Red lights were glowing there, too, just below the porthole. She had armed the explosives around the habitat.
"Beth, what have you done?"
"Done?"
"You armed the explosives around DH-8."
"Yes, Norman," she said. She stood watching him, very still, very calm.
"Beth, you promised you wouldn't do that."
"I know. I had to."
"How are they wired? Where's the button, Beth?"
"There is no button. They're set on automatic vibration sensors."
"You mean they'll go off automatically?"
"Yes, Norman."
"Beth, this is crazy. Someone is still making these manifestations. Who is doing that, Beth?"
She smiled slowly, a lazy, cat smile, as if he secretly amused her. "Don't you really know?"
He did know. Yes, he thought. He knew, and it chilled him. "You're making these manifestations, Beth."
"No, Norman," she said, still calm. "I'm not doing it. You are."
0640 HOURS
He thought back years ago, to the early days of his training, when he had worked in the state hospital at Borrego. Norman had been sent by his supervisor to make a progress report on a particular patient. The man was in his late twenties, pleasant and well educated. Norman talked to him about all sorts of things: the Oldsmobile Hydramatic transmission, the best surfing beaches, Adlai Stevenson's recent presidential campaign, Whitey Ford's pitching, even Freudian theory. The man was quite charming, although he chain-smoked and seemed to have an underlying tension. Finally Norman got around to asking him why he had been sent to the hospital.
The man didn't remember why. He was sorry, he just couldn't seem to recall. Under repeated questioning from Norman, the man became less charming, more irritable. Finally he turned threatening and angry, pounding the table, demanding that Norman talk about something else.
Only then did it dawn on Norman who this man was: Alan Whittier, who as a teenager had murdered his mother and sister in their trailer in Palm Desert, and then had gone on to kill six people at a gas station and three others in a supermarket parking lot, until he finally turned himself in to the police, sobbing, hysterical with guilt and remorse. Whittier had been in the state hospital for ten years, and he had brutally attacked several attendants during that time.
This was the man who was now enraged, standing up in front of Norman, and kicking the table, flinging his chair back against the wall. Norman was still a student; he didn't know how to handle it. He turned to flee the room, but the door behind him was locked. They had locked him in, which is what they always did during interviews with violent patients. Behind him, Whittier lifted the table and threw it against the wall; he was coming for Norman. Norman had a moment of horrible panic until he heard the locks rattling, and then three huge attendants dashed in, grabbed Whittier, and dragged him away, still screaming and swearing.
Norman went directly to his supervisor, demanded to know why he had been set up. The supervisor said to him, Set up? Yes, Norman had said, set up. The supervisor said, But weren't you told the man's name beforehand? Didn't the name mean anything to you? Norman replied that he hadn't really paid attention.
You better pay attention, Norman, the supervisor had said. You can't ever let down your guard in a place like this. It's too dangerous.
Now, looking across the habitat at Beth, he thought: Pay attention, Norman. You can't let down your guard. Because you're dealing with a crazy person and you haven't realized it.
"I see you don't believe me," Beth said, still very calm. "Are you able to talk?"
"Sure," Norman said.
"Be logical, all of that?"
"Sure," he said, thinking: I'm not the crazy one here.
"All right," Beth said. "Remember when you told me about Harry - how all the evidence pointed to Harry?"
"Yes. Of course."
"You asked me if I could think of another explanation, and I said no. But there is another explanation, Norman. Some points you conveniently overlooked the first time. Like the jellyfish. Why the jellyfish? It was your little brother who was stung by the jellyfish, Norman, and you who felt guilty afterward. And when does Jerry speak? When you're there, Norman. And when does the squid stop its attack? When you were knocked unconscious, Norman. Not Harry, you."
Her voice was so calm, so reasonable. He struggled to consider what she was saying. Was it possible she was right? "Step back. Take the long view," Beth said. "You're a psychologist, down here with a bunch of scientists dealing with hardware. There's nothing for you to do down here - you said so yourself. And wasn't there a time in your life when you felt similarly professionally bypassed? Wasn't that an uncomfortable time for you? Didn't you once tell me that you hated that time in your life?"
"Yes, but - "
"When all the strange things start to happen, the problem isn't hardware any more. Now it's a psychological problem. It's right up your alley, Norman, your particular area of expertise. Suddenly you become the center of attention, don't you?"
No, he thought. This can't be right.
"When Jerry starts to communicate with us, who notices that he has emotions? Who insists we deal with Jerry's emotions? None of us are interested in emotions, Norman. Barnes only wants to know about armaments, Ted only wants to talk science, Harry only wants to play logical games. You're the one who's interested in emotions. And who manipulates Jerry - or fails to manipulate him? You, Norman. It's all you."
"It can't be," Norman said. His mind was reeling. He struggled to find a contradiction, and found it. "It can't be me - because I haven't been inside the sphere."