My name is Jamie Neal. I'm an assistant professor of deep-space psychology.
THE WHISTLE BLOWS AGAIN.
Flinching, Jamie presses another number on the controls. The treadmill moves faster. She hastens her pace.
THE FLASHING RED NUMBERS go higher.
Despite the effort of her increased pace, Jamie continues reciting.
JAMIE
Specialty – adaptation to confinement. Reactions to a limited environment. Potential aberrant behavior caused by the stress of…
When THE WHISTLE SHRILLS AGAIN, Jamie presses another number on the treadmill's console. She's forced to pace even faster.
JAMIE
Claustrophobia.
Sweat beads on her brow.
JAMIE
Five rooms. Two here in this central unit…
(a nervous glance toward the door)
three others, an entrance bay, a solar power station, and sleeping quarters, linked to this central unit by corridors.
(swallows, wipes sweat from her brow)
But I can't reach my sleeping quarters…
(an even more nervous glance toward the door)
unless I pass through there.
ANOTHER SHRILL WHISTLE. Jamie hurriedly presses another button. As the treadmill increases speed, she's almost forced to run.
JAMIE
And we all know what's in there.
She shudders.
JAMIE
You bet. For sure. We all know what I have to face in there.
(out of breath)
After you've made me fulfill my bargain.
The FLASHING RED NUMBERS on the monitor go higher.
Jamie's running now.
JAMIE
After you've put me through my paces for today.
(wipes sweat from her brow)
Or is this yesterday? I don't know anymore. Isn't that what you want to find out? How much stress can someone take?
On the monitor, THE RED NUMBERS FLASH as if out of control.
Instead of the whistle, THE SIREN ONCE AGAIN BLARES.
Breathing rapidly, Jamie presses another number on the treadmill's console. Her pace decreases. Nervous but relieved, she presses more numbers, reducing her speed until the treadmill stops and she steps off.
At once, after raising her Lakers sweatshirt to wipe her face, she stares toward the ceiling, then the door, in apprehension.
JAMIE
My name is Jamie Neal. I'm twenty eight. I've been here…I think…for sixty-four days. I think. Why didn't you give me windows? I want to see…
(paws at a wall)
the stars. The sun sets even here. Not on the schedule I'm used to. But I could get used to that schedule. And I'd love to see it. After sixty-four days.
She squints toward the ceiling.
JAMIE
Or nights. How can I know? If only I could see… I bet the sunset…no smog here…the colors must be…
(her voice drops)
I remember…crimson…like a flower…a rose…in blossom…
(melancholy)
beautiful.
In a sudden rage, she kicks the remnants of the habitat's model she earlier crushed.
JAMIE
Never mind windows! Why didn't you give me…?
She spins toward the numerous consoles.
JAMIE
Computers! Temperature gauges! Pressure readouts! Oxygen monitors! Humidity! Gravity! Even dust! I can measure everything! Except the single most precious thing in my life!
She slumps against a table.
JAMIE
Time. Maybe it's only sixty-three days. Or maybe sixty-nine. Or maybe I've been here only a couple of weeks. But it feels like…
(despairing)
Eternity.
BEEP.
JAMIE
Why didn't you at least allow me to wear a watch?
She gestures frantically toward the consoles.
JAMIE
Or let me have a clock? Nothing fancy! No digital astro-time calculator. No computerized star-date monitor, with comparative readouts for here and home and the Gemini galaxy and… Just a plain old-fashioned clock,
makes a twisting motion with one hand, pretending to hold an object in the other
The kind you wind up at night, and it ticks, and the hands go around, and if you want to wake up at a certain hour, you set the alarm. And when it rings, you know it's tomorrow. And if you make a mark
(pretends she has a pencil)
on a page every time the alarm goes off…and if you count the marks, you're sure how many days you've been here. You don't feel as if you're…
(slumps against the wall)
going crazy. Is that the point of the test? How would I react -not if but when I broke down? Because of…
She stares in horror toward the door.
JAMIE
Time.
The SIREN WAILS.
JAMIE
No.
A SECOND WAIL.
JAMIE
Please! Don't make me go in there again!
A THIRD WAIL.
Tears stream down Jamie's face.
A FOURTH WAIL.
Jamie walks toward the door, as if hypnotized.
JAMIE
Fulfill my contract. Obey my orders.
JAMIE's POINT OF VIEW-approaching the door.
JAMIE
Go through my paces.
She pauses. OFF STAGE, we HEAR THE HISS OF THE DOOR SLIDING OPEN. We ZOOM TOWARD A CLOSE-UP OF Jamie's FACE: contorted, apprehensive, horrified.
JAMIE
Time. Yes, again. Time.
The door has slid open. Beyond it, we see a CORRIDOR. But as if this is Alice in Wonderland, the corridor narrows and becomes lower.
THE BEEP PERSISTS.
JAMIE
Time.
She feels her pulse.
JAMIE
The beat of my heart. The only time I know.
She takes a Walkman-sized object from a counter, straps it around her wrist, stares at a suction cup at the end of the object, and reaches beneath her Lakers sweatshirt, apparently attaching the suction cup to her chest.
At once the BEEP BECOMES A LITTLE FASTER, as if the object on her wrist monitors the speed of her heart.
JAMIE
The constant motion of time. Except that it's meaningless without something to compare it to…Without something to appreciate… Without a sunrise. I could imagine a sunrise if…Why didn't you give me a watch?
THE SIREN WAILS.
Jamie flinches, clutches her fists in fury, and glares at the ceiling.
JAMIE
All right, I'm going!
The BEEP that measures her heartrate INCREASES.
She shifts through the doorway.
The roof is low enough that she's forced to stoop now. The walls narrow until they touch her shoulders.
THE BEEP GAINS A LITTLE MORE SPEED.
JAMIE
(walking stooped, glaring up)
What I want to know is, when my heart beats faster, does that mean I'm getting older?
(swallows, staring at the crawlspace)
Would sixty-nine days that feel like sixty-three days…or however long I've been here… actually be the equivalent of a hundred and twenty days? Six months? The nine months you're paying me to stay here? Because time drags…
The lowering ceiling compels her to kneel. The narrowing walls squeeze her shoulders.