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The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
Страница: 38 из 164» 'Vorga.»
He had been inoculated by his own fixation. His own nightmare had rendered him immune.
«Where is 'Nomad'? where have you left 'Nomad'? what happened to 'Nomad'? where is 'Nomad'?»
«'Vorga,'» Foyle shouted. «'Vorga.' 'Vorga.' 'Vorga.»
In the control booth, Dagenham swore. The head of psychiatry, monitoring the projectors, glanced at the clock. «One minute and forty-five seconds, Saul. He can't stand much more.»
«He's got to break. Give him the final effect.»
They buried Foyle alive, slowly, inexorably, hideously. He was carried down into black depths and enclosed in stinking slime that cut off light and air. He slowly suffocated while a distant voice boomed: «WHERE IS 'NOMAD'? WHERE HAVE YOU LEFT 'NOMAD'? YOU CAN ESCAPE IF YOU FIND 'NOMAD.' WHERE IS 'NOMAD'?»
But Foyle was back aboard «Nomad» in his lightless, airless coffin, floating comfortably between deck and roof. He curled into a tight fetal ball and prepared to sleep. He was content. He would escape. He would find «Vorga.»
«Impervious bastard!» Dagenham swore. «Has anyone ever resisted Nightmare Theater before, Fritz?»
«Not many. You're right. That's an uncommon man, Saul.»
«He's got to be ripped open. All right, to hell with any more of this. We'll try the Megal Mood next. Are the actors ready?»
«All ready.»
«Then let's go.»
There are six directions in which delusions of grandeur can run. The Megal (short for Megalomania) Mood was therapy's dramatic diagnosis technique for establishing and plotting the particular course of megalomania.
Foyle awoke in a luxurious four-poster bed. He was in a bedroom hung with brocade, papered in velvet. He glanced around curiously. Soft sunlight filtered through latticed windows. Across the room a valet was quietly laying out clothes.
«Hey . . .» Foyle grunted.
The valet turned. «Good morning, Mr. Fourmyle,» he murmured.
«What?»
«It's a lovely morning, sir. I've laid out the brown twill and the cordovan pumps, sir.»
«What's a matter, you?»
«I've…” The valet gazed at Foyle curiously. «Is anything wrong, Mr. Fourmyle?»
«What you call me, man?»
«By your name, sir.»
«My name is . . . Fourmyle?» Foyle struggled up in the bed. «No, it's not. It's Foyle. Gully Foyle, that's my name, me.»
The valet bit his lip. «One moment, sir . . .» He stepped outside and called. Then he murmured.
He had been inoculated by his own fixation. His own nightmare had rendered him immune.
«Where is 'Nomad'? where have you left 'Nomad'? what happened to 'Nomad'? where is 'Nomad'?»
«'Vorga,'» Foyle shouted. «'Vorga.' 'Vorga.' 'Vorga.»
In the control booth, Dagenham swore. The head of psychiatry, monitoring the projectors, glanced at the clock. «One minute and forty-five seconds, Saul. He can't stand much more.»
«He's got to break. Give him the final effect.»
They buried Foyle alive, slowly, inexorably, hideously. He was carried down into black depths and enclosed in stinking slime that cut off light and air. He slowly suffocated while a distant voice boomed: «WHERE IS 'NOMAD'? WHERE HAVE YOU LEFT 'NOMAD'? YOU CAN ESCAPE IF YOU FIND 'NOMAD.' WHERE IS 'NOMAD'?»
But Foyle was back aboard «Nomad» in his lightless, airless coffin, floating comfortably between deck and roof. He curled into a tight fetal ball and prepared to sleep. He was content. He would escape. He would find «Vorga.»
«Impervious bastard!» Dagenham swore. «Has anyone ever resisted Nightmare Theater before, Fritz?»
«Not many. You're right. That's an uncommon man, Saul.»
«He's got to be ripped open. All right, to hell with any more of this. We'll try the Megal Mood next. Are the actors ready?»
«All ready.»
«Then let's go.»
There are six directions in which delusions of grandeur can run. The Megal (short for Megalomania) Mood was therapy's dramatic diagnosis technique for establishing and plotting the particular course of megalomania.
Foyle awoke in a luxurious four-poster bed. He was in a bedroom hung with brocade, papered in velvet. He glanced around curiously. Soft sunlight filtered through latticed windows. Across the room a valet was quietly laying out clothes.
«Hey . . .» Foyle grunted.
The valet turned. «Good morning, Mr. Fourmyle,» he murmured.
«What?»
«It's a lovely morning, sir. I've laid out the brown twill and the cordovan pumps, sir.»
«What's a matter, you?»
«I've…” The valet gazed at Foyle curiously. «Is anything wrong, Mr. Fourmyle?»
«What you call me, man?»
«By your name, sir.»
«My name is . . . Fourmyle?» Foyle struggled up in the bed. «No, it's not. It's Foyle. Gully Foyle, that's my name, me.»
The valet bit his lip. «One moment, sir . . .» He stepped outside and called. Then he murmured.