Chapter 15

   Bill Shelly rose from his desk and clasped Adam’s hand. “Congratulations,” he said. “You’ve probably just made the best decision of your life.”
   “I’m not saying I’ll definitely take the position,” cautioned Adam. “But I’ve been giving Puerto Rico a lot of thought, and I’d like to take you up on the offer to go down there and see the facility firsthand. Jennifer’s not happy about the idea, but if I really want to go, she’ll support me in the decision.”
   “That reminds me; Clarence left a message that he’d gotten a rather strange call from your wife. She thought you were away on Arolen business.”
   “In-law problems,” said Adam with a wave of his hand. “She and my father have never gotten along.”
   Even Adam wasn’t sure what he meant, but fortunately Shelly nodded understandingly and said, “Getting back to the matter at hand, I’m certain you will be thrilled with the Arolen research center. When would you like to go?”
   “Immediately,” said Adam brightly. “My bag is packed and in the car.”
   Mr. Shelly chuckled. “Your attitude has always been refreshing. Let me see if the Arolen plane is available.”
   While Shelly waited for his secretary to check, he asked Adam what had changed his mind about the management training program. “I was afraid I hadn’t been convincing enough,” he said.
   “Quite the contrary,” said Adam, “If it hadn’t been for you, I never would have considered it.” As he spoke, Adam eyed Bill Shelly’s skull, resisting the urge to see if he, too, had been subjected to surgery. At this point Adam had no idea if anybody at Arolen could be trusted.

   There were two Arolen executives on the luxurious Gulf Stream jet. One had gotten on the plane with Adam, and the other came aboard in Atlanta. Though both offered friendly greetings, they spent the trip working, leaving Adam to distract himself with some old magazines.
   When they landed in San Juan, the two executives headed for the Arolen minibus, which was waiting at the curb. Adam was wondering if he should join them when he was greeted by two men in blue blazers and white duck pants. Both had close-cropped hair: one blond, the other dark. Their MTIC name tags said “Rodman” and “Dunly.”
   “Good afternoon, Mr. Schonberg,” said Rodman. “Welcome to Puerto Rico.”
   As Dunly relieved Adam of his shoulder bag, Adam felt gooseflesh form on his back and arms in spite of the tropical heat. Rodman’s voice had the same inflectionless quality of the stewards on the Fjord, and as they walked to an awaiting limousine, Adam noticed that both men moved with the same mechanical step.
   The limousine was not new, but it was a limousine nonetheless, and Adam felt self-conscious when they put him in the back seat by himself.
   Leaning forward, he looked out at the rush-hour traffic. They drove out of the city, apparently paralleling the northern coast of the island, although Adam could not see the ocean. They passed shopping centers, gas stations, and automobile body shops. Everything appeared to be both beginning to decay and in the process of construction at the same time. It was a strange combination. Rusting rods stuck out of the concrete in various locations as if additional rooms or floors had been originally planned but the workers had failed to return. And there was litter everywhere. Adam wasn’t impressed.
   Gradually, the shabby commercial buildings gave way to equally shabby housing, although on occasion there was a well-appointed and cared-for home amid the general squalor. There was no separation between rich and poor, and goats and chickens ran free everywhere.
   Eventually, the road narrowed from four lanes to two, and Adam caught glimpses of the ocean beyond the green hills. The air became fresh and clean.
   Finally, after about an hour and a half, they turned off the main road onto a well-paved lane that twisted and turned through the lush vegetation. At one point there was a gap in the foliage, and Adam had a spectacular view of the sea. The sky was shot with red, and Adam knew the sun was about to set.
   The road plunged down a hill and tunneled beneath a dark canopy of exotic trees. About a quarter mile farther, the limousine slowed and then stopped. They had arrived at a gatehouse. On either side and extending off into the forest was an impressive chain link fence, topped with spirals of barbed wire. Resisters on the wire suggested the fence was electrified.
   An armed guard came out of the house and approached the car. After taking a sheet of paper from the driver, he glanced at Adam and opened the gate. As the limousine drove onto the MTIC grounds, Adam twisted in his seat and watched the gate close. He wondered if the security was there to keep people out or to keep people in. He began to question what he was getting himself into. As when he was on the Fjord, he had no real plan and didn’t delude himself that he had any talent as a detective. His only consolation was that in Puerto Rico he wasn’t hiding behind a assumed name.
