"Why? Because the creative act is, and always shall remain, a mystery?"
"Something like that."
"Well, you could be right. In any case, we'll be taking a long, hard look at the right hemisphere of your brain."
"I'll have no objections to anything you want to do with me, Jonathan. It all sounds very interesting."
"Good. Where did you learn to paint?"
"I'm still learning to paint."
"Self-taught?"
Veil nodded.
"Critics call your work 'dream painting.' Is that how you think of it?"
"Not really. Most of my paintings are based on the colors and textures of dreams, but I never think of my work in terms of a label."
"Still," Pilgrim said in what seemed to Veil a curiously flat, neutral tone, "you must have exceptionally vivid dreams."
Veil hesitated before this probe into the deepest part of his being. Then he reminded himself of the commitment he had made, and he decided he would not cheat Pilgrim or his Institute. "I do," he said after a pause. "The cause is organic. The infection I mentioned caused some brain damage. In effect, it tore away the protective psychic membrane everyone else has between the conscious and subconscious. For me, dreams and reality are experienced in pretty much the same way—although I did finally learn to tell when I'm dreaming." He paused again, smiled thinly. "Before I picked up that particular skill, dreaming caused me one or two problems."
"Jesus, I would think so," Pilgrim said in a hushed tone that was just above a whisper. "You must know one or two things about terror."
Jonathan Pilgrim was a very perceptive and wise man, Veil thought. His reply was a shrug.
"Have you ever had a CAT scan?"
"A number of times. I can have the results sent here, if you'd like."
"We'd prefer to do our own."
"You'll find lesions on the pons and hippocampus, as well as some minimal synaptic damage."
Pilgrim nodded absently as he blew a smoke ring that was immediately swallowed by the wind. Veil had the distinct impression that Pilgrim badly wanted to pursue this line of questioning, but for some reason the director of the Institute for Human Studies now chose to remain silent.
"If you don't mind, there are a few things I'd like to ask you," Veil continued at last.
Pilgrim casually tossed the butt of his cigar over the balcony's marble railing. "Ask away, Veil."
"Where did you get the idea for the Institute?"
Pilgrim laughed softly. "In space, of course. Where else? Space is a bit spooky, and out there the brilliant insight came to me that we're just a bit spooky ourselves. I thought it would be nice if, one day, all the best people, ideas, and research connected with human studies could be brought together in one facility. After the accident, I had the time to put it together."
"How do you fund it?"
"We publish a number of scientific journals, as well as a hefty psychobiological newsletter that a few industries and government agencies find useful, and which they don't mind paying a lot of money for. We do recombinant DNA research, and we hold better than two hundred patents in the field. We do some contract work for corporations. We have an excellent sports-medicine complex, and most of the pro teams use us on occasion to evaluate prospects. We generate some money from books and lecture fees, and once in a while some film studio will spring with a lot of cash for the privilege of using the grounds for location shooting. I suppose we get more than our share of bequests, foundation money, and what's left of the government grants. For the rest, I go out and tap-dance."
"I'm very impressed, Jonathan. You've done one hell of a job."
"Well, I'm happy you could accept our invitation."
"What happens next?"
"Psychological tests. I've arranged an appointment for you with one of our psychologists, Dr. Solow, at ten in the morning. Okay?"
"Sure."
"You'll find a golf cart parked outside your cottage, and a map of the grounds on the desk inside. The psychometric labs are in the C building. If you don't feel like chauffeuring yourself, I'll have someone on the staff pick you up."
"I'll drive myself."
"When you're not scheduled for tests, feel free to wander around. Some of the things we do may interest you."
"I know they will."
"Is there anything you need?"
"A place to work out, if you have one."
"There's a fully equipped gym in the basement of F building. It has a weight room with a Nautilus, a pool, steam room, and sauna. If that doesn't suit you, you can always jog around the complex."
"Terrific."
"Anything else?"
"No. Thank you."
"Then I'll be saying good night."
"Good night, Jonathan."
Chapter 3
______________________________
Veil dreams.
The seven Hmong tribesmen who've escorted him to the meeting site form a semicircle to protect his flanks and back. The Hmongs' automatic rifles are held at the ready as they peer into the surrounding jungle and listen intently for sounds of the enemy. Veil, his M-60 machine gun slung around his bare torso, stands in the middle of the clearing. The humid air is fetid with the smell of rotting vegetation and the human excrement used by the Laotians as fertilizer.
Shortly after three o'clock the helicopter appears in the southwest. Flying at a high altitude to avoid mortar and small-arms fire, the helicopter first appears as a mere speck in the azure sky. The whop-whop-whop of its rotors grows steadily louder as it approaches, then drops at a sharp angle from the sky to hover a foot off the ground at the far end of the clearing. Colonel Bean, Orville Madison, and an ARVN major jump from the Huey, crouch beneath the rotors, and hurry toward Veil. Bean and the South Vietnamese are dressed in fatigues; the sluglike Madison wears a tan summer suit stained with sweat at the crotch and from armpit to waist on both sides. Veil knows that Madison's presence is a bad omen. In addition to being an army officer, Veil is a Central Intelligence Agency operative; here, in the midst of an agency-run secret war in Laos, it is Madison who is Veil's superior, not Bean. A decision has been made which he is not going to like, Veil thinks, and Madison is here to make it stick.
"Captain Kendry, I presume," Colonel Bean says, gesturing derisively at the half-naked men who have now moved to surround them all. He very much dislikes Veil, fears him even more.
"You picked a bad time to call a meeting," Veil says in a flat tone. He addresses his controller, ignoring Bean and the ARVN major. "We had visitors last night, and they left a mess. They may still be around. I imagine the Pathet Lao would dearly love to capture two American officers, one South Vietnamese officer, and a CIA field officer inside their borders. After they take our pictures and tape our confessions, they'll have us all eating our balls for dinner. I'm sure they've been tracking that damn helicopter since you crossed the line. If you wanted to see me, you should have walked in."
Bean tenses and removes the safety on his rifle, while Madison glances nervously around him. Only the South Vietnamese does not react. He is a tall man, over six feet, and rangy. His face is as impassive as the Hmong who guard them. If any emotion shows in his almond-colored eyes, it is vague amusement.
"No time for that, Kendry," Madison says tersely. "I've got orders to make certain you hang on to your balls. You're coming out with us. Today."
"Bullshit," Veil replies without emotion.
Bean flushes and slaps the stock of his rifle. "Damn it, Kendry, you watch your mouth!"
Madison holds up a pudgy hand, silencing the other American. "Now, Colonel, just take it easy," he says, looking directly at Veil. "Everyone knows that Captain Kendry has had table manners, but he also happens to be a bona fide hero—and that's what's been requisitioned."