Drug of Choice

10. A FEELING OF POWER

HE OPENED HIS EYES. It was dark. Through the open window, he could see the moon, hazy through the smog. He coughed and looked around him. He was lying on a couch, alone in the room. He sat up slowly. Someone had put a blanket over him; it fell away and he felt the cool night air.

He stood, expecting to feel shaky. But he was calm; in fact, he felt good. He had a sensation of being fully awake, alert and calm.

A very peculiar feeling: there was a kind of intensity to it that was almost disturbing. He looked around the room once more. It was unfamiliar in the night, a strange and bizarre room.

He caught himself.

He was back in his own apartment.

“That’s funny,” he said.

His own apartment. He went from the living room to the bedroom, still not quite believing. The bedroom was empty, the bed neatly made. Which could only mean…

He looked down at the coffee table in the living room. The newspaper was there: Tuesday, October 10.

But he had taken Janice to dinner on the eighth. The night of the eighth. And that meant—

He rubbed his eyes. Two days? Was it possible? Had he really been here two days?

He wandered around the apartment, unable to understand. In the kitchen, there was an empty coffee cup, with a cigarette stubbed out in the saucer. There were traces of lipstick on the cigarette.

Beside the saucer was a photograph, torn out from the newspaper. It showed Sharon Wilder sitting on a suitcase, miniskirt high to show long smooth legs. She was smiling, sitting very straight, breasts thrown forward to the photographers. The caption read: “Sharon Wilder To Resort.” Resort to what? he wondered, squinting to read the fine print in the darkness. It said that Sharon Wilder, Hollywood starlet, was leaving for the new resort of San Cristobal.

By the front door he found the rest of his mail, unopened. Included in the stack was a telegram, which he tore open. It was from the Aero Travel Agency:

WHERE ARE YOU? AIRLINES AND HOTEL CANCELLED RESERVATIONS BECAUSE OF FAILURE TO PAY DEPOSIT. CALL IMMEDIATELY.

RON

“Hell,” he said, staring at the telegram. That was annoying. What was he going to do now?

Drive. Perhaps he would drive south. It would be good, to make the trip by car…

The telephone rang. He looked at his watch, wondering at the time, but his watch was stopped.

“Hell.”

He picked up the phone.

“Dr. Clark.”

“Roger?” A female voice. “This is Sharon.”

“Sharon? I thought you were gone.”

“No, silly. I was about to leave, but the flight was canceled. Mechanical difficulties. I won’t leave until tomorrow morning.”

“Oh. What time is it?”

“One fifteen. Did I wake you?”

“No.”

“Good. Are you all right, Roger?”

“Yes.”

“You sound a little groggy.”

“I’m fine,” he said. He didn’t feel groggy. He didn’t feel the least bit groggy. He felt clear-headed and fine, very fine.

“Roger?”

“Yes.”

“There was something I wanted to ask you.”

“Yes?”

“About the trip.”

She paused. He waited. “I’m alone,” she said. “As it turns out”

“Oh.”

“And I have two tickets. They were given to me.”

“Oh.”

“And it seems a shame to waste one.

“Yes, it does.”

There was a moment of silence. “Roger, are you all right?”

“What time?” he said.

“Nine-fifteen.”

“All right,” he said.

“Check in an hour before flight.”

“An hour before.”

“And pack light clothes.”

“Fine,” he said.

“You’re a love,” she said. “Good night.” He heard a smacking sound as she kissed the phone, and he hung up, feeling a strange sense of power.

11. OLIVE OR TWIST?

HE HAD TO KNOCK on the door for several minutes before anyone answered. And then it was Jerry, pulling the bathrobe around his waist, looking tired and cross.

“Jerry, I have to talk to you.”

Jerry Barnes blinked in the light of the hallway. “Rog? Is that you?”

“Yes,” Clark said. “Listen, I have to talk to you, it’s important.”

“Rog…” Jerry fumbled with the robe, pulling back one sleeve to look at his watch. “It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

“I know,” Clark said, walking into the apartment “I’ll barely have time to pack.”

“Pack?” Jerry was scratching his head, looking at him. “Pack what?”

Clark went into the living room, sat down, and turned on a light. Jerry winced.

“Jerry,” he said, “you’re a stockbroker, and I need—”

“I’m a stockbroker,” Jerry said, “from nine to five. Less, if I can help it. At three in the morning I’m—”

“Jerry,” called a sleepy voice from the bedroom. “Is something wrong?”

“No, love,” Jerry said, frowning at Clark. He moved close and whispered: “Can’t we make it another time, Rog? Huh?”

“Who is it?” Clark said.

“Linda. A little dividend.” Jerry managed a sleepy grin. “She just split three for two.”

“That sounds exciting.”

“Tiring,” Jerry said, rubbing his face. “Very tiring.”

“You selling long or short these days, Jerry?”

“Rog,” he said, “for Pete’s sake, it’s three in the morning—”

“I need information. About a corporation.”

“Jer-ry,” called the sleepy voice. “Come back home to momma.”

Jerry rolled his eyes and looked at Clark. “This really is a bad time, Rog, no kidding.”

Clark got up and went to the refrigerator. Jerry Barnes always had a pitcher of martinis in the refrigerator. He poured himself one, looked inquiringly at Jerry, who nodded; he poured a second one.

“Make it quick, huh?”

“Okay, Jerry. Very quick. I want to know about a corporation in Santa Monica called Advance.”

Jerry Barnes gulped his drink and said, “Oh no. Not another one. You too? How about an olive?”

“Twist,” Clark said, swirling the cold liquid in the glass.

Jerry dropped a twist of lemon into it. “Everybody wants to know about Advance.”

“Everybody?”

“At least six people have called me in the last month. They’ve seen the building, or heard about the corporation, and they’re interested. I checked it out a while ago.”

“And?”

He shook his head. “Not for sale. Private corp. It’s not on the big board, it’s not on the American, it’s not anywhere. The stock is all privately held.”

“What else do you know?”

Jerry Barnes took a long gulp of the drink, and rubbed his face again. He seemed to be waking up. “It’s a funny bunch, Advance. Started two years ago with a handful of wizard-types, doing biological research. They were located in Florida then. The original group, which includes the president, this guy Harvey Blood, was all marine scientists.”

“No kidding.”

“And they were doing government research. They discovered a thing called SVD.”

“Which is?”

“A viral disease of sharks, transmitted in the, uh, sexual secretions or whatever it is that sharks do.”

“SVD?”

“Stands for shark venereal disease. Locally known as the finny clap.”

“Jerry, are you pulling my leg?”

“At three in the morning? Come on.”

“Jer-ry, ba-by…”

“In a minute, love,” Jerry said, pouring himself another martini. “Jeez, Rog, she really is something,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe it. I used to hear stories about girls like this—”

“Advance,” Clark reminded him.

“Yeah, Advance. Anyway, they discovered this fish disease and isolated the virus, or some damned thing, and sold it to the government for a big fee. It was going to be a huge new breakthrough in biological warfare. From there, they went on to investigate Arizona Sleeping Sickness.”

“Arizona—”

“Shhhhh. Yeah. Arizona Sleeping Sickness. Another new disease they invented. Carried by the eight-legged nymph of the sagebrush caterpillar in northwest Ariz—”

“I hope,” said a voice, “that I’m not breaking up the party.”

Clark turned. There was a girl standing in the doorway to the bedroom, wearing a man’s pyjama top and a sleepy frown.

“Linda, this is Roger.” Jerry sighed. “Roger is a crazy doctor.”

“Oh,” Linda said. She padded across the room to the refrigerator and poured herself a drink. “He must be crazy,” she said.

“He’s also leaving,” Jerry said, with a stern look at Clark, who was staring at the girl’s legs. They were very nice legs.

