"As I'm sure you know," Carling said as he rolled the cart out of the office, "this is both a research and care facility. However, for all intents and purposes, we're much more oriented toward care than research-with the notable exception, of course, of your brother. You understand; we know what happened to him, but the fact that he was poisoned with NPPD is descriptive information, not prescriptive. The doctors have to make a determination as to exactly what's wrong with him before they can embark on a treatment program. With most of the other patients, the treatment is rather standard and straightforward-conservative and a bit too Freud-oriented, in my unqualified opinion, but that's the way it is around here. Freudians tend to flock together." He paused, shrugged. "But then, so do psychiatrists of various other persuasions. Don't mind my gossip."
"If the treatment of most of the other patients is so straightforward, why couldn't they be put into any good mental hospital, anywhere in the country? Why here, and why all the secrecy?"
"Secrecy about what we do isn't the point so much as the security of the men we're doing it to. All of the patients here were either field operatives or occupied equally sensitive positions. Their mental illness may or may not-usually not-have any connection with the work they did, but they simply carry too many secrets around in their heads to allow them to enter just any hospital and talk to therapists or other staff who don't have the required security clearance."
"Got it."
"Which is not to say that the care here isn't the best; it is. Dr. Slycke and the other psychiatrists are topflight. All of the attendants are R.N.s, well paid, and we like to think we're pretty good. Everyone, psychiatrists and nurses, has been specially trained to deal with the special psychological problems you might expect D.I.A. field operatives to suffer from."
"Garth doesn't fit into that category."
"Your brother doesn't fit into any category; he's a unique case. Here, at last, the doctors don't have to worry about gaining classified information about NPPD."
"Do you have any. . permanent patients? People who never recover?"
"A few," Carling replied quietly. "It's much too early to worry about Garth becoming one of them, Mongo."
We went from room to room, with Carling dispensing the appropriate pills or potions to the various patients. I saw no women, either among the patient population or on the staff. Most of the men were up and about, eating the breakfasts that had been brought to them by the two attendants I had passed on the way in. Some were in bed, others dressed and sitting. Most seemed interested in my presence. Carling always introduced me, and we usually stayed a few minutes in each room to chat.
The tour continued, by way of the elevator, to the floor below us, where there was a fully equipped gym, mini-theater, and a huge game room with everything from chess sets to video arcade games. We went back up, down a corridor which was painted orange and blocked a quarter of the way down by a locked door of thick, wire-reinforced glass. Carling took a set of keys out of his pocket, but made no move to open the door.
"The secure unit," Carling said, turning to me. "We have five men in there now, two of them long-termers. All these men are considered potentially extremely violent, and unpredictable. The unit is completely self-contained; they have their own cafeteria, gym, and game room. The most interesting-and probably most dangerous-man in here is a patient by the name of Marl Braxton. He'll probably want to talk to you."
"Why is he so interesting, and why should he want to talk to me?"
"He's particularly interesting to me because he's the only patient in here whose file is classified above my level; I have no idea what his background is. Around here, you usually pick up all sorts of personal shit, whether you want to or not, from the patients themselves-but never from Braxton. I suspect even Slycke doesn't know the background information on Braxton, because Braxton's therapist-a Chinese by the name of Dr. Wong-comes in from the outside, three times a week, and he's the only therapist who's not part of the regular staff. All we get is specific treatment information. I know Braxton's a loony because he's here, but you'd never know it to talk to him; Wong's got him stabilized pretty well on a chemotherapy program."
"If he's stabilized on medication, why keep him in the secure unit?"
Carling raised his eyebrows slightly. "Because he kills people."
"Oh."
"By which I mean he's killed a few people in the past. That much I know, because it's essential clinical information. Wherever he was and whatever he was doing, he began suffering severe psychotic breakdowns-and you didn't want to be around when that happened. There was never any warning, which is why I suppose they don't want to take any chances with him. Braxton's a pretty spooky guy."
"How long has he been here?"
Carling shrugged. "I don't know, and I don't have any way of finding out unless Braxton or somebody else tells me. He was here when I was hired. Anyway, he's got a near-genius IQ, and he's extremely well read. If I knew who you were, he will too. He'll be curious-he's curious about everything. He's been through every book in our library, as well as that of the main hospital, and he keeps the people in the interlibrary system working overtime. He's extremely articulate, and about the only time you'll even get a hint that he's not wrapped too tightly is when he starts talking about his 'maid of constant sorrows.' "
"Who's she?"
"Maybe Wong knows. I don't-and as far as I know, nobody else around here does either. She's just somebody he occasionally refers to."
"What about the others?"
"The same-crazy and dangerous; but more obviously crazy and dangerous. They're all under heavy medication, so there shouldn't be anything to worry about. Still, it can get hairy in the secure unit, and you can pass if you feel uncomfortable."
"What? Not complete the tour? I'll stick with you."
Carling turned a key on his ring in the lock, and I held the door open while he wheeled the cart through. When I released the door, it sighed shut, locked with an audible click.
It appeared that this section of the fourteenth floor had been extensively remodeled to meet the needs of the secure unit; there was lots of open space, making the sections of the clinic I had already seen seem relatively cramped. Individual rooms, without doors, radiated off a huge, circular commons area which contained a large projection TV, game tables, a music system with half a dozen sets of earphones, a mini-library stocked with a few hundred books, current newspapers and magazines, and a work-study area complete with word processing equipment.
"Depending on tension levels, the other patients are allowed in here a few at a time to socialize or use the equipment," Carling said as we headed across the commons area toward three men who sat in armchairs beside the barred windows. "But these men don't come out."
"I'm impressed," I said, and I was.
"Meds time, gentlemen," Carling said cheerfully as he brought the cart to a stop a few feet away from the men.
"Remember, we don't call this place Club Med for nothing; a pill a day keeps the nasties away."
Two of the men took their pills without comment, washing them down with orange juice, then walked away. Carling signed the cards, then held out a cup filled with a purple liquid. "Down the hatch, Mama," the nurse continued easily.