door and waved his hand across it. "This is Dr. Webst. I'm in room twelve with Mr. Dalt."
"Thank you, Doctor," said a male voice. "Would you mind stepping down the hall a minute?"
"Not at all," he replied, and turned to Dalt. "Why don't you stay here and try to talk to Sally while I see what they want. She's perfectly harmless, wouldn't— couldn't—hurt anyone or anything, and that's the crux of her problem. We've normalized her enzymes and have tried every psychotropic agent known to break her shell, with no results. We've even gone so far as to reinstitute the ancient methods of electroconvulsive therapy and insulin shock." He sighed. "Nothing. So try to talk to her and see what we're up against."
With Webst gone, Dalt turned his attention to the girl.
("Pitiful, isn't it?") Pard said.
Dalt did not reply. He was staring at a girl who must have been attractive once; her face now wore a ravaged, hunted expression that had caused seemingly permanent furrows in her skin; her eyes, when not squeezed shut, were opened wide and darting in all directions. Her arms were clasped around her knees, which were drawn up to her chest, and her hands gripped each other with white-knuckled intensity.
This could be very interesting, Dalt told Pard at last.
("It certainly could. I think it could also be interesting to know what Dr. Webst is up to. He was obviously stalling for time when he left us here.")
Maybe he wants us for his department.
("Highly unlikely. To the best of his knowledge, we are eminently unqualified in this field.")
"Hello, Sally," Dalt said.
No reaction.
"Do you hear me, Sally?" No reaction.
He waved his hand before her eyes. No reaction.
He clapped his hands loudly and without warning by her left ear. No reaction.
He put his hands on her shoulders and shook her gently but firmly.
No reaction. Not an extra blink, not a change in expression, not a sound, not the slightest hint of voluntary movement.
Dalt rose to his feet and turned to find Dr. Webst standing in the doorway staring at him.
"Something wrong, Doctor?" Again, he wore the preoccupied, puzzled expression that did not seem to be at home on his face.
"I don't think so," he replied slowly. "Something may be very right, as a matter of fact. But I'll have to look into it a little more." He looked frustrated. "Would you mind going over to personnel for now and straightening out your papers while I try to straighten out a few things over here? I know what you're thinking ... but IMC is really much better organized than I've demonstrated it to be. It's just that we've had some strange occurrences this morning that I'll explain to you later. For the moment, however, I'm going to be tied up."
Dalt had no desire to talk to the personnel department. On an impulse, he asked, "Is Ellen around?"
Webst brightened immediately. "Dr. Lettre? Yes, she's in the next building." He guided Dalt back to the entrance and pointed to a red building on the other side of the garden, perhaps twenty meters away. "Her office is right inside the far door. I'm sure she'll be glad to show you around her section, and I'll contact you there later." He passed his hand over the doorplate and the inner door began to move.
("Nice security system,") Pard said as they strolled past the lolling patients. ("The intercoms and the door-locks are all cued to the palms of authorized personnel. Patients stay where you put them.")
Unless of course someone gets violent and decides that the quickest way to freedom is to cut off someone's authorized hand and waltz right out of the complex.
("Your sense of humor eludes me at times ... but let's get to more-pressing matters.")
Such as?
("Such as Webst At first he lied to get us over to the psychiatry units; now he seems anxious to get rid of us and made up some lame excuses to do so. I'd very much like to know what he's up to.")
Maybe he's just inefficient and disorganized.
("I assure you, Steve, that man is anything but inefficient. He's obviously puzzled by something and we seem to be implicated.")
He did, however, promise to explain it all to us later.
("Correct. Hopefully, he'll keep that promise.") The door Webst had pointed out opened easily at Dalt's touch and did not lock after him. He concluded that there must not be any patients quartered in this area of the building. On a door to his left was a brass plate engraved DR. ELLEN H. LETTRE. He knocked.
"Come in," said a familiar voice. El looked almost as beautiful in a gray smock as she had in her clingsuit aboard ship.
"Hasn't that dictation come through yet?" she asked without looking up. "It's been almost ten minutes."
"I'm sure it'll be along soon," Dalt said.
El's head snapped up and she gave him a smile that he didn't feel he deserved after his cool treatment of her the night before. "How'd you get here?" she asked brightly.
"Dr. Webst showed me the way."
"You know him?"
"Since this morning."
"Oh? I thought you were going to be with the microbi—"
Dalt held up his hand. "It's a long story which I don't fully understand myself, but I'm here and you said you'd show me around your unit someday. So?"
"Okay. I was about to take a break anyway." She took him on a leisurely tour of her wing of the building where various behaviorist principles were being put to work on the rehabilitation of schizophrenics who had successfully responded to medical management. Dalt's stomach was starting to rumble again as they returned to her office.
"Can I buy you lunch?"
"You sure you want to get that involved?" she said with a sidelong glance.
"Okay," Dalt laughed, "I deserved that. But how about it? You've got to eat somewhere."
She smiled. "I'd love to have you buy me lunch, but first I've got to catch up on a few things—that 'break' I just took was well over an hour long." She thought for a minute. "There's a place on the square—"
"You actually have a town square?" Dalt exclaimed.
"It's a tradition on Tolive; just about every town has one. The town square is one of the very few instances of common ownership on the planet. It is used for public discussion and ... uh ... other matters of public concern."