“Yes, just leaving,” Clark said. “But about Advance—”

“All right, look: the thing about Advance is that they got started with these two diseases, sold them to the government for a big fee, and then moved into the private sector. Completely. They’re doing other things now.”

“Like what?”

Jerry shrugged. “Nobody seems to know, really. There are rumors about thought control, and drugs, and test-tube engineering…. wild stuff. But nobody knows for sure.” He sighed. “And anyway, it’s not for sale. Okay?”

“Okay,” Clark said. He finished his martini and stood.

“Good night, crazy doctor,” Linda said, with a sleepy smile. “Nice having you.”

“You haven’t had him yet,” Jerry said.

“Yes,” Linda said, “but you never can tell.”

12. TRIPPYTIME

“ONE MORE! HOLD IT!”

The flashbulbs popped.

“Now around, that’s it. A little leg, Miss Wilder!”

Flashbulbs, white silent explosions in the air. The photographers scurrying, moving around her.

“Give us a smile, Sharon! Good! Another!”

She turned, waved, and smiled once more, then walked up the steps to the airplane. “That’s it, boys.”

“Aw, Sharon.”

“Just one, Sharon.”

“Miss Wilder…”

But she was climbing the steps, and a moment later ducked through into the interior of the airplane, and moved down the aisle to her seat in the first-class section.

Roger Clark was waiting. He had watched it all from the window seat.

“God, photographers,” Sharon said, dropping into her seat. “I hate posing,” she said, “in all these clothes. Is the suit all right?”

She wore a severely cut suit of black leather, with a red scarf at her throat.

“The suit is fine,” Clark said.

“You’re such a dear,” Sharon said, and kissed his cheek. She settled back in the seat and buckled her belt. “Well,” she said. “At last: it’s trippytime, darling.”

“So it appears.”

“It was good of you to come,” she said, “on short notice. I felt terrible about calling you.”

“I’m glad you did.”

There was a whine as the jet engines were started. The few remaining passengers filed down the aisle to their seats; up in front, they could see the stewardess closing the door. The steps were wheeled away.

“This is going to be a marvelous flight,” Sharon said. “I’ve decided.”

Clark said, “What exactly do we do?”

“It’s very simple,” she said. “We fly direct to Miami. Then we have a little stopover, and get the plane to Nassau. From there, we go by seaplane to San Cristobal.”

“Which is where?”

She laughed. “Silly, that’s part of the thing. Nobody knows. It’s a secret.”

Clark remembered seeing the tickets in her bedroom. They had been paid for by Advance. “Tell me,” he said. “How did you hear about this place?”

She sighed. “You doctors. You never get away from your patients long enough to…”

She picked up the latest issue of Holiday magazine and thumbed through it quickly, finally turning back a page. She handed the magazine to Clark.

The full-page ad read:

EDEN ISLAND

Everything Under The Sun

Never was there a resort like this before! Name your game: tennis, swimming, badminton, skin-diving, deep-sea fishing, hunting (wild boar), water-skiing—Eden Island has the finest, most modern facilities for everything. Or you may prefer to spend your time in our casino, dancing and dining at one of our twelve different clubs. Everything has been provided for you, all under the most expert management.

The sun, of course, takes care of itself.

Eden Island: there’s never been anything quite like it before.

There was also a large color photograph showing a beach, a dock with sailboats, and back from the shore, secluded in manicured grounds and shaded by palms, an enormous white resort complex of hotels, swimming pools and tennis courts. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

“Ads like this,” Sharon said, “have been running for weeks. Everybody’s talking about it. Everybody’s going. They say it will be the resort of the century, when it’s finished.”

“It’s not finished?”

“No. San Cristobal—that’s the real name of the island—is five square miles. The company that is developing it says they won’t finish for twenty years.”

“What company is that?”

She shrugged. “Some American corporation.”

He looked at her steadily. “Advance?”

“Advance what?”

“The Advance Corporation,” Clark said.

For a moment, she seemed puzzled, and then she laughed. “You really did check up on me, didn’t you? That’s George’s company. He’s such a dear—but no, Advance has nothing to do with this.”

“How do you know?”

“Because George told me about it. They’re into all sorts of stuff—electronic control of the brain, and new birth control chemicals—but not resorts, love.”

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.” She was looking at him in an odd way, as if she might become angry.

“Where’d you get the tickets?” he asked.

She shook her head. “You’re a glutton for punishment.”

“Just curious.”

“George got them for me,” she said. “You see, I was originally going with him.”

“Oh.”

“But he canceled out at the last minute. Some conference on enzymes in Detroit.” She looked out the window as the plane taxied down the runway, gathered speed, and began to climb into the air.

“And now,” she said, “I’d like to change the subject.”

An hour later, over drinks, he said, “You were right about one thing. I did check up on you. I even went to see Abraham Shine.”

“He’s a dear man,” Sharon said, biting into a shrimp hors d’oeuvre.

“He mentioned that you were concerned about corporations.”

“Concerned? That wasn’t it at all.” She munched on the shrimp. “I was terrified.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It was this kind of irrational thing, a fear. Like there were so many huge complex companies, and I was just a little person, all alone. I felt… powerless.”

“And you were worried about—”

“Being controlled,” she said, nodding. “I was. It was an awful period in my life. I would go to bed at night and dream that some giant corporation was manipulating me, like a puppet and its master, behind the scenes, pulling the strings. I felt I couldn’t control anything, that I was just being tugged this way and that.”

“Why did you feel that?”

“Listen,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. Her face was already flushed from a previous drink; she looked young and pretty and very sexy. “I’ll tell you something. The life of a young girl in this town—I mean LA—is pretty miserable. You want to get into the business, and you grow up thinking, dreaming about it, how wonderful it would be, attending your opening night and climbing out of the limousine wearing a chiffon gown and a white fur coat… And then you start working on it, you quit school one day at sixteen and you say the hell with algebra, I’m going to make pictures, and you start working. You get an agent. I had a jerk named Morrie Sandwell. He set up some meetings with producers, sort of introducing me around. The producers explained how tough it was for a newcomer to break in, how a new girl really needed the guiding touch of an experienced person in the business, someone with contacts. So okay, you get your contacts, you go along with the touch, because you have that dream of the opening night, and getting out of the limousine and looking up at the marquee with your name there. It’s a good dream.”

She pushed her drink away.

“And then one day you wake up and realize what the hell you’ve been doing, hanging around with a bunch of nasty old guys and nasty old hotel rooms and too many drinks and too many sour laughs. And all you’ve got to show for it is a walk-on in Gunslinger and two lines as the cook in Gorman’s Heroes. And you just see it, clear and plain: you’ve been used.”

“And then?”

“Then you start seeing someone like Dr. Shine. He was very good for me. He got me out of this corporation-manipulation thing, and into something else. He made me believe that I could control my destiny. So I fired my agent got a new one, and started fresh. I played with a new set of rules—my rules—and it was a whole new game.”

She looked at him steadily.

“And I’m winning,” she said. “This time, I’m winning.”

It was raining in Miami—a cold, October rain that presaged a hurricane brewing to the south. They had two hours in the airport and wandered around together, looking at the shops, having a hamburger and a drink. Then Sharon said she wanted to try on sweaters in one of the airport stores, and Clark went off by himself. He walked aimlessly, not paying much attention to anything.

And then he realized.

He was being followed. It was a short man with a plastic clear raincoat which showed a rumpled blue suit underneath. Clark walked on, then looked back.

The man was still there. He had a bland, expressionless face. Clark wondered if he was one of the passengers on the plane, but could not recall his face. But he was attentive when he boarded flight 409 from Miami to Nassau, New Providence. The man in the raincoat did not board the plane with him. Odd, he thought. Sharon was already in her seat. As he sat down, he said, “Find anything?”

“No,” she said, “they were all wrong for me.”

