His wife Josephine is behind them. 'Daddy! Daddy!' The child's feet come scudding up to him. Ryan turns his head this way and that. Where are the sounds coming from?
Janet Ryan sings, far away.
'Homeward bound, where the fields are like honey...'
Ryan cannot hear the words properly. He cranes his neck to listen, but the words are still indistinct. Uncle Sidney is singing too.
'There was a man who had a mouse, hi-diddle-um-tum-ti-do; he baked it in an apple pie; there was a man who had a mouse...'
Isabel Ryan's voice comes from somewhere around him. 'I can't bear any more!'
Then the rumble of John Ryan, his brother, talking to her, saying something Ryan cannot catch.
Janet singing.
Both boys are running, running, running...
And Ryan, in the centre of all this noise, sinks to the floor of the passage, cocks his head, listening to the voices.
As he crouches there it seems to him that the voices must be coming from the room at the end of the passage. Automatically he gets to his feet and with a stiff gait starts to walk up the passageway towards the door.
The voices grow louder.
'I hate to see a man playing at being indispensible. It benefits neither him nor the people about him,' says James Henry.
'The Lord thy God is a jealous God and thou shall have no other God than Him,' advises Uncle Sidney.
'Never mind, dear, never mind,' Isobel Ryan is telling someone.
Alexander is crying muffled sobs into the pillow.
Janet Ryan is singing in her high, clear voice: 'Homeward bound, we're homeward bound, where the singing birds welcome such lovers as we...'
Ida and Felicity Henry are still arguing: 'Take it.'
'I don't want to take it.'
'You must take it. It's what you need.'
'I know what I need.'
'Be sensible. Drink it now.'
As Ryan reaches the door, the voices rise. As he touches the stud, they are louder still.
Conversations, statements, songs, sobs, laughter, arguments, all coming towards him in an indistinguishable medley.
Then the door is open.
The noises cease abruptly and Ryan is left in the silence, staring at the thirteen containers, twelve full and labelled with the names and dates of the occupants.
The owners of the voices lie there quietly in their pale fluid.
Ryan stands there in the doorway, suddenly realising again that he is alone, that the noise has ceased, that he has opened the door at an unscheduled time...
His companions continue to sleep. Peaceful and unaware of the torment he is undergoing, they are all at CONDITION STEADY.
Which is more than I am, thinks Ryan. Tears come to his eyes.
From the door he cannot see the people in the containers.
He counts the containers. There are still thirteen. He looks at the thirteenth, his own. He draws in his breath. His lips curl back in a frightened, feral snarl. He steps out into the passageway and slams the heel of his hand against the door, shutting it.
He begins to run very slowly down the passage until he comes to the end.
Then he leans against a bulkhead, breathing heavily.
He gasps and gasps again. Then he straightens his back and sets off slowly for the control room.
I shall have to think about that injection, I might not be able to carry on without it. I'd hoped to hold out longer than this. Doesn't do to get too reliant on that sort of thing. It is supposed to be addictive, after all.
Maybe one dose will do the trick. One might be all I need.
At any rate, I daren't go on without it.
Ryan decides to have his first injection the next morning.
The Proditol is an enzyme inhibiting substance that works directly on new cell matter entering the brain. It has the effect of preventing the release of harmful substances into the cells, causing lack of connection with the outside world and, thus, delusions.
Ryan, partly for pride's sake, partly for reasons he does not fully understand, is very unwilling to take the drug.
But Ryan is dedicated to the ship, its occupants, its goal.
There is little he would not do in order to be able to continue with the steady schedule of the ship and fulfil his responsibility towards its occupants.
Ryan has made his decision.
Plenty of sleeping pills tonight and the Proditol tomorrow.
He goes to his sleeping compartment but then wanders back to the main control room.
He asks for details of the action of the drug.
*******ICC PRODITOL "
" ICC PRODITOL ALSO MA— 19ccc USSR* ICC PRODITOL IS A FAST ACTING DRUG OF THE ENZYME******INHIBITOR VARIETY "
IT BEGINS TO TAKE EFFECT***** WITHIN TEN MINUTES OF INJECTION "
" ITS FULL EFFECT* IS FELT WTTHIN THE HOUR FOLLOWING "
" AFTER THIS**** THE MIND OF THE PATIENT SHOULD BE RELIEVED OF ALL**** IMPRESSIONS OF A DELUSORY NATURE "
" IN THE*********SEVEREST CASES THE DRUG WILL CONTROL ADVERSE*********SYMPTOMS FOR 24 HOURS AFTER WHICH: IF DELUSIONS *******RETURN: A FURTHER INJECTION SHOULD BE ADMINISTERED*****IN MANY CASES THIS WILL NOT BE NECESSARY "
" IN NO**CIRCUMSTANCES: HOWEVER: SHOULD THE DRUG BE ADMINISTERED*
DAILY FOR MORE THAN 14 DAYS*******************
Ryan acknowledges the message and walks to the control room's main 'porthole'. He activates the screen and looks out at space. The holographic illusion is complete.
Space and the distant suns, the tiny points of light so far away.
Ryan's brows contract.
He notices trails in the blackness. They appear to be wisps of vapour and yet they are plainly not escaping from the ship. It is something like smoke from an open fire, trailing in the dark.
He passes his hand across his eyes and peers forward again.
The trails are still there.
He is alarmed. He casts his mind over the data he has accumulated, hoping to think of something that will account for the vapour.
Could they be left by the ships of another space-travelling race?
It must be a possibility.
Meanwhile the wisps continue to rise. There are more and more of them now. They swirl together, break apart and reform.
Ryan, to his horror, begins to hear a faint noise, a kind of buzzing and ringing in his ears. As the noise begins the gases begin to unite, to shape themselves. Once again Ryan passes a hand over his eyes.
The noises in his ears continue. As he looks out of the porthole once more a terrible suspicion comes over him.
And instantly, staring at him gravely, with a small, malicious smile on her lips, is the old woman. Her eyes are shielded by the round dark glasses. She is black-lipped, her old skin covered in powder. She puts the clawlike hand to the window and is gone.
Ryan gasps and is about to turn from the window in panic when he sees the shapes ahead of him. Out there in space are the whirling figures of his nightmare, the figures of the insane dancers in the darkened ballroom.
They are far away.
Ryan hears their music in his ears. As they dance, slowly and proudly, to the distant chant he watches, paralysed, as they come closer to the ship.
He sees their stiff bodies, their plump, respectable faces, the expensive dark brocades of the women's dresses, the good dark suits of the men. He observes the well-nurtured upright bodies, the straight backs, the air of dignity and comportment with which they circle, so correctly, in time to the music.
The dark circles which are their eyes stare blindly at each other.
Their faces are rigid below the dark glasses. They circle through the void towards Ryan and the music becomes louder, more solemn, more threatening.