   The car suddenly swept around a bend, and he was confronted by some of the most magnificent architecture he had ever seen, set against a background of rolling lawns and clear turquoise sea.
   The main building was a hexagonally shaped glass structure of the same mirrored bronzed glass as Arolen headquarters. To the left and closer to the beach was another building, only two stories high, which appeared to be a club. Tennis courts and a generous swimming pool were off to one side. Beyond it was a white sand beach with a volleyball court and a row of Hobie Cats and surf sailers. Several of the craft were in use, and their colorful sails stood out sharply against the water. On the other side of the clearing were beachfront condominiums. All in all, the compound appeared like a world-class resort. Adam was impressed.
   The limousine pulled up beneath a large awning at the front of the main building.
   “Good evening, Mr. Schonberg,” said the doorman. “Welcome to MTIC. This way, please.”
   Adam got out of the car and followed the man to a registration desk. It was like signing into a hotel. The chief difference was that there was no cashier.
   After Adam signed in, another blue jacketed clerk, whose name tag said “Craig,” picked up his bag and led him to the elevator. They got out at the sixth floor and walked down a long corridor. At the very end was another elevator.
   “Will you be with us long?” asked Craig in the now familiar inflectionless speech.
   “Just a few days,” said Adam evasively as Craig pulled out his key and opened one of the doors.
   Adam didn’t have a room; he had a suite. Craig went around like a bellhop, checking all the lighting, making sure the TV worked, glancing at the full bar, and opening the drapes. Adam tried to give him a tip, but he politely refused.
   Adam was amazed by the accommodations. He had a magnificent view of the ocean, which had darkened with the approaching night. On the distant islands pinpoint lights sparkled. Adam watched as a single Hobie Cat beat its way toward the shore. Hearing sounds of Caribbean music, he stepped out onto the terrace. A band seemed to be playing in the building Adam thought was a club. The weather was perfect, and Adam wished Jennifer was with him. Even the honeymoon suite they’d had in the Poconos, with the heart-shaped bath, hadn’t been so luxurious.
   Adam decided to try to call her. To his delight, she answered the phone herself, but when she realized who it was, her voice became cool.
   “Jennifer, please promise me one thing,” said Adam. “Don’t have the abortion until I get back.”
   “Get back?” questioned Jennifer. “Where are you?”
   Adam hadn’t meant to tell her where he was, but it was too late to think of a lie. “Puerto Rico,” he said reluctantly.
   “Adam,” said Jennifer, making it obvious that she was furious, “if you want to tell me what to do, you can’t keep running off. The moment the court gives me clearance, I intend to go back to the clinic.”
   “Please, Jennifer,” said Adam.
   “I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” said Jennifer, and she slammed down the receiver.
   Adam sank back on the bed totally depressed. He only had two more days. The phone rang and Adam grabbed the receiver, thinking it might be Jennifer, but it was just the receptionist, telling him that dinner was in half an hour.

   The dining room was in the club overlooking the beach. The row of Hobie Cats stood in the sand just beyond the sliding doors. A full moon had risen, casting a glittering path along the surface of the water.
   The room had dark green walls and matching carpet with pink tablecloths and pink upholstery. The waiters were dressed in white jackets with black pants.
   Adam was seated at a round table for eight. To his immediate right was Dr. Heinrich Nachman, whom Adam had met the day he’d had his interview at Arolen. Next to Dr. Nachman was Dr. Sinclair Glover, a short, portly, red-faced man who said he supervised fetal research.
   Next to Dr. Glover was Dr. Winfield Mitchell, a bearded but bald middle-aged man wearing wire-rimmed glasses. Nachman said Mitchell was in charge of psychotropic drug development. Adam had the distinct impression the man was a psychiatrist, judging by how calmly he listened to the conversation without contributing anything, yet at the same time maintaining a superior-than-thou attitude.
   Beyond Dr. Mitchell was a business executive, a William somebody; Adam missed his last name. He was strictly Ivy League, with sandy blond hair and a boyish complexion. Also at the table were Brian Hopkins, who was in charge of management training, Ms. Linda Aronson, who handled PR, and a jovial older man named Harry Burkett, who was the manager of the Puerto Rican compound.
