I didn't notice either way. Dalt began to eat with gusto.

("That's the nice part—he doesn't make a show of his unpretentiousness. It seemed very natural for him to personally bring yon in from the waiting room, didn't it? But think: Most departmental heads would prefer to have the receptionist open the door and let you come to them. This man made an effort to make you feel at home.")

Maybe he just hasn't been a head long enough and doesn't know how to act like one.

("I have a feeling, Steve, that Dr. Webst is at the top of his field and knows it and can act any way he damn well pleases.")

Webst returned then, appearing preoccupied. He went directly to his desk, seated himself, and stared at Dalt for a long moment with a puzzled expression playing over his face.

"What's the matter?" Dalt asked, finally.

"Hmmm?" He shook himself. "Oh, nothing. A technical problem ... I think." He paused. "Tell you what: Everybody over in microbiology is rather tied up today—why don't you come with me over to psychiatry and I'll show you around. I know you're anxious to get to see micro—"

("Not really,") Pard interjected.

"—but at least this way you can start to get a feel for IMC."

Dalt shrugged. "Fine with me. Lead the way." Webst seemed very pleased with Dalt's acquiescence and ushered him out a rear door to a small carport ("He's lying to us, Steve.")

I had that feeling, too. You think we're in trouble?

("I doubt it. He's such a terrible liar, it's unlikely that he's had much practice at it. He just wants to get us over to the psych department, so let's play along and see what he has in mind. This just may lead to a chance to get out of microbes and into another field. Can you dredge up any interest in mental illness?")

Not a particularly overwhelming amount.

("Well, start asking questions anyway. Show a little interest!")

Yessir!

"—nice weather, so I think we'll take the scenic tour," Webst was saying. "When it rains, which isn't that often, we have a tunnel system you can use. A dome was planned initially but the weather proved to be so uniform that no one could justify the expense."

The small ground car glided out over the path and the combination of warm sunlight, a cool breeze through the open cab, and a full belly threatened to put Dalt to sleep. At a leisurely pace they passed formations of low buildings, clean and graceful, with intricate gardens scattered among them.

("Questions, Steve,") Pard prompted.

Right. "Tell me, Doctor—if I may be so bold—what sort of astronomical sum did IMC have to pay for such a huge tract of land so close to the center of town?"

Webst smiled. "You forget that IMC was here before you and I were born—"

("Speak for yourself, sir.")

"—and the town was only a village at the time Central was started. Spoonerville, in fact, grew up around IMC."

"Well, it's beautiful, I must say."

"Thank you. We're proud of it."

Dalt drank in a passing garden, then asked, "What's going on in psychiatry these days? I thought mental illness was virtually a thing of the past You have the enzymes and—"

"The enzymes only control schizophrenia—much the same as insulin controlled diabetics before beta-cell grafts. There's no cure as yet and I don't foresee one for quite some time." His voice lapsed unconsciously into a lecture tone. "Everyone thought a cure was imminent when Schimmelpenninck isolated the enzyme-substrate chains in the limbic system of the brain. But that was only the beginning. Different types and degrees of schizophrenia occur with breaks at different loci along the chains but environmental history appears to be equally important."

Webst paused as the car rounded a corner and had to wait for an automatic gate to slide open. Then they were in an octagonal courtyard with people scattered here and there, in groups or alone, talking or soaking up the sun.

"These are our ambulatory patients," he replied to Dalt's questioning glance. "We give them as much freedom as possible, but we also try to keep them from wandering off. They're all harmless and they're all here voluntarily." He cleared his throat. "But where was I? ... Oh, yes. So it all boils down to a delicate balance between chemistry, intellect, and environment. If the individual has learned how to handle stress, he can often minimize the psychotic effects of a major break in the enzyme chains. If he hasn't, however, even a minor break at the terminus of a chain can throw his mind off the deep end."

He gave a short laugh. "But we still really don't know what we're talking about when we say mind. We can improve its function and grasp of reality with our drugs and teaching techniques, but it remains a construct that defies quantitative analysis."

He guided the vehicle into a slot next to a large blue building and stepped out. "And then, of course, there are the chemonegative psychotics—all their enzyme chains seem to be intact but they are completely divorced from reality. Victims of the so-called 'horrors.' They're the ones we're working on here in Big Blue, where we keep our intractable patients," Webst said as he passed his hand over a plate set in the doorframe. Silently, the first of the double doors slid open and waited for them to enter, and it was not until the first was completely secure in its closed position that the second began to move.

"Are they dangerous in here?" Dalt asked uneasily.

"Only to themselves. These patients are totally cut off from reality and anything could happen to them if they got loose."

"But what's wrong with them? I saw a man go into one of these fits on the orbit station."

Webst twisted his mouth to the side. "Unfortunately, these aren't 'fits' that come and go. The victim gets hit with whatever it is that hits him, screams hysterically, and spends the rest of his life—at least we assume so, although the first recorded case was only ten years ago—cut off from the rest of the world. Cases are popping up on every planet in the Federation. It's even rumored that the Tarks are having problems with it. We need a breakthrough."

Webst paused, then said, "Let's look in here." He opened a door marked 12 and allowed Dalt to precede him into the room. It was a nicely appointed affair with a bed, two chairs, and indirect lighting. And it was empty, or at least Dalt thought it was until Webst directed his attention to a corner behind one of the chairs. A young girl of no more than eighteen years crouched there in a shivering state of abject terror.

"First name, Sally," Webst intoned. "We dubbed her that. Last name: Ragna—that's the planet on which she was found. A typical 'horrors' case: We've had her for one and a half standard years and we haven't been able to put even a chink into that wall of terror."

Webst went to a plate in the wall by the door and waved his hand across it. "This is Dr. Webst. I'm in room twelve with Mr. Dalt."

"Thank you, Doctor," said a male voice. "Would you mind stepping down the hall a minute?"

"Not at all," he replied, and turned to Dalt. "Why don't you stay here and try to talk to Sally while I see what they want. She's perfectly harmless, wouldn't— couldn't—hurt anyone or anything, and that's the crux of her problem. We've normalized her enzymes and have tried every psychotropic agent known to break her shell, with no results. We've even gone so far as to reinstitute the ancient methods of electroconvulsive therapy and insulin shock." He sighed. "Nothing. So try to talk to her and see what we're up against."

With Webst gone, Dalt turned his attention to the girl.

("Pitiful, isn't it?") Pard said.

Dalt did not reply. He was staring at a girl who must have been attractive once; her face now wore a ravaged, hunted expression that had caused seemingly permanent furrows in her skin; her eyes, when not squeezed shut, were opened wide and darting in all directions. Her arms were clasped around her knees, which were drawn up to her chest, and her hands gripped each other with white-knuckled intensity.