He had not seen her since her departure for U.C. Hospital in San Francisco. At this point he had no idea of her condition, whether she had responded to therapy or not.
The deep intuition could not be evaded that she had not. How sick really was Kathy? Probably very sick, with or without drugs; he felt that strongly. Perhaps she would never be discharged from U.C. Hospital; he could imagine that.
On the other hand – if she wanted out, he decided, she would find a way to get out. That he intuited, too, even more strongly.
So it was up to her. She had committed herself, gone into the hospital voluntarily. And she would come out – if she ever did – the same way. No one could compel Kathy… she was simply not that sort of person. And that, he realized, could well be a symptom of the illness-process.
The door to the room opened. He glanced up from the TV screen. And saw Claude St. Cyr standing in the entrance. St. Cyr held a heat gun in his hand, pointed at Johnny. He said, "Where's Kathy?"
"I don't know," Johnny said. He got slowly, warily, to his feet.
"You do. I'll kill you if you don't tell me."
"Why?" he said, wondering what had brought St. Cyr to this point, this extreme behavior.
St. Cyr said, "Is it on Earth?" Still holding the gun pointed at Johnny he came toward him.
"Yes," Johnny said, with reluctance.
"Give me the name of the city."
"What are you going to do?" Johnny said. "This isn't like you, Claude; you used to always work within the law."
St. Cyr said, "I think the voice is Kathy. I know it's not Louis, now; we have that to go on but beyond that it's just a guess. Kathy is the only one I know deranged enough, deteriorated enough. Give me the name of the hospital."
"The only way you could know it isn't Louis," Johnny said, "would be to destroy the body."
"That's right," St. Cyr said, nodding.
Then you have, Johnny realized. You found the correct mortuary; you got to Herb Schoenheit van Vogehang. So that was that.
The door to the room burst open again; a group of cheering delegates, Gam supporters, marched in, blowing horns and hurling streamers, carrying huge hand-painted placards. St. Cyr turned toward them, waving his gun at them – and Johnny Barefoot sprinted past the delegates, to the door and out into the corridor.
He ran down the corridor and a moment later emerged at the great central hall in which Gam's demonstration was in full swing. From the loudspeakers mounted at the ceiling a voice boomed over and over.
"Vote for Gam, the man what am. Gam, Gam, vote for Gam, vote for Gam, the one fine man; vote for Gam who really am. Gam, Gam, Gam, he really am -"
Kathy, he thought. It can't be you; it just can't. He ran on, out of the hall, squeezing past the dancing, delirious delegates, past the glazed-eyed men and women in their funny hats, their banners wiggling… he reached the street, the parked 'copters and cars, throngs of people clustered about, trying to push inside.
If it is you, he thought, then you're too sick ever to come back. Even if you want to, will yourself to. Had you been waiting for Louis to die, is that it? Do you hate us? Or are you afraid of us? What explains what it is you're doing… what's the reasonfor it?
He hailed a 'copter marked TAXI. "To San Francisco," he instructed the driver.
Maybe you're not conscious that you're doing it, he thought. Maybe it's an autonomous process, rising out of your unconscious mind. Your mind split into two portions, one on the surface which we see, the other one -
The one we hear.
Should we feel sorry for you? he wondered. Or should we hate you, fear you? HOW MUCH HARM CAN YOU DO? I guess that's the real issue. I love you, he thought. In some fashion, at least. I care about you, and that's a form of love, not such as I feel toward my wife or my children, but it is a concern. Damn it, he thought, this is dreadful. Maybe St. Cyr is wrong; maybe it isn't you.
The 'copter swept upward into the sky, cleared the buildings and turned west, its blade spinning at peak velocity.
On the ground, standing in front of the convention hall, St. Cyr and Phil Harvey watched the 'copter go.
"Well, so it worked," St. Cyr said. "I got him started moving. I'd guess he's on his way either to Los Angeles or to San Francisco."
A second 'copter slid up before them, hailed by Phil Harvey; the two men entered it and Harvey said, "You see the taxi that just took off? Stay behind it, just within sight. But don't let it catch a glimpse of you if you can help it."
"Heck," the driver said, "If I can see it, it can see me." But he clicked on his meter and began to ascend. Grumpily, he said to Harvey and St. Cyr, "I don't like this kind of stuff; it can be dangerous."
"Turn on your radio," St. Cyr told him. "If you want to hear something that's dangerous."
"Aw hell," the driver said, disgusted. "The radio don't work; some kind of interference, like sun spots or maybe some amateur operator – I lost a lot of fares because the dispatcher can't get hold of me. I think the police ought to do something about it, don't you?"
St. Cyr said nothing. Beside him, Harvey peered at the 'copter ahead.
When he reached U.C. Hospital at San Francisco, and had landed at the field on the main building's roof, Johnny saw the second ship circling, not passing on, and he knew that he was right; he had been followed all the way. But he did not care. It didn't matter.
Descending by means of the stairs, he came out on the third floor and approached a nurse. "Mrs. Sharp," he said. "Where is she?"
"You'll have to ask at the desk," the nurse said. "And visiting hours aren't until -"
He rushed on until he found the desk.
"Mrs. Sharp's room is 309," the bespectacled, elderly nurse at the desk said. "But you must have Doctor Gross's permission to visit her. And I believe Doctor Gross is having lunch right now and probably won't be back until two o'clock, if you'd care to wait." She pointed to a waiting room.
"Thanks," he said. "I'll wait." He passed through the waiting room and out the door at the far end, down the corridor, watching the numbers on the doors until he saw room number 309. Opening the door he entered the room, shut the door after him and looked around for her.
There was the bed, but it was empty.
"Kathy," he said.
At the window, in her robe, she turned, her face sly, bound up by hatred; her lips moved and, staring at him, she said with loathing, "I want Gam because he am." Spitting at him, she crept toward him, her hands raised, her fingers writhing. "Gam's a man, a real man," she whispered, and he saw, in her eyes, the dissolved remnants of her personality expire even as he stood there. "Gam, gam, gam," she whispered, and slapped him.
He retreated. "It's you," he said. "Claude St. Cyr was right. Okay. I'll go." He fumbled for the door behind him, trying to get it open. Panic passed through him, like a wind, then; he wanted nothing but to get away. "Kathy," he said, "let go." Her nails had dug into him, into his shoulder, and she hung onto him, peering sideways into his face, smiling at him.
"You're dead," she said. "Go away. I smell you, the dead inside you."
"I'll go," he said, and managed to find the handle of the door. She let go of him, then; he saw her right hand flash up, the nails directed at his face, possibly his eyes – he ducked, and her blow missed him. "I want to get away," he said, covering his face with his arms.