There was a hazy, humid sun in Nassau. They were met at the small terminal by a representative of Eden Island, who helped them all through Bahamian customs with remarkable ease, and then led them outside to a bus. It was a normal sort of bus, except that it was painted flame red and hot orange, with black lettering on the side: EDEN ISLAND EXPRESS.

They climbed aboard and were given grapes and other fruit while the man explained that the bus would take them to the seaplane.

“Purely a temporary arrangement, folks,” the man said. “You see, we haven’t yet built the airstrip on Eden. But they’re working on it. Of course,” he said, “most people find a seaplane quite an experience, yes indeed, quite an experience.”

Clark stared out the window for the duration of the dreary trip from the airport to the port of Nassau, set down beneath the crest upon which the old fort was erected. The bus drove directly to the waterfront, and pulled up before a large seaplane. Everyone got on board.

The passenger section was quite dark; the windows had all been covered with black paint.

“So it’s true,” Clark said.

“Oh yes,” Sharon said. “The location is a big secret.” She smiled. “Of course, it’s only a publicity stunt. By now all sorts of people in private planes and yachts will have found the island and charted it. But it’s a good gimmick.”

Drinks were brought around as soon as the plane was in the air, but Clark didn’t have one. He was tired, and the monotony of the dark cabin was conducive to sleep. He must have dozed off, because when he awoke the airplane was rocking in a steady, rhythmic way, and he could not hear the sound of the propellers.

“What’s happened?”

“We landed,” Sharon said, smiling. “They just tied up to the dock.”

The passengers were already beginning to stand and stretch in the aisles.

Clark said, “But if we’re tied up, then—”

“In a few moments, well see Eden Island,” Sharon said, and smiled with radiant excitement.

The forward door was opened, and sunlight streamed into the cabin. The passengers began to file outside.

13. EAST OF SAN CRISTOBAL

HIS FIRST SENSATION WAS of the air: it was clear and warm and redolent of foreign scents, strange spices. Though the sun was setting behind the far hills of the island, and the sky beginning to deepen to purple, the air remained warm, with a mild breeze. He breathed deeply and looked around him.

The dock was thronged with porters and passengers and baggage, but looking up from the dock he could see a smooth white beach, with the water lapping gently against the land. Farther back was a structure which appeared to be the hotel. He could not see the tennis courts and swimming pools which he had seen in the photograph in the ad, and he assumed they were farther back inland.

Though newly constructed, the hotel had a quaint appearance; it had been built in a rather Spanish manner, with graceful arches leading into small gardens and terraces. There were flowers everywhere, lending smell as well as color to the scene. Sharon clapped her hands. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Clark had to agree that it was, but as he looked around, it seemed to him that something was wrong. He could not define it for several minutes, but then, as he walked up the dock with Sharon, it struck him.

“Kind of deserted,” he said. “Nobody on the beach. Nobody much around the hotel. It’s almost as if—”

“Probably,” Sharon said, “everybody is inside changing for dinner. A day in this sun can be exhausting, you know.”

“But the beach is smooth. There isn’t a footprint or—

“Silly. They brush it down.”

“They what?”

“Every night. They brush it down. Men come along with big brushes and sort of comb it. Like a horse.”

“Oh.”

As he came up to the hotel, he decided that his impression was incorrect. While registering at the desk, he could faintly hear the thwock! of tennis balls, a game being played on some distant court; and he could hear splashing and laughter from a pool.

At the desk, he left Sharon, following his own porter to his room. It was a pleasant single room overlooking the beach and the dock; directly beneath his balcony was a courtyard with a bar and a polished wooden floor. Undoubtedly it was used for dancing in the evening.

The room was comfortably furnished with a bed, a desk, and a television….

He paused. A television?

This island must be hundreds of miles from the nearest television station. They could not possibly hope to receive—

Abruptly, the screen glowed to life. It was a color set; he found himself staring at a pleasant, white-haired man in formal attire.

“Good evening, Dr. Clark,” the man said. “I am your manager, Mr. Lefevre. Allow me to take this opportunity to welcome you personally to Eden Island. I hope that in the next few days we can make your stay with us truly memorable. If there is anything which is not to your utmost satisfaction, please do not hesitate to report it to me. The television, by the way, is closed-circuit; feature films are shown twice a day at seven and ten. The waiter will be arriving at your room shortly with a drink and a bowl of fruit. Please accept it with our compliments, and our best wishes for a pleasant stay here.”

The screen went blank.

“I’ll be damned,” he said, and there was a knock at the door. A boy in a red jacket with gold buttons came in with a drink on a silver tray in one hand, and a bowl of fruit in the other.

“Compliments of the management, Dr. Clark,” he said. “If you need anything further, please call us.”

Clark reached into his pocket for a tip.

“No sir, thank you anyway,” the boy said, and closed the door as he left.

Clark looked at the fruit basket, and then at the drink. It was a rather peculiar drink, foamy and orange with cherries in the bottom. There was a small card alongside it, on the tray.

“Mango punch is a specialty of the island. It has been a native favorite for centuries. Enjoy it with our compliments.”

He sipped it cautiously: it was tangy, bittersweet, and very strong. He took a second sip, and decided he liked it.

He took the drink onto the balcony and sat down in a comfortable deck chair, and propped his legs up on the railing. From here, he could look down over the bar and the dance floor, and out to the dock, where the sailboats rocked gently in the soft wind as night fell. It was peaceful and quiet, though he could still hear the distant sound of a tennis game, and an occasional whoop of laughter from the pool.

It was, he decided, going to be an extremely pleasant vacation.

The telephone rang, and he was about to go inside to answer it when he saw there was an extension on the balcony.

“They think of everything,” he said, and picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Roger? Sharon. Listen, isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it the most wonderful place you’ve ever been? Have you tasted the mango punch?”

He agreed that it was all very wonderful, and they arranged to meet in an hour for drinks before dinner. He went back inside to unpack and take a shower. While he was unpacking, he heard an odd humming sound. At first he could not locate the source of the noise; it was very soft, almost a droning. He walked around the room, listening.

And then he realized it was coming from the television set. Funny, he thought. He made a mental note to tell the management about it. He slapped the set once, with the flat of his hand. The sound stopped.

“Well,” he said, “that’s that.” Life for Roger Clark became a kind of idyll. After the first day, he stopped wearing his watch, and when, after three days, he chanced to pick it up, he saw that it had stopped. He didn’t care. It seemed almost fitting, that time should stop on this island. He was having a superb time.

The first night, he had had dinner with Sharon in the hotel, and had been pleasantly surprised at the excellence of the food. Afterward, they had gone to a discotheque, one of three on the new resort island. It had been a smashing, vibrant place; he had gotten drunk and enjoyed himself thoroughly.

The next day he had played tennis with Sharon, and discovered that she was a blood player, a true fighter. She wore a very short white skirt and a very tight white blouse, and used her wiles to distract him whenever she could; he was beaten miserably in the first set. On the next two sets he fought back, winning the third 22–20. Then, exhausted, hot and laughing, they had swum in the Olympic pool, before lying in the sun to dry. They had dinner at a native restaurant where they were served squid and other strange things, but it was all excellent. They made passionate love and he slept soundly afterward.

The next day was more of the same; the day after, they took a sailboat out and sailed around the north tip of the island, passing a coastline of rugged beauty. They went skin-diving in a warm sea alive with fish, brightly-colored, darting about.

He felt marvelous.

The next day, he played tennis so vigorously that he broke his stringing; Sharon laughed, he bought her a drink, and they went back to his room in the middle of the afternoon.

And so it went, day after day. Every once in a while, one of the other guests—and the guests were an unusually congenial and interesting group of people, it seemed to Clark—would come up and say, “Isn’t this fantastic? Isn’t this ideal?”

And Clark would have to agree. It was absolutely, completely, totally ideal.

He awoke in the middle of the night with a strange kind of abruptness; one moment he was asleep, the next moment he was wide awake, staring at the ceiling of his room.

