“He was only in deep sleep three minutes that time,” Klinger said. “The cycle is accelerating, at least on the down side.”
Dawson said, “But why? Ernst apparently understands, but I’m not sure I do.”
“Something’s happening in his subconscious mind during deep sleep,” Salsbury said. “Something so unsettling that it causes him to leap up into stage one sleep and dream. That subconscious experience, whatever it may be, is getting ever more intense — or, if it isn’t getting more intense, then his ability to withstand it is dwindling. Perhaps both. On each occasion, he’s able to tolerate it for a shorter period of time than he did before.”
“You mean he’s in pain in stage four?” Dawson asked.
“Pain is a condition of the flesh,” Salsbury said. “It’s not the right word for this situation.”
“What is the right word?”
“Anxiety, perhaps. Or fear.”
“One minute that time,” Klinger said.
“By now he’s extremely agitated,” Salsbury said, speaking of the dead man as if he were still alive. “The pattern becomes increasingly unusual and erratic. At two twenty he gets back to the third level. Look what happens to him after that: ”
Klinger was as fascinated by the print-out of Brian Kingman’s disintegration as he possibly could have been by the sight of the real event. “He didn’t even reach the fourth level that time before he popped up to stage one again. ”
“He’s having an acute subconscious anxiety attack,” Salsbury said.
Dawson said, “Is there such a thing?”
“There is now. His mind is wildly turbulent at this point — yet in such a way that it doesn’t wake him up altogether. And it gets worse:”
“He was frightened awake at two thirty-seven, wasn’t he?” Dawson asked.
Salsbury said, “That’s right. Not wide awake. But beyond the first level of sleep, into alpha wave territory. You’re learning to read it now.”
Dawson let out his breath somewhat explosively, as if he had been holding it for the past minute. “He was a good man. May he rest in peace.”
“There at the end,” the general said, “there were five consecutive alpha wave readings. Does that mean he was fully awake for five minutes before he died?”
“Fully awake,” Salsbury said. “But not rational.”
“I thought you said he died in his sleep.”
“No. I said he died in bed.”
“What happened in those five minutes?”
“I’ll show you,” Salsbury said. He went to the nearest computer console and briefly used the keyboard.
All but two of the overhead scanners went dark. One of these was an ordinary television screen controlled by the computer on a closed-circuit arrangement. The other was a cathode-ray readout tube.
Getting up from the keyboard, Salsbury said, “The screen on the right will run a videotape of the last six minutes of Kingman’s life. The screen on the left will provide a synchronized read-out of some of his vital life signs, updating them every thirty seconds.”
Dawson and Klinger moved closer.
The right-hand screen flickered. A sharply focused black-and-white picture appeared on it: Brian Kingman lying atop his covers, on his back, twelve data-gathering patches cemented to his head and torso, wires trailing from the patches to two machines at the side of the bed. A sphygmomanometer was attached to his right arm and wired directly to the smaller of the machines. Kingman glistened with perspiration. He was trembling. Every few seconds one of his arms would jerk up defensively, or one of his legs would kick out at the air. In spite of this movement, his eyes were closed, and he was asleep.
“He’s in stage one now,” Salsbury said.
“Dreaming,” Dawson said.
“Obviously.”
At the top of the left-hand screen there was a digital clock that broke down the time count into hours, minutes, seconds, and tenths of seconds. On the soft green background below the clock, white computer-generated characters reported on four of Kingman’s most important life signs.
BK/OB REP 14, ONGOING, AS FOLLOWS:
“He’s still asleep,” Salsbury said. “But his respiration and pulse have picked up approximately twenty-five percent. He appears to be having a bad dream. His thrashing about gets worse in just a moment. He’s ready to come out of it now. Ready to wake up. Watch closely. There!”
On the black-and-white screen, Kingman suddenly drew up his knees, kicked out with both feet, drew up his knees again, and kept them drawn up, almost to his chest. He gripped his head with both hands, rolled his eyes, opened his mouth.
“He’s screaming now,” Salsbury said. “I’m sorry there’s no audio.”
“What’s he screaming at?” Dawson asked. “He’s awake now. The nightmare’s over.”
“Wait,” Salsbury said.
“His respiration and pulse are soaring,” Klinger said. Kingman screamed soundlessly.
“Look how his chest is heaving,” Dawson said. “Good God, his lungs will burst!”
Writhing continuously but a degree less violently than he had been a moment ago, Kingman began to chew on his lower lip. In seconds his chin was covered with blood.
“An epileptic seizure?” the general asked.
Salsbury said, “No.”
At 2:59, the left-hand screen began a new line print from the top of the tube:
On the black-and-white screen, Kingman convulsed and was almost perfectly still. His feet twitched, and his right hand opened and closed, opened and closed; but otherwise he was motionless. Even his eyes had stopped rolling; they were squeezed tightly shut.
The read-out screen went blank, then an instant later flashed an emergency message.
0200 59 12
MASSIVE MYOCARDIAL INFARCTION MASSIVE MYOCARDIAL INFARCTION
“Heart attack,” Salsbury said.
Kingman’s left arm was bent in a V across his chest and seemed to be paralyzed. His left hand was fisted and unmoving against his neck.
0300 00 00
PULSE IRREGULAR
RESPIRATION IRREGULAR
Kingman’s eyes were open now. He was staring at the ceiling.
“He’s screaming again,” Klinger said.
“Trying to scream,” Salsbury said. “I doubt if he could manage more than a croak in his present state.”
0300 01 00
PULSE ERRATIC
RESPIRATION ERRATIC
EEG WAVES DETERIORATING TO DELTA
Kingman’s feet stopped kicking.
His right hand stopped opening and closing.
He stopped trying to scream.
“It’s over,” Salsbury said.
Simultaneously, the two screens went blank.
Brian Kingman had died again.
“But what killed him?” Dawson’s handsome face was the color of dusting powder. “The drug?”
“Not the drug,” Salsbury said. “Fear.”
Klinger returned to the autopsy table to have a look at the body. “Fear. I thought that’s what you were going to say.”
“Sudden, powerful fear can kill,” Salsbury said. “And in this case, that’s where all the evidence points. Of course, I’ll do a thorough autopsy. But I don’t believe I’ll find any physiological cause for the heart attack.”
Squeezing Salsbury’s shoulder, Dawson said, “Do you mean Brian realized, in his sleep, that we were on the verge of taking control of him? And that he was so terrified of being controlled that the thought killed him?”