   Remembering his experience on the Fjord, Adam was at first reluctant to try the food, but everyone else was eating with gusto, and none of them appeared to be drugged. Besides, Adam reasoned, if they had intended to drug him, they could have done so on the plane.
   The atmosphere at the table was relaxed, and everyone made a point of making Adam feel welcome. Burkett explained the reason MTIC chose Puerto Rico for its research center was because the government offered excellent tax incentives as well as a policy of noninterference. It turned out that many drug firms had large installations on the island.
   Adam asked about the heavy security.
   “That’s one of the prices we have to pay for living in this paradise,” said Harry Burkett. “There’s always a chance of terrorist activity from the small group championing Puerto Rican independence.”
   Adam wondered if that were the whole story, but he did not pursue the issue.
   William, the MTIC executive, looked over at Adam and said, “MTIC has a certain philosophy about the medical profession. We feel that economic interests have supplanted service. I’ve heard that you agree with that premise.”
   Adam noticed that the rest of the table was listening. He swallowed a bite of dessert and said, “Yes, that’s true. In the brief time I was at medical school I was dismayed by the lack of humanism. I felt that technology and research were considered more rewarding than patient care.”
   There were several doctors at the table and Adam hoped he wasn’t offending them, but he did notice that Dr. Nachman was smiling. Adam was pleased, since he thought the more enthusiastic they were about him, the better his chance of learning what they were doing.
   “Do you think your attitude would make dealing with doctors difficult?” asked Linda Aronson.
   “Not at all,” said Adam. “I think my understanding of medical reality makes it easier. As a sales rep I’ve been reasonably successful.”
   “From what Bill Shelly has reported,” said Nachman, “I think that Mr. Schonberg is being modest.”
   “Adam, has anyone described our plans should you decide to enlist in our management training program?” asked Dr. Glover.
   “Not specifically,” said Adam.
   Dr. Nachman folded his hands and leaned forward. “Arolen is about to release a whole new generation of drugs or treatment modalities as a result of our fetal research. We are looking for someone to work with Linda to educate the medical profession in these new concepts. We feel that you have the perfect background and attitudes for the job.”
   “Precisely,” said Linda. “But we don’t mean to overwhelm you. At first, all you would be doing would be familiarizing yourself with Arolen’s research.”
   Adam wished he had more than two days. The job they had in mind would undoubtedly put him in a position to learn what he needed.
   “That’s not quite true,” said Brian Hopkins. “Mr. Schonberg must first take our management training course.”
   “Brian, we all know that Mr. Schonberg has to take your course first.”
   “Please,” said Dr. Nachman. “Let’s not display our departmental jealousies yet. There will be plenty of time for that.”
   Everyone laughed except Hopkins.
   Adam finished his dessert and put down his spoon. Looking at Dr. Nachman, he said, “That was a wonderful dinner, but I’m eager to see the research facility.”
   “And we are eager to show it to you. Tomorrow we plan to…”
   “Why not tonight?” interrupted Adam enthusiastically.
   Dr. Nachman looked at Glover and Mitchell, who smiled and shrugged. “I suppose we could show you some of the facilities tonight,” said Dr. Nachman. “Are you sure you are not too tired?”
   “Not in the slightest,” said Adam.
   Dr. Nachman stood up, followed by Dr. Glover and Dr. Mitchell. The others excused themselves, preferring to remain at the table for more coffee and after-dinner drinks.
   Dr. Nachman led Adam back to the main building, where guests signed in. Then the four went through another set of double doors to the research center. This part of the building was floored in white tile, the walls painted in bright primary colors.
   “These are the administration offices,” explained Dr. Nachman. A moment later Adam found himself crossing a glass-walled bridge. He could see palm trees waving on either side and realized that there were two concentric buildings, one nestled inside of the other, much like the Pentagon in Washington.
   Turning down another hallway, Adam smelled the unmistakable odor of caged animals. Dr. Glover opened the first door and for the next half hour led Adam from room to room, explaining the complicated machinery and examining an endless number of rats and monkeys. This was where Arolen was doing its basic fetology research.
