"I embarrassed him?"

"You dealt with the issues. He didn't. More importantly, you kept him from making his presentation. He was going to minimize the Chtorran problem in favor of a global reconstruction plan-it would have been a very attractive plan too, because the United States would have ended up paying for most of it. Essentially, we would be shipping out every unclaimed machine in the country, every vehicle, computer, airplane, TV set and toaster. And if we couldn't do it fast enough, they'd send in volunteer troops to help us. To be honest, McCarthy, I couldn't have staged a better diversion if I'd wanted to. And believe me, I wanted to. I didn't because I thought it would be too obvious. And that's the problem here. You called attention to yourself as a member of the Special Forces Warrant Agency, and even though you didn't know what you were doing, you have given the United Nations Inspection Authority additional reason to suspect the Special Forces as an undercover operation. Our enemies are already claiming that this morning's events were carefully planned to discredit their position. They're right and wrong at the same time. If we had thought we could have gotten away with something like what you did, we would have done it-but we didn't think we could have. And you proved that our estimation of the situation was correct. In your ignorance, you did the right thing-that's why it was wrong, because it was so right. Do you understand?"

"Uh, sort of, but not really."

Wallachstein was grim. "I'm not sure what I should do with you, McCarthy. I can't give you a medal and I don't have time to hang you. Do you have any suggestions?"

I thought about it for a moment. They waited patiently. When I finally spoke, it was with carefully chosen words. "I'm interested in Chtorrans, sir. I'm not interested in playing spy games. Up in the mountains, we knew who the enemy was. He was big and red and always screamed before he leaped, and there wasn't anybody to say how we should or shouldn't fight back. We just did what we had to."

Wallachstein said, "In that, I envy you. There have been occasions when I wished for the application of a flamethrower to solve some of my problems down here." He opened a notebook in front of him and scribbled something on a page. He ripped the page out and shoved it toward me. "Here. I want you to go someplace this afternoon."

I took the paper and looked at it. "A doctor?"

"A psychiatrist."

"I don't understand."

"Have you ever heard of survivor's syndrome?" I shook my head.

He said quietly, "When you wipe out three-quarters of the human race, all you have left are orphans. There isn't a human being on this planet who hasn't been affected in some deep way. The dying has touched us all. I'm sure you've seen some of the reactions, the herds of walking wounded, the manics, the zombies, the suicides, the sexual obsessives, the ones who are so desperate for stability that they've become drones, and so on. I don't know if you've seen much of the opposite side of that coin though. Like any ordeal, the plagues destroyed the weak and tempered the strong. There are a lot of people who are just coming alive now because they have something worthwhile to do. Before you can become a real member of this Special Forces, we have to know which kind of survivor you are."

I blurted, "I don't know. I never thought about it. I mean, I just picked myself up and kept on going. It seemed the only logical thing to do-"

Wallachstein held up a hand. "Don't tell me. Tell the doctor. We'll recess this hearing until . . ." He glanced at his watch, scowled. ". . . until further notice. Take a scooter from the car pool, McCarthy. Major Tirelli will show you where to go. Don't talk to anyone else. Go directly back to base and plug into Dr. Davidson. Get something to eat at the base commissary. Better get a change of clothes too, and then come back here immediately."

"Uh, sir?"

He looked up. "Eh?"

"I thought I was ... under arrest. I mean, what's to keep me from getting on the scooter and heading west?"

"Nothing," he said. "In fact, it'd probably solve a lot of problems if you did. It's not something many people know, but not a lot of traffic is getting over the Rockies these days. Something keeps stopping the cars and peeling them open like sardine cans. Besides"-he looked me straight in the eye and his expression was taut "you're not the kind who bolts. You'll come back. By then we'll have Dr. Davidson's report and we'll know what to do with you. Major Tirelli, will you escort McCarthy to the car pool? We have some talking to do here."

THE ROOM was empty.

A rug. A chair. A table with a pitcher of water and a glass on it. Nothing else. No other doors except the one behind me. "Please sit down," said a disembodied female voice. I looked, but I couldn't see a speaker system. I sat down. The chair creaked, but it was comfortable. It was a swivel-rocker, upholstered in dark brown leather. It felt reassuring.

"Your name, please?"

"McCarthy, James Edward."

"Ah, yes. We've been expecting you. Dr. Davidson will be with you shortly. While you wait, I'll play a short film for you."

"Um-" But the room was already darkening. The wall in front of me began to glow and images began to solidify in the air. I shut up, decided to relax and enjoy it.

The film was ... a montage. What they call a tone poem. Music and images wrapping around each other, some sexual, some violent, some funny, some happy-two naked children splashing in a rocky stream dissolved into a tiny jeweled spider weaving a diamond tapestry against a blue and velvet background-that shimmered into an eagle soaring high above a desolate landscape as if looking for a haven-the eagle became a silver sailship hanging effortlessly in space below an emerald-shiny Earth, and then a pair of male dancers, clad only in briefs, whirled around each other, their bodies glistening with sweat-resolving now into a cheetah racing hard across the veldt and bringing down a zebra, terrified, in a cloud of stinging dust...

It went on like that for ten or fifteen minutes, a tumble of pictures, one after the other, faster than I could assimilate. A couple of times I felt frightened; I didn't know why. Once I felt angry. I didn't like the film. I wondered why they were showing it to me. This was boring. And then, just when I started to get interested again, it ended.

When the lights came back up, a quiet voice said, "Good afternoon." The voice was male. Quiet. Very mature. Grandfatherly.

I cleared my throat again, and I found my voice. "Where are you?" I asked.

"Atlanta."

"Who are you?"

"You may call me Dr. Davidson, if you wish. That's not my real name, but that's the name I use for these sessions."

"Why is that?"

He ignored the question. "If you'd like to smoke, please feel free," said Dr. Davidson. "I won't mind."

"I don't smoke," I said.

"I meant dope."

I shrugged. "I don't do much of that either."

"Why not?" he asked. "Do you have strong feelings about it?"

"No. I just don't like it much." Something was making me uncomfortable. I said, "Can you see me?"

"Yes, I can."

"Is there any way I can see you?"

"If you mean, is there a screen for two-way video, I'm sorry, there isn't. If you mean you'd like to see me face to face, you'll have to come to Atlanta. I'm something of an invalid. That's one of the reasons why we don't have two-way hookups. Sometimes my ... ah, condition can be disconcerting."

"Oh." I felt embarrassed. I didn't know what to say.

Dr. Davidson said, "Please tell me about yourself."

"What do you want to know?"

"Why do you think you're here?"

"I was told to come here."