Something was wrong.

He knew it with frightening certainty. Something was wrong. He could not say what it was, but he was quite sure.

He lay in his bed and listened.

He heard the sound of the ocean, carried on the wind through the open doors to the balcony. He heard the chattering of some nocturnal bird, hidden in the trees around the hotel.

Otherwise, nothing.

He sat up. The room was familiar, his room, his bed, his desk in the corner, with the letter to Ron Harmon at Aero that he had begun to write, but had never managed to finish. Propped up against one wall was his tennis racket with the broken string.

It was all perfectly normal. He sat up slowly, trying to decide what disturbed him. He got out of bed and walked toward the bathroom, and as he did so, he kicked something on the floor.

He turned on the light and looked.

A tray.

It was a simple iron tray, scratched and battered, the tray of a cheap all-night cafeteria. There was a bowl of soup on the tray, thin yellow gruel, now cold. Next to the bowl was a plate of unappetizing hash, and a glass of water.

He stared at the tray for a long time. It seemed absurd, this cheap tray and this awful food, sitting in his room. How had it gotten there?

He looked closely. The hash had been partially eaten; a fork lay on the plate. He scooped up a bite of the hash and tasted it.

Awful. Revolting. He went to the bathroom to spit it out, turning on the light, and—

He stared at his image in the mirror. His eyes were pink and haggard; he had a heavy growth of beard, at least several days’ worth; his skin was pale.

And then, as he stood in the bathroom, he heard the growl of thunder, and the wind blew more strongly. He frowned, spit out the hash, and walked onto the balcony.

He could hardly believe his eyes.

The dock was bare; the boats had all been taken in and lashed to the trees on shore. The beach was wet and ugly-looking. Beneath him, the polished wood dance floor was soaked, puddles standing about everywhere; the bar was closed down, and covered with a canvas tarpaulin. He looked at the flowers on the balcony, which had climbed snaking through the railing. They were closed, beaten down by rain, battered-looking.

As he stood there, the first drops of rain began to fall from leaden skies, and the thunder rolled again.

My God, he thought. It’s been raining here for days.

How long had it been?

He went back to the bathroom and urinated, shivering with a new and chilling fear. It was so terrifying, he was not really surprised when he looked down and saw that his urine was a bright, fluorescent blue.

14. GAINFUL EMPLOYMENT

HE DRESSED QUICKLY, SLIPPING into a pair of slacks, sneakers, and a sweater. He had brought only one sweater, and now he was glad; it was cold.

When he had dressed, he looked again at the tray and the gruel set out by his bed.

Then he left the room. The hallway was quiet, he moved slowly down toward the stairs at the far end, avoiding the elevator. Around him, the hotel was silent except for the rising sound of the storm.

He reached the head of the stairs and paused. On the ground floor below, he could hear quiet voices, and shuffling sounds. As he waited, he heard footsteps approaching, and then coming up the stairs.

He had a moment of panic, backing away. Then he saw a closet marked “Utility”; the door was not locked, and he slipped in among mops and buckets. He left the door slightly ajar and waited.

After several moments, two people appeared at the top of the stairs. One was a lovely young woman in a bikini; the other was a red-jacketed waiter. They walked slowly, arm in arm, down the hallway. The girl seemed a little unsteady, and often leaned against her companion for support. Once or twice, she giggled.

Eventually, they came to her room, and stopped. The waiter unlocked the girl’s door, choosing the key from a large ring at his belt. The girl put her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly.

“Thank you for a lovely evening, darling,” she said. And then, “Shall we…”

“By all means,” the waiter said. He held the door open, and the girl went into her room.

“You make such thrilling love,” the girl said.

“Yes, my dear,” the waiter said, and closed the door. After a few moments, he reappeared in the hallway, walked down two doors, and unlocked another door. He disappeared inside, and came out with a stocky middle-aged man at his side.

“Ah,” said the man. “Charming morning, eh, Linda?”

“Oh yes,” the waiter said.

“All this sunlight… makes a man feel marvelous!”

“It certainly does,” the waiter said.

“After breakfast, we’ll play a little tennis, shall we?”

“That would be nice,” the waiter said.

“Good girl, Linda,” the man said.

They passed Clark, and headed down the stairs. He waited until he could no longer hear their footsteps, then came out of the closet.

Slowly, he made his way downstairs.

When he reached the bottom, he could peer around the corner and look at the lobby. He remembered it as a charming place with a simple desk and polished marble floors; lots of flowers everywhere. But now it was completely transformed. A broad, thick plastic mat of silver foil had been set out on the floor. It was very large, perhaps twenty yards square, and on it a dozen guests sprawled in bathing suits. Overhead was a bank of sunlamps, blazing down on the mat and the guests.

Five or six waiters were in attendance. At intervals an alarm would buzz softly, and the waiter would go up to the guests, and gently help them to turn over. The guests followed instructions with happy, complacent smiles on their faces. They all seemed quite awake, and would exchange a few words with the waiters at each turning.

Among themselves, the waiters spoke in low, disgruntled tones.

“Pain in the ass,” one said.

“It’ll blow over soon, then we can work it as usual. An hour on the balcony each day.”

“I hate this. Whenever there’s a storm, this damned schedule.”

Another waiter laughed. “Can’t have our guests going home without a tan, can we?”

“Oh no, that would never do.”

Clark waited several minutes until he understood what was happening. Then, he slipped around the corner, moving from the stair toward the registration desk. No one saw him. The waiters were not attentive—and why should they be? Every guest here was drugged to the ears.

At the desk he paused, ducking down into shadow. To his left was the terrace, and beyond that the swimming pool and the tennis courts. He moved off, outside, into the rainy darkness.

His sneakers squished softly on the dance floor. It was then that he noticed, with surprise, that it was not really wood but a kind of plastic. Very realistic plastic.

From the dance floor, he headed off into the gardens. Down a narrow, damp path to the swimming pool, which was located—

He stopped.

There was no swimming pool. None at all. There was a high diving board; he had seen that when he had first arrived, sticking up over the trees. But the diving board was sunk in concrete, surrounded by dirt

No pool.

He frowned. He remembered it so clearly: a beautiful sparkling Olympic pool, with a high board at one end, and a bar at the other end where you could stand waist-deep in water and drink mango punches until you were sleepy; then you could crawl out and lie on one of the deck chairs, located on the broad concrete deck around the pool.

What the hell?

He padded across the dirt beneath the board; it was now rather muddy with rain. He went on, toward the tennis courts, all twelve of them, beautifully maintained, the white lines carefully laid out each day.

Once again, he paused.

No tennis courts.

Instead there was only a small metal shack, standing in the midst of scrubby vegetation. He opened the door to the shack and found some electronic equipment, including a tape recorder.

He flicked it on.

Thwock!… Thwock!

A woman’s laugh, and a man’s deeper chuckle.

Thwock!

He flicked it off. The sounds died.

“Very neat,” he said aloud.

“We think so,” a voice replied. He turned and saw the smiling, white-haired man whom he recognized as Mr. Lefevre, the manager.

“I see you’re ready for work,” Lefevre said.

“Work?”

“Yes, of course. Come this way, please.” He looked up at the sky. “Ugly night. It’ll pour, any minute. We’d best get inside, don’t you think?”

Dazed, he followed Lefevre back through the underbrush to the hotel. They walked into the lobby where the waiters were still turning the guests beneath the sunlamps; the waiters nodded politely to Clark. They did not seem surprised to see him.

“This way, Dr. Clark,” Lefevre said. He led him into a private office, comfortably furnished, and closed the door.

“You’re soaked through,” Lefevre said. “There’s a towel in the bathroom—” he nodded to a door “—that you might want to use. Wouldn’t do to catch a cold, you know. Matter of fact, that’s one of the problems you’re going to face very shortly.”

“What’s that?”