   To Adam’s surprise, white-gowned technicians were working in some of the labs, despite the late hour. Dr. Glover explained that ever since they’d begun to get positive results with fetal implants, they’d been working around the clock.
   “Where do you get your material?” asked Adam, pausing by a cage of pink mice.
   “Most of the research is done with animal systems,” explained Dr. Glover, “and we breed our animals right here at the center.”
   “But surely you’re doing some human implants. Where do you get your tissue?” persisted Adam.
   “Very good question,” said Dr. Glover. “We did run into a bit of a problem after restrictive laws were passed, but we’ve managed one way or another. Most of our material comes from the Julian Clinic.”

  Adam wanted to pound the glass cases in frustration. Why couldn’t he get anyone to listen to him? Obviously, doctors like Vandermer were increasing the supply of fetal tissue by merely increasing the number of therapeutic abortions.
   “Tomorrow,” continued Dr. Glover, pleased that Adam was demonstrating such interest, “we will take you into our hospital wing. We’ve had some amazing results, particularly in treating diabetics with fetal pancreatic extracts.”
   “I know how interesting this is, but I think Dr. Mitchell would like to describe some of his work,” said Nachman, smiling at Glover.
   “Indeed,” echoed Dr. Mitchell. “A year from now, when the sales figures are in, we’ll see whose department accounts for the biggest increases.”
   Mitchell devoted the next thirty minutes to a nonstop monologue on psychotropic drugs, particularly a new brand of phenothiazine. “It’s effective for every type of psychotic condition. It’s essentially nontoxic, and it changes the most disturbed individual into an exemplary citizen. Of course, some spontaneity is sacrificed.”
   Adam started to protest, but thought better of it. He was certain that “some spontaneity is sacrificed” was the company’s way of downplaying the drug’s side effects. Certainly the stewards on the Fjord and the orderlies at the Julian had lacked “spontaneity.”
   “What’s the name of this new drug?” Adam asked instead.
   “Scientific, generic, or trade name?” asked Dr. Mitchell, out of breath from his monologue.
   “Trade name.”
   “Conformin,” said Dr. Mitchell.
   “Would it be possible for me to get a sample?”
   “You’ll be able to get all the samples you want when the drug is released,” said Dr. Mitchell. “We’re waiting for FDA clearance.”
   “Just a small amount?” asked Adam. “I’d like to see how it’s packaged. As a sales rep, I’ve learned how important that is.”
   Dr. Mitchell looked at Adam strangely. “Perhaps a small amount,” he murmured.
   Adam didn’t push the issue, saying, “If the drug is close to being released, then you’ve started human testing.”
   “My word, yes,” said Dr. Mitchell, brightening. “We’ve been using the drug on humans for several years, on patients with intractable psychiatric problems brought in from all over the world, in fact. The drug has proved one hundred percent effective.”
   “I’d like to visit the ward,” said Adam.
   “Tomorrow,” said Dr. Mitchell. “Right now, I’d like to show you our main chemistry laboratory. It’s one of the most advanced in the world.”
   There was no doubt in Adam’s mind that Arolen’s research facilities were superb, especially when compared with those at University Hospital, where money was so tight that every No. 2 Mongol pencil had to be included in grant requests. But after seeing so many labs, Adam became bored. He tried to look interested, but the longer the tour went on, the more difficult that became.
   “I think that will be enough for tonight,” said Dr. Nachman finally. “We don’t want to exhaust Mr. Schonberg on his first evening with us.”
   “I’ll second that,” said Dr. Glover. “We only spent half an hour in my department.”
   “That’s because there is more to see here,” said Dr. Mitchell.
   “Gentlemen!” interjected Dr. Nachman, lifting his hands.
   “I’ve enjoyed all of it,” protested Adam, careful to use the past tense so as not to encourage an encore from Dr. Mitchell.
   They walked down the main corridor and crossed the connecting bridge to the outer building. Adam stopped to look behind him. He could see that the bridge continued beyond the corridor to a third interior building, which was blocked off by heavy steel doors.
   “What’s back there?” asked Adam.
   “The clinical wards,” said Dr. Nachman. “You’ll see them tomorrow.”
   That must be where the psychiatric ward is located, thought Adam. He hesitated a minute, then followed Nachman out to the main lobby where they all said good night.
