The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! )   ::   Bester Alfred

Sometimes the suffering men would turn on each other and then a savage fight would break out in Sanitation. These were instantly broken up by the goggled guards, and the morning lecture would switch on the Moral Fiber record preaching the Virtue of Patience.

Foyle learned the records by heart, every word, every click and crack in the tapes. He learned to loathe the voices of the lecturers: the Understanding Baritone, the Cheerful Tenor, the Man-to-Man Bass. He learned to deafen himself to the therapeutic monotony and perform his occupational therapy mechanically, but he was without resources to withstand the endless solitary hours. Fury was not enough.

He lost count of the days, of meals, of sermons. He no longer whispered in Sanitation. His mind came adrift and he began to wander. He imagined he was back aboard «Nomad,» reliving his fight for survival. Then he lost even this feeble grasp on illusion and began to sink deeper and deeper into the pit of catatonia: of womb silence, womb darkness, and womb sleep.

There were fleeting dreams. An angel hummed to him once. Another time she sang quietly. Thrice he heard her speak: «Oh God . . .» and «God damn!» and «Oh . . .» in a heart-rending descending note.

He sank into his abyss, listening to her.

«There is a way out,» his angel murmured in his ear, sweetly, comforting. Her voice was soft and warm, yet it burned with anger. It was the voice of a furious angel. «There is a way out.»

It whispered in his ear from nowhere, and suddenly, with the logic of desperation, it came to him that there was a way out of Gouffre Martel. He had been a fool not to see it before.

«Yes,» he croaked. «There's a way out.»

There was a soft gasp, then a soft question: «Who's there?»

«Me, is all,» Foyle said. «You know me.»

«Where are you?»

«Here. Where I always been, me.»

«But there's no one. I'm alone.»

«Got to thank you for helping me.»

«Hearing voices is bad,» the furious angel murmured. «The first step off the deep end. I've got to stop.»

«You showed me the way out. Blue Jaunte.»

«Blue Jaunte! My God, this must be real. You're talking the gutter lingo. You must be real. Who are you?»

«Gully Foyle.»

«But you're not in my cell. You're not even near. Men are in the north quadrant of Gouffre Martel. Women are in the south. I'm South-9oo. Where are you?»

«North-u 1.»

«You're a quarter of a mile away. How can we…Of course! It's the Whisper Line. I always thought that was a legend, but it's true. It's working now.