“Colds, Dr. Clark. We try to guard against them, but…”

He shrugged.

Clark went into the bathroom, took a towel, and rubbed his hair. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t know what’s going on here, but there’s some kind of mistake—”

“No mistake,” Lefevre said, smiling.

“But I don’t understand. You people are—”

“On the contrary, Dr. Clark. You understand perfectly. We people are operating a resort which does not exist. As you demonstrated to your own satisfaction just a few moments ago. We have a facade—this building, the rooms upstairs—but behind that, there is nothing. Everything else that is needed, we supply by means of the drug.”

Clark nodded. “The drug that turns urine blue.”

“Precisely. A most useful drug. You see, doctor, we are engaged in a kind of experiment here, an experiment in perception. We know, indeed everybody knows, that perception is altered by mental state. You may dine in the finest restaurant in the world, and eat the most superb food, but if you are in a bad mood, if your business has just gone bankrupt, if your wife has just left you, then this delicious, excellent food will taste like sawdust. And conversely: a ghastly meal in a tawdry restaurant may seem like a king’s banquet if your mental state is disposed to make it so.”

“I don’t see what all this—”

“All this,” Lefevre said, waving his hand around, “all this is a kind of extreme experiment. We assume that mental state colors our experience irrespective of objective reality. Normally, one must control experience in an attempt to produce the correct mental state—to be happy, healthy, and carefree, one must spend vast sums to go to some resort where your whims are realized. But suppose that the mental state could be controlled independent of experience? Eh? What then?”

“The drug,” Clark said.

“Yes indeed. It is the drug of choice for controlling mental state. It produces mental… well, pliability. Suggestiveness is heightened to an extraordinary degree. One is receptive to suggestion, any suggestion, and one will live quite happily within the framework of that suggestion until another suggestion is supplied.”

“My tennis racket.”

“Exactly. Two days ago, one of the boys went into your room, cut a string on your racket, and suggested to you that you had broken it in a fierce game of tennis. You accepted that idea quite happily.”

“I’ve been on the drug all that time?”

“Oh yes. From your first mango punch. And, of course, the sound…”

“In the television?”

“Yes. It is a particular frequency, which can be duplicated with a tuning fork, such as this one here.” He held up a small, polished fork, and struck it against the table. It hummed softly.

“This fork vibrates at 423 cycles. That is a resonant frequency of an audio output of the brain’s alpha waves. A normal person finds it no more than a passing irritant. But under the influence of the drug—well, shall I show you?”

Clark said, “Please do.”

“Very well.”

They went outside; Lefevre said to the waiters, “Anyone making love tonight?”

One waiter said, “The one in room 24.”

“Has she been sounded yet?”

“No. Not yet.”

“All right.”

He led Clark to the elevator; they rode up to the second floor, and went down the corridor to room 24. Lefevre unlocked it and went in.

A girl lay on the bed. It was the same girl that Clark had seen earlier, walking upstairs with the waiter. She was a pretty young blond with a white bikini.

She sat up and smiled uncertainly as they entered. “Darling?” she said, in a questioning voice. “Yes, darling,” Lefevre said. “It’s me.”

“Oh,” the girl said, smiling happily, “I was waiting for you.”

“I’m here now.”

She smiled, then looked at Clark. “But have you brought someone else with you?”

“No, darling. You must be mistaken. I am alone.”

“Oh,” the girl said, staring right at Clark. “I must have been mistaken. Do you love me very much?”

“Very much, darling.”

“Have you come to make love to me?”

“Yes,” Lefevre said.

“I’m glad,” the girl said.

“You just undress, and get into bed,” Lefevre said. “I’m going into the bathroom for a moment.”

“All right,” the girl said. She stood up and began to remove her bikini. Clark and Lefevre remained standing near the bed.

“I don’t think you can hear me talking in the bathroom, darling,” Lefevre said.

“No, I can’t,” she said.

“You see,” Lefevre said to Clark, “she is totally happy with sensations which she manufactures for herself. You’ll notice the tentative way she speaks. That is because she requires the baseline stimulus, the minimal directions, from someone on the outside. From me. Whatever I tell her, she accepts. If I tell her you are not in the room, then of course you are not.”

Clark said, “Who does she think you are?”

“I don’t know,” Lefevre said. “And I don’t want to push it. You’ll soon come to understand that people on this drug have a way of telling you what kind of sensations they want to experience. She undoubtedly thinks I’m her husband or lover or whoever it is she wants to believe I am. I have done nothing to change that preconception. If I were to announce, for example, that I were her father, then she would panic. But I haven’t announced that I have only followed her cues, and reinforced the appropriate ones.”

“And she accepts this, because of the drug.”

“Yes. But the drug has other powers, a whole new order of powers on a scale quite undreamed of. Because when she hears the sound of the tuning fork—well, watch for yourself.”

The girl was by now in bed, the sheets pulled up to her chin. She stared calmly at the ceiling.

“Darling,” she said.

“I’m here,” Lefevre said. “I love you.”

The girl did not move. She continued to stare at the ceiling.

“You make love beautifully,” she said.

Abruptly, Lefevre struck the tuning fork. The girl’s eyes snapped shut and her body went rigid for a moment and then relaxed. She seemed suddenly fast asleep.

Clark began to understand. “She’s in a coma,” he said.

“Yes. Unarousable for a period of twelve to sixteen hours, but quite safe, I assure you. In fact she is experiencing sensations of fantastic pleasure. That is the beauty of the drug: it stimulates hypothalamic pleasure centers directly, in combination with the correct auditory stimuli. For twelve hours she will experience nothing but pure, total, delightful pleasure.”

“And afterward?”

“She will get more drug. And more again, up until the morning of her departure. The doses will be tapered on that final day; she will be just beginning to awake fully when she is aboard the seaplane, taking off for Nassau. When she wakes up, she will be refreshed, tanned, invigorated—and she will carry beautiful memories back with her.”

“All quite neat.”

“Yes indeed,” Lefevre said. “This drug is a significant breakthrough.”

They walked out of the room, down the hallway. Clark said, “What exactly is the drug?”

“We’re not certain. It hasn’t been fully analyzed yet.”

“But you’re administering it—”

“Oh yes,” Lefevre said, with a wave of his hand, “but it’s quite safe. You can see that for yourself. Perfectly safe.”

“What’s it called?”

“It hasn’t got a name. After all, why name it? Who needs to know its name? It will never be marketed, never be made available to the public. Can you imagine what would happen if it were available?” Lefevre shook his head. “The whole world would be lying around in a coma. Industry would grind to a halt. Commerce would cease. Wars would end in mid-battle. Life as we know it would simply stop.”

Clark said nothing.

“When we at Advance developed this drug, we were aware of its potential. We were most careful to guard it, and to plan for its limited commercial use. In this setting, you see, the drug is superb. People come here, have a fine time, and go home refreshed and happy. They return to normal, active lives none the worse for their experience—indeed, much improved. Don’t you think we’ve accomplished something marvelous?”

“No,” Clark said.

“That’s very odd,” Lefevre said. “An opinion like that, coming from an employee of the corporation.”

“What corporation?”

“Advance, of course. Why do you think we woke you up? You’ve got to start working right now.”

Back in his office, Lefevre showed him the material. “You see,” he said, “there’s no question about it. You are an employee of Advance. Here is the contract you signed when you visited the Santa Monica office.”

He pushed a photostat of a form across the desk.

“I signed—”

And then he remembered the little lady at the desk. There was something that he had signed.

“And your picture, of course. Shaking hands with Harvey Blood, president of the Corporation. Shaking hands with George K. Washington. The contract states, by the way, that you have full knowledge of the experimental drug, and have agreed to supervise activities at the resort for the month.”

He smiled.

“And here,” he said, “is a canceled check, deposited to your account. And another check, here. And a third. Totaling slightly more than seven thousand dollars. So you see, you’re an employee, all right. And a rather well-paid employee at that.”