   It was quarter to twelve, and even though Adam had had a busy day, he was not sleepy. A dull headache was beginning behind his eyes, and he could not forget he had only two more days to come up with convincing, concrete evidence. Even if he got a sample of Conformin, it would take time to have it analyzed, and then even more time to try to convince someone like Vandermer to have himself checked to see if he’d received it. Knowing sleep was out of the question, Adam opened his door and walked the length of the corridor to the far elevator. A small Formica sign said “Bathers’ Elevator.”
   Descending to the ground floor, Adam found himself outside in a dense garden of palms, bamboo, and ferns. A curving pathway led through the lush vegetation. Following it, Adam arrived at the beach.
   Taking off his shoes, he stepped onto the cool sand. The full moon made the night almost as bright as day. The sand was smooth and soft as powder. A slight wind rattled the rigging of the Hobie Cats so that they sounded like Japanese wind chimes. Adam could understand why people like Bill Shelly were so enchanted with the place.
   Passing the club, Adam could see into the dining room. A few of the busboys were still laying the tables for the next meal.
   About a hundred yards beyond the club Adam saw the condominiums. They were designed in a pseudo-Spanish style with stuccoed walls and red tile roofs. Lights were burning in some of the residences, and Adam caught glimpses of men and women watching television or reading. The whole scene was so peaceful it was hard to believe it could be the center of some gigantic conspiracy. Yet apparently it was. All drug firms spent millions of dollars attempting to influence the purchasing behavior of doctors, but MTIC wanted more. It wanted to control the doctors. It was no wonder that Arolen was planning to reduce its sales force.
   Adam turned and retreated along the beach to where he’d left his shoes, then made his way back to the main building. Halfway down the hallway, he noticed an exit sign. He tried the door, which opened onto a staircase that wound up toward the roof. After making sure that he could get back in, Adam followed the steps to a door, which was also unlocked. Turning the knob, he found himself gazing out across the top of the main building. The wind was whipping in off the sea. Adam walked over to the four-foot-high wall that marked the edge of the roof. From this vantage point, he had a clear view of the compound. The residential structures ended at a small rocky hill, beyond which was dense forest. As large as the center was, Adam realized that there could well be more buildings hidden from sight.
   Turning, he looked back at the first interior building. In the bright moonlight he could clearly see its outline, and he realized that it was an excellent architectural solution for eliminating windowless offices. Looking down, Adam could see that the space between the buildings had been carefully landscaped with pools, greenery, and palm trees. Both buildings were of equal height, and there was a bridge from one to the other on each floor.
   The core building, which Dr. Nachman had said housed the hospital, was not visible. Adam crossed the bridge to the second building, walked to the inner edge, and looked down. Below him was the hospital. It was only three stories, which was why Adam had been unable to see it before. Directly below him was the connecting bridge that led to the steel doors he’d seen on his way out of the lab.
   The roof bristled with antennae, wires, and satellite discs, which Adam guessed were related to some complicated communications center. There were a number of bubble skylights, the largest being in the exact center of the building. The roof also contained a cooling tower for air-conditioning and a shedlike access door similar to the one Adam had used to get to the roof of the outer building. Light from the central skylight gave the whole complex an alien, futuristic appearance.
   For a few minutes Adam stood with his palms resting on the concrete wall, which was still warm from the day’s sun. The night breeze tousled his hair. With a sigh he wondered what insane impulse had taken him to Puerto Rico. There was no way MTIC would let him leave with its secrets. Frustrated and depressed, he decided he might as well go to bed.

Chapter 16

   The next day, despite Adam’s impatience to see the hospital, he found it wasn’t on his schedule until the afternoon. Most of the morning was spent with Mr. Burkett, who showed Adam not only the condo where he and Jennifer would live, but also all the facilities MTIC offered employees’ spouses and children. He wondered what Burkett’s response would be if he suddenly confronted the man with the knowledge that MTIC was doing its best to see that Adam’s child was never born. It took all of his willpower to smile admiringly as they walked about the compound. Adam was relieved when Burkett finally released him just outside of Linda Aronson’s office.
