“His escape from the dungeon mock-up wasn't part of the program either,” Galing said. “When he went out through the drains instead of through the door, we should have know the program was breaking down. We should have taken precautions.”
They were silent for a minute, listening to the recorded calls of night birds in the trees. Then the faceless man said: Maybe this time he'll have convinced himself about the girl.”
Galing laughed bitterly. “Oh, wouldn't that be nice! No more of these damned charades! But you know something? I don't think it's going to be that easy.”
“Neither do I,” the faceless man said.
“It's a lovely thought, though,” Richard said. “No more time in the cold tanks. I dread it more each time he sends us back to those things.”
“At least you haven't been temporarily transformed into a monster!” the faceless man said. “Will you look at me? Just look at me!”
“But as you said,” Galing reminded him, “it's only temporary.”
“You think that makes it any more fun for me?” the faceless man asked.
“We know it isn't fun,” Richard said impatiently. “It isn't fun for any of us. You aren't the only one who's suffering, you know.”
Galing said: “Maybe he'll choose me for the faceless part next time around.”
“You?” the faceless man said sullenly. “Hardly. You're a major figure in this whole affair. You're one of the primary symbols that his psyche can't do without. Not have Henry Galing in one of his charades? Hell, that would be tantamount to not giving himself a role!”
Lying in the dead leaves, his face pressed to the ground, a cloak of shadows pulled across him, Joel was astonished at what they were saying. Did they mean that he was the father of these lies, the master of the illusions? Preposterous! It could only be one more of their tricks. They were talking for his benefit, hoping to draw him out. If he stood up now, thinking he was the master, they'd have him back in the mansion in another illusion within minutes.
“Come on,” Galing said. “We've got to find him. We've got to see what he's learned and figure out how to remedy the situation.”
“I know what to do,” the faceless man said.
“You do, eh?”
“Stop the charade right now.”
“Too easy,” Richard said.
“Now and then, I like things easy.”
“Richard's right,” Galing said. “Besides, he wouldn't like it if we gave up now.”
“Why wouldn't he?” the faceless man asked.
“You know him as well as I do.”
“Sure, sure. But he must be ready to crack up. He must be nearly insane with doubt, confusion…”
Galing sighed and spat again. “Of course he is. Cracking up. Nearly insane. Desperate. And that is precisely what he wants to be, Brian.”
So the faceless man had a name. Brian. It seemed funny that a monster should be given such an ordinary name.
“But it's all falling apart, Henry!” Brian said.
“Then let's see if we can put it back together again, at least for a little while.”
“Won't work.”
“We have to try.”
“Henry's right,” Richard said.
The specter sighed. “Yes, I suppose he is.”
“Or it's back to the cold tanks,” Richard said.
They pushed through the dense underbrush and disappeared along the narrow woodland path.
When he was sure they'd had time to reach the fake street and to begin their search in that direction, Joel got to his feet. He hurried across the lawn, paused at the kitchen door to be sure the room was empty, then went into the house.
He stood with his back to the wall immediately inside the door, listening intently for movement in the house. But there was none.
Keeping close to the wall where his back was protected, he went to the cellar door, opened it, and descended the steps to have a look at the nutrient tanks. The bodies still floated there; Galing had called up none of the reserves, except for the faceless man.
He went up to the kitchen again.
He listened.
Silence.
He went to get Allison.
XIX
“Allison!"____
She mumbled, stirred.
“Allison, wake up!”
Wrestling sleepily with the covers, she finally rolled over and blinked at him. She yawned. “Oh, hello, darling…” As she got a good look at him, some of the sleepiness faded from her face. “You're dressed.”
“You've got to get dressed too.”
“Where are you going?”
“I've been there,” he said.
She closed her eyes and yawned again, stretched her slender arms. “You're not getting through.”
“I've been to the street where we had the accident,” he said impatiently. “And farther.”
Suddenly concerned, she sat up and threw back the sheets. Her bare breasts were cast in shadow but for a single swatch of pale moonlight that emphasized their fullness: one dark nipple rose in snowy light. “What accident?” she asked.
“The fan shuttle, of course.”
She sat on the edge of the bed. Her knees were round, smooth, icy looking in the moonlight. “You were in an accident?”
“We both were.”
“I don't understand.”
“For God's sake—” Then he realized that the shuttle accident had taken place in another reality, another time-place. If she were not a part of the deception, how could she remember it?
“Joel?” Her voice had a tremor in it.
“It's okay,” he said.
“You better lie down,” she said. She stood up and tried to guide him to the bed. “This is probably some after-effect of the sybocylacose.”
“There's no such drug,” he said.
“I wish there weren't,” she said.
He gripped his shoulders. “Allison, the sybocylacose is a lie, though you can't be expected to know that yet. This whole thing is a lie: your Uncle Henry, this house…”
She raised one hand and smoothed down his hair. “Joel, let me get Uncle Henry. And Dr. Harttle. We won't let anything happen to you. We'll take good care—”
Grasping her again, he shook her gently. “Listen to me! Look… I want you to see something.” Before she could object, he hurried her over to the window, held onto her as he threw the bolt and pushed the halves of the window outward.
“What are you doing?” she asked, crossing her arms protectively over her breasts.
He stared at the sky: stars of every magnitude, a soft moon looming like a piece of bad fruit that had been tossed into the air, a scattering of clouds that looked as thin as tissue paper. It was a nice summer night. It seemed very real. He was either going to make a fool of himself — or he was going to give her incontrovertible proof that nothing was as it seemed to be.
Although he was fairly sure he had a shock in store for her, he wouldn't have bet his life on it. He'd learned that nothing was absolutely certain in this place.
“Wait right here,” he said. He got a straight-backed chair and carried it to the window.
“I'm cold,” she said.
“One more minute.”
“Can't you tell me what’s going on?”
“In a minute.”
He stood on the chair and leaned out of the window.
“Joel! You'll fall!”
“I won't,” he said.
He stepped from the chair to the window sill and leaned out even farther, through the upper half of the window, bracing himself with only one hand against the window frame. He reached toward the sky and touched a cloud. Then a star. Another star. He could not touch the moon, for it was too far away, more than forty feet out on the cement ceiling.