Clark said nothing. He was thinking over everything, from the beginning, from the Angel, and then Sharon…

“This was all planned,” he said. “You planned a way to get me out here, you engineered it all—”

“Let’s say,” Lefevre said, “that we helped you to make up your mind. Now then. For the duration of your stay here—for the rest of the month, until our regular physician in residence comes back from his vacation—you are going to be a rather busy man. We run into minor problems here and there, you know. Nothing to do with the drug, but peripheral things. A young lady sleeps on the balcony to her room and neglects to wear her bathing suit; that can give you a nasty burn, and it must be attended to so that she is not unhappy when she finally goes home. Or a gentleman gets pneumonia. We have two cases of that now, because of the bad weather. They’ll need penicillin treatment, and whatever else you deem appropriate. After all,” he said, “you’re the doctor.”

Clark sat calmly in his chair. He stared at Lefevre and said, “Sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Yes. Sorry. I won’t play.”

Lefevre frowned. “That’s a rather serious decision on your part.”

“Sorry.”

“I strongly advise you to reconsider.”

Clark shook his head. “No.”

“You must realize, of course, that we have anticipated such a maneuver. We are prepared for the possibility that you would reject the plan, and begin scheming. Thinking up ways to blow the whistle on our organization, tell the world, let everyone know about the drug of choice. Eh?”

Clark kept his face expressionless, but in fact such thoughts had been running through his mind.

“We have devised a method for dealing with such plans,” Lefevre said.

He pressed a button on his desk, and two waiters came into the room. They stood quietly by the door.

“I think,” Lefevre said, “that a demonstration is best.”

And then, almost before he knew what had happened, the two waiters grabbed him and held him, and Lefevre came forward with a gun in his hand, pressed it to Clark’s arm, and fired. There was a hissing sound, and a slight pain.

“Release him.”

The waiters let Clark sit down; he stopped struggling and rubbed his sore arm.

“And what was that?”

“I’m rather surprised, doctor,” Lefevre said. “I would have thought you’d have guessed. We have just given you a dose of another compound. It is the reverse of the drug we give here. The exact opposite.”

Clark waited, preparing himself for some sensation. Nothing happened. He felt a little queasy, but that was all.

“The posterior thalamic nuclei, on the inferior aspect,” Lefevre said, “can produce most peculiar sensations when stimulated.”

He held up the tuning fork; the metal glinted in the light.

Then he swung it down abruptly, striking the table.

Clark heard a hum.

15. REVERSAL

THERE WAS NO IMMEDIATE change. He remained sitting in the office, staring at Lefevre, with the two men at his back. He continued to rub his arm, still sore from the pneumatic hypodermic.

Gradually, he became aware of an unearthly silence in the room, a still and muffled quality. He looked back at one of the men, and was surprised to see he was talking.

He glanced at Lefevre, who was replying to the man.

Clark heard nothing. He saw the lips move, watched as Lefevre gestured and smiled, but he heard nothing.

“It’s a trick,” he said aloud. “You’re only pretending to talk. You’re trying to frighten me.”

At this, Lefevre turned to Clark and said something, shaking his head. Clark tried to read the lips but could not… “You’re trying to frighten me.”

And then, he became aware that he heard nothing at all in the room. Normal sounds—feet on the carpet, the ticking of a clock on the desk, the sounds of breathing, movement, the rain outside—he heard nothing. He could not even hear the beating of his own—

“My heart,” he said, and put his hand to his chest. He felt nothing. Suddenly afraid, he reached for his wrist to feel the pulse.

There was no pulse.

“My heart has stopped.”

They had poisoned him. He felt a coldness creep over him, beginning in his hands and legs and ears, moving toward the center of his body. An icy, gray coldness.

“You’re killing me.”

The room was still silent, the men still standing and watching him. He took a deep breath, but his lungs weren’t working; the air caught in his throat; he was dizzy and gasping.

They were killing him.

For a moment, he was able to sit in the chair and tell himself, This isn’t happening, it’s only a drug, and then in the next moment panic washed over him. He leapt up and scrambled for the door. The men stood and watched him as he clawed at the doorknob, his cold fingers slipping off the metal, his hands barely able to grasp and touch. He was shaking now, his body vibrating in an uncontrollable way.

He fell to his knees, weak and shaking, and leaned against the door. He felt two arms lifting him up, and setting him down in the chair once more.

Lefevre, behind the desk, lit a cigar, puffing gray smoke at Clark. Clark watched the smoke billow toward him. So that was it: poison gas. The drug was just a ruse. Actually, they were using gas.

He sniffed the air, and smelled nothing for a moment. Then he began to smell rich tobacco, and then…. something else.

Acrid, sharp, burning.

Poison gas.

Lefevre, watching him, laughed soundlessly. Smoke curled out from his mouth as he laughed.

Clark was bathed in a cold sweat. He continued to shake and shiver. He closed his eyes and turned away from the gas, a last, final gesture of avoidance, postponing the inevitable.

Then something new happened. He felt cool air around him, fresh and clean; he heard voices, and he stopped shaking.

When he opened his eyes, Lefevre was handing him the towel and saying, “Not bad, eh?”

Clark could not speak. He sat in the chair, weak and exhausted, gasping for breath.

“Of course,” Lefevre said, “that was only a small dose. Fifteen seconds—that’s all we let you go through—and even that on a small dose. You didn’t even dream. And,” he said, “you may be thankful for that.”

He sat down behind the desk.

“However, Dr. Clark, the next time we will not use a small dose, and we will not limit the stress to fifteen seconds. I can assure you the experience will be vastly more unpleasant.” He sighed.

“It is a most interesting drug, you know,” he said. “In the experimental trials on monkeys and chimpanzees, we found that the animals did not survive prolonged exposure to the effects. They all killed themselves, in the most bizarre ways. One spider monkey strangled itself with its tail—very curious. You see, the drug is intolerable. A creature will do anything to be free of its influence. Anything. I think you can understand that.”

“I think so,” Clark said, wiping his face with the towel.

“Good. Then let us get down to business. There is a lady in room fourteen with a bad sunburn on her back. It needs attending. The gentleman in room twelve has incipient bronchopneumonia. He needs medication. The woman in….”

Clark listened, and when Lefevre was through, he went to work.

In the following days, he came to understand the system of the resort very well. Guests were given an initial dose of the drug in their mango punch; thereafter, it was administered as a simple white pill, taken with a glass of water. The drug was given by an attendant, who stood by, watching to be sure it was taken.

The duration of drug effect seemed to be sixteen hours, and it was remarkably constant. Dosages and schedules for each guest were charted on a large sheet at the registration desk. Nearby was another large sheet, which listed some personal information about each guest, his predominant fantasies about what was happening (“Vigorous sportsman. Has been hunting and fishing all trip.” “Compulsive gambler, on big winning streak.” “Spending vacation with secretary, name of Alice.”) in order to guide the waiters who had to interact with the guests, from time to time.

Every second day, each guest was given a “high”, meaning an episode of pleasure-coma brought on by a hum from the television set. Lefevre explained that the highs had to be spaced out, because of the intensity of the experience.

Meals were brought around three times a day to guests not on a high. They were prepared in a dingy kitchen, located behind the main building of the hotel. The food was always abominable, but it was delivered in a careful way.

The waiter would bring the tray, and set it down. He would say to the guest, “Where would you like to dine tonight?”

“Oh, the main ball dining room.”

“That’s where you are.”

“Oh, good.”

The waiter would then say, “And what would you like for dinner?”

“May I see the menu please?”

“You have it in your hand.”

“Oh yes,” the guest would say. “So I do.” He would stare down at his empty hands. “Now let me see…is your crab fresh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I’ll have the crab. To begin, caviar. And a bottle of Dom Perignon ’49.”

“Very good sir. And here you are.” The waiter would indicate the tray.

“Superb,” the guest would say, beginning to eat “Marvelous food, really marvelous.”

Lefevre had an additional comment about the food. “You know,” he said, “most of our guests lose weight during their stay here. They think they are eating heartily, and think it is excellent, but in fact they don’t eat a lot. So they lose—two pounds, three pounds, five pounds. They notice it on the way home, and are invariably pleased. They think they’ve been so active and vigorous that the weight was lost despite their heavy eating. It is a peculiarity of our culture,” he said, “that nobody is unhappy about losing weight.”

The guests spent nearly all of their time in their rooms. On sunny days, they would be taken out to the balcony to lie in the sun and get tanned; otherwise, they were hardly bothered. Every second day a group of “fixers” would go around to each room, talking to the guests. The fixers were people who reinforced fantasies by altering the environment.

There were three fixers, a psychologist, a sociologist and Lefevre himself. Clark went with them on their rounds one day.

They talked to one guest who said, “I made love to my wife on the beach last night and I got sand in my trousers.” He chuckled. “Tore them, too.”

Lefevre poured sand into the man’s trouser cuffs, and tore them slightly.

“What else?”

“I had a wonderful meal last night, but I was a little tipsy. I got some shrimp sauce on my tie.”

The sociologist went to the closet, found a tie, and poured catsup over it.

In the next room, a woman reported that she had gone swimming in the ocean and had forgetfully taken her watch; it was now stopped.

“So it is,” Lefevre said, slipping it off her wrist and dropping it into a glass of salt water.

“You see,” Lefevre said, “the fixers do this kind of minor, necessary environmental change, to correspond with guests’ fantasies. In fact, the changes are easy. They tend to fall into a small range of problems—like stains on clothing, watches in salt water, and unstrung tennis rackets.”

Clark nodded, remembering his own racket.

“We also provide minor scrapes and injuries to our guests. Usually local anesthetic, and then coarse sandpaper does the trick. Once in a great while, we get some guest who fantasizes an unimportant but major injury. One man thought he was badly cut by a knife while fishing. Another thought he was blinded in one eye by powder while he was hunting.”

“What do you do then?”

“That,” Lefevre said, “is a job for our psychologist.”

The psychologist, a thin man in a sportshirt and rumpled slacks, smiled shyly. “I investigate the underlying reasons for the self-destructive fantasy. And I correct it. It can be a slow process, sometimes it takes days. That is why we counter-suggest to the guests when they first arrive—we tell them all how fabulously safe our facilities are, and how no one has ever been seriously hurt at the resort. This makes it more difficult, you see, for them to build a well-integrated fantasy of bodily harm.”

“Meanwhile,” Lefevre said, “our sociologist handles other matters. When we first started this resort, we planned it as an isolated hideaway, with no communications to the outside. No telephone, no telegraph—guests couldn’t communicate out, and couldn’t receive messages coming in. We tried to make it work, but it wouldn’t. We could convince businessmen that their business would wait, that they needn’t bother with long-distance calls daily to New York or London. That was simple. But what do you do when a man’s wife is seriously ill, or his business associate has died? What do you do with some major crisis?”

Clark turned to the sociologist.

“That’s where I come in,” the sociologist said. “I help in the process of making a guest’s responses to stress appropriate. I help the guest to draft communications, letters and cables. I help to plan the guest’s early return home, and help him to deal with his guilt over a tragedy which occurred while he was off having a good time. A common situation is one where a man is off with his secretary and meantime his wife develops cancer, or has a severe auto accident, or something. The guy oozes guilt, and it is manifest in various ways, depending on his personality structure, his place in society, his education, his background, his occupation, and so forth. I help him deal with these problems within the context of his life.” He smiled. “It’s a lot more difficult than pouring whiskey over a cocktail dress, or catsup over a tie.”

Clark said, “You seem to have thought of everything.”

“Yes,” Lefevre said.

The resort had a kind of fascination for Clark, it was such a grand illusion, so carefully maintained and prepared. For several days he watched the process with absorption, and did not think about the future. But eventually, he began to wonder.

His own duties were not taxing. When the storm blew over and good weather returned, the cases of pneumonia cleared quickly, and the number of sunburns was quite small. One fifty-year-old man began to develop chest pain, and was—with the help of the psychologist and the sociologist—sent home to a hospital. Otherwise, life was uneventful.

He had one bad moment with Sharon Wilder. He went to her room to check a possible eye infection; she had complained about itching eyes to one of the waiters who brought her dinner.

When he entered her room, he found her wearing a nightgown, sitting up in a chair. It was midday; she looked tanned and healthy.

“Hello,” she said, when he entered the room. She gave no sign of recognition.

“Hello,” he said. “I am the hotel doctor.”

“Oh,” she said. “Good.”

He went over and examined her eyes. One was red and inflamed. “Has your eye been bothering you?”

“Yes,” she said. “It happened while I was sailing yesterday. I think the wind blew something in.”

He turned back the lid, and found an eyelash, which he wiped away with a bit of cotton.

“Thank you,” she said, when he was through. “You’re very gentle. I like doctors.”

He nodded.

“I came here with a doctor,” she said. “You know Dr. Clark?”

“Yes, I think so…”

“I came here with him,” she said. “But I wish I hadn’t.”

He told himself that he ought to leave now, that he Wouldn’t hear more. But he stayed. “Why is that?”

“They made me do it,” she said.

“Who did?”

“George, and the others.”

“What others?”

“Harvey Blood, all the others.”

“How do you happen to know them?”

“I’ve been working for them,” she said, “for a long time. They control everything.”

“And they made you bring Dr. Clark?”

“Yes. They have some kind of plan for him.”

“A plan?”

“Yes.”

“For here? At the resort?”

“Yes. But also later…”

“Do you know what the plan is?”

“No.” She shook her head. “But I worry.”

“What about?”

“Roger,” she said. “I worry about him.”

“Why do you worry?”

“Because he’s so stupid,” she said, and lapsed into silence.

He tried to tell himself that it meant nothing, that she was simply expressing a fantasy under the influence of a drug. He had heard other fantasies from guests which were impossible and untrue; there was no reason to believe differently about Sharon Wilder.

He tried to tell himself, to convince himself.

It didn’t work.

Several days later, as his month at the resort was ending, he said to Lefevre, “I’ll be going back soon.”

“Yes,” Lefevre said. “You will.”

“To Los Angeles?”

Lefevre laughed. “Of course. That’s your home, isn’t it?”

Clark frowned. “But I know a lot. I know a lot about this island, and about Advance. You don’t expect me to believe that you’re just going to turn me loose—”

“I do expect you to believe it,” Lefevre said. “That is exactly what we intend.”

“You’re not afraid I’ll talk?”

“Talk to whom?” Lefevre said, and laughed. “Nobody would believe you if you told them the truth. They’d laugh you out of town. No, no, we’re not worried.”

Three days later, he was in his room, packing his suitcase and preparing to return to Los Angeles.

16. THE SHORT SAD LIE OF ROGER CLARK

“NOW SERIOUSLY,” SHARON WILDER said, as the seaplane took off, “wasn’t that the most fabulous place?”

“Fabulous,” Clark said.

“I adored every minute of it,” Sharon said, and snuggled up against his shoulder. “I just loved it.”

“So did I.”

She yawned. “But I’m sleepy… all that excitement…”

A few minutes later, she dozed off. Looking around the airplane, Clark saw that most of the other passengers were sleeping as well.

He did not feel sleepy at all. In fact, he was more wide-awake than he had felt in days. He checked his watch; in an hour, they would reach Nassau, and then an hour after that, Miami.

Miami, he decided, was the place. Not Los Angeles. They would almost certainly be waiting for him in Los Angeles, but they might not be expecting anything in Miami.

He tried to formulate a plan. He wouldn’t have much time; it would have to be done in the airport. He could call the police—or he could go to the airport police—or perhaps the medical station at the airport, he might be believed by doctors—or he could call his lawyer in Los Angeles from the airport, and get his advice—or he could call the police, an anonymous tip to investigate Eden Island, that it was all a fraud…

He considered each idea in turn, and tried to make up his mind.

But two hours later, when he landed in Miami, he still had not decided.

“Harry, will you come on already, we’ll miss the plane…. Harry, do you want us to miss the plane, is that what you want, Harry?”

The woman pounded on the glass telephone booth. Inside, Harry turned his back to her. Clark, waiting in line, sighed. This had been going on for five minutes.

“Harry…”

Clark looked around. The booth was located along a corridor leading to the departure gates. People were walking up and down, going to planes, leaving them, family, friends, everyone…

He watched the crowd carefully, wondering why he was bothering. Did he expect to find someone he knew?

“Harry, Sadie is waiting for us at the airport, if we miss the plane she’ll worry. Harry, do you want her to worry, your own sister, your own flesh and blood, Harry?”

Clark looked at the coins in his hand; they were slippery now with sweat. He was sweating a lot, it seemed. He looked at the coins and tried to decide who he was going to call. He hadn’t made up his mind, but somehow he felt that once he was inside the booth, with the glass door closed and the receiver in his hand, he would know who to call. He would know instinctively.

“Harry, I should have to worry my hair out over a simple airplane, why do you do this to me—”

At that moment, Harry finished his call and stepped out of the booth. He turned to the woman.

“Shut up dear,” he said, and walked off.

Clark got into the booth, heart beating fast, and dropped his dime in. He heard it cling through.

He waited.

He looked down at the card attached to the bottom of the phone. It was a rate card, with numbers to call for long distance, person-to-person, emergencies, ambulance, police…

Police.

Dial 0.

He dialed zero. The operator answered “Can I help you?”

“Get me the police,” he said. It came out as a whisper; he hadn’t intended that.

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear—”

“I said, get me the police.”

“Is this an emergency?”

“Of course it’s an emergency,” he said, turning in the narrow booth to look over his shoulder.

“Do you wish to be connected with Miami police, or Miami Beach police, or the airport police please?”

“I don’t care,” Clark said. “Just so you hurry—”

There was a knock on the door to the booth. He turned. Two men in trenchcoats were standing there.

“Hold on, operator.”

He opened the door.

“I’m on the phone,” he said.

One of the men smiled and said, “We’re police officers.”

That’s very quick service, Clark thought, and then he realized that it was too quick, much too quick. “I want to see your identification.”

They reached into their pockets and flipped badges in little leather billfolds. He couldn’t really see, but it looked—

“Are you Roger Clark?”

“Yes…”

“Doctor Roger Clark of Los Angeles, California?”

“Yes…”

The other was checking a picture and a sheet of paper. “Caucasian male, age twenty-eight, five feet ten inches, medium build—”

“I’m Roger Clark, but I don’t understand—”

“Please come with us,” the other police officer said. He smiled. “You’re just the man we’ve been looking for.”

“I am?” He came out of the booth reluctantly. “But why?”

“You’re pretty famous, Dr. Clark. You know that, of course. Pretty darned famous.”

They steered him down the corridor, one on each side.

“We’ve all been looking for you, you’re just the man we wanted to see.”

“I am?”

He must have looked alarmed, because the other man smiled reassuringly and said, “Just routine. We need your help, that’s all.”

“Help?”

“That’s right. Just routine.”

“Routine what?”

“We’ll explain all that,” the man said.

As they walked, Clark began to wonder. Somehow, they didn’t seem like cops. They were too pleasant or something; it wasn’t right. They were moving him quite rapidly down the corridor; up ahead he saw the departure gates, a flight lounge, bar…

He stopped.

“Wait!”

They paused, and turned to look at him. There was something pitying in their expressions, and something hesitant and careful. They smiled.

“Come along, Doctor.”

“Everything will be fine, Doctor.”

They took his elbows, leading him forward.

“You’re not cops,” Clark said.

“Sure we are,” one said.

“What else would we be, Doctor?”

“I don’t know,” Clark said, “but I know you’re not cops. You’re impostors.”

The two men exchanged glances.

One said, “That’s all right, Doctor.”

“Everything will be fine.”

Clark began to struggle in their grip, but they held him tightly.

“Now, don’t make a scene, Roger. Just come along quietly.”

“Don’t be foolish, Roger. Just take it easy now.”

He struggled more fiercely; people stopped to look, to watch as he went, wriggling and twisting between the two men.

“There’s no point in that, Roger,” one man said soothingly.

“Just stay calm, Roger. Everything will be fine.”

Abruptly, he stopped struggling. He relaxed and walked quietly between them. He had a plan.

“Much better, Roger.”

“Much more comfortable, Doctor.”

Ahead, clearly visible, standing by the entrance to the flight lounge, was a cop.

A real cop in a blue uniform, nightstick swinging idly in his left hand.

A cop.

Clark allowed himself to be led forward, and he said nothing until he was nearly abreast of the cop. And then he fought and shouted, “Help! Help! I’m being kidnapped! Help, police!”

He felt foolish, but he was frightened, frightened and cold in the grip of the two men. The cop in blue looked over strangely. “What’s happening here?” he said to the two men.

One replied, “We’re taking him in, Sam.”

The cop in blue nodded. “Okay, lieutenant.” He looked closely at Clark. “Say, is this…?”

“Right, Sam. It’s Roger Clark.”

“No kidding,” Sam said, pushing his blue cap back on his head. “You found him here, huh? In Miami airport! Well, isn’t that something.”

One of the men leaned over. “Not really, Sam. We were tipped.”

“Aaah.” Sam nodded wisely.

“Come along, Roger,” the men said, and steered him into the flight lounge. Clark was stunned, so astonished that he could no longer struggle. It seemed these men really were policemen after all. Unless the cop in blue was also a fake. But no, that didn’t seem possible, it was too elaborate a hoax, and for no purpose…

He looked around the lounge. The men were taking him into the bar, which was dark and noisy; he was led to a corner. In the darkness he could barely see two people, sitting at a far table. As he came closer, he could begin to make out their features—

“Ah, officers,” Harvey Blood said, rising. “You found him. Excellent work.”

And standing beside him, George Washington said again, “Excellent, excellent.”

Clark stared at them, and then over at the two cops. If they were cops.

“How is he?” Harvey Blood asked.

“A little excitable, but pretty good.”

“Oh, excitable. We can fix that.” Harvey Blood turned to Washington. “It wouldn’t do to have him excited on the airplane. Jumping around, disturbing the other passengers…”

“No,” Washington said, reaching to the floor, bringing up a black physician’s bag, opening it on the bar table.

“No,” agreed the two men, watching as Washington removed a syringe, filled it, held it to the light.

“Listen,” Clark said, finding his voice at last. “This is all some kind of mistake. I know these two men. They are Harvey Blood and George Washington. They—”

“We know Dr. Blood and Dr. Washington,” one man said calmly. “We know all about everything. You know, we’ve been following you in the bulletins for days. Never thought we’d see you here, though.”

“Bulletins?”

One of the men asked Blood, “How’d you know he was going to be here?”

“Someone in Nassau spotted him,” Blood said.

“Nassau! How’d he get down there?”

“We traced him from Los Angeles,” Blood said. “Found the girl who sold him the ticket. He flew to Nassau five days ago.”

“Pretty tricky,” the man said, looking at Clark and shaking his head. “Pretty clever.”

Washington took Clark’s arm, held it out, rolled up the sleeve. Clark began to struggle just as he felt the coolness of the alcohol swab.

“You can’t do this—”

The needle stung.

“—to me, you can’t do this.”

Another swab of alcohol. His sleeve was rolled down.

“He’ll be fine now,” Harvey Blood said. “Just fine.”