   Linda greeted Adam with enthusiasm and showed him the computer terminals that distributed Arolen’s information all over the world in a matter of minutes. She also introduced Adam to Mr. Crawford, who organized the Arolen cruises. Adam thought the man a dead ringer for the con artist who’d provided Smyth’s fake passport.
   Crawford showed Adam a graph analyzing where the doctors who took the cruises practiced. Most came from the New York City area, though in recent months there had been a number of doctors from Chicago and Los Angeles as well. Adam noted that a good ten percent of the doctors who’d been on more than one cruise now worked at the Julian Clinic.
   “The cruises have certainly become popular,” said Adam, concealing his dismay.
   “Popular isn’t the word,” said Crawford proudly. “With our present facilities, there is no way that we can keep up with the demand. MTIC has already purchased a second cruise ship on the west coast. We estimate it will be in service within the year. The eventual plan is to have five ships in operation, which will mean we will be able to accommodate the entire medical profession.”
   Mr. Crawford folded his arms across his chest and gave Adam a what-do-you-think-of-that look, a proud parent describing his child’s accomplishments. Adam felt sick. An entire generation of doctors programmed to be unknowing representatives of a pharmaceutical house.
   Dr. Nachman met Adam for lunch and afterward led him down to Dr. Glover’s office, where Glover and Mitchell were arguing over who should show Adam around first.
   “It’s getting so I can’t leave the two of you in the same room,” said Nachman irritably.
   Adam wondered if the center’s isolation was responsible for their bickering. The competition between the two doctors had a neurotic quality. But Adam was pleased that he would at last be seeing the hospital. He didn’t relish another hour of Mitchell’s commentary, though, and hoped to escape it.
   When they reached the double doors to the innermost building, Dr. Nachman opened them by gently pressing his thumb against a small electronic scanner. Beyond the doors, the covered bridge was glassed on both sides, and Adam saw the attractive landscaping he’d appreciated from the roof the night before.
   There was a second set of double doors at the end of the walkway, which Dr. Nachman again opened with his thumb. The minute the men went through, Adam recognized the familiar smell of a hospital. After passing through a three-story foyer illuminated by some of the bubble skylights Adam had seen the night before, they walked past a series of small operating rooms to a nurses’ station that boasted all the latest telemetry equipment. One of the nurses showed them into the locked ward beyond. Dr. Glover introduced Adam to several of the patients.
   The doctor presented each case, impressing Adam with the amount of information he had committed to memory. The few details he couldn’t remember, he was able to call up on one of the computer terminals that were in each room.
   There were several diabetics who had received fetal islet-cell infusions and who were now completely off insulin. Adam was impressed in spite of himself, though he knew the ends could never justify the means.
   On the far side of the ward were the patients with central nervous system implants. Adam met a young woman whose spinal cord had been severed in an automobile accident. After having been a paraplegic for over a year, she now was able to move her legs, thanks to infusions of fetal central nervous system tissue. Her movement was uncoordinated as yet, but the results were astounding when compared with the hopelessness of traditional treatment.
   She greeted Dr. Glover with a hug. “Thank you for giving me hope,” she said.
   “You’re welcome,” said Glover, beaming with pride, while Dr. Mitchell glanced through the chart.
   “Bacteria count is going up in the urine,” Mitchell criticized.
   “We are quite aware of that,” said Dr. Glover.
   “Let’s move on,” said Dr. Nachman.
   They saw another ten or fifteen patients before Dr. Nachman led them back to the foyer, where they took the elevator to the next level. This was the psychiatric floor, and the minute they walked down the hall Dr. Mitchell seemed to come alive. Stroking his beard, running his hand over the smooth crown of his head, he described his patients with the enthusiasm of a born teacher.
   “Our main treatment modality is psychopharmacology,” he stated. “Once therapeutic psychotropic drug levels are achieved, we then use a type of behavior modification.”
   They came to a set of double doors similar to those that blocked access to the hospital proper. Dr. Mitchell pressed his thumb against the scanner.
   “This, of course, is the nurses’ station,” said Dr. Mitchell as he waved to two middle-aged women dressed in white blouses and blue jumpers. They just nodded, but two orderlies in blue blazers jumped to their feet. Adam immediately noticed their stiff smiles and unblinking stares.
   “Some spontaneity is sacrificed,” thought Adam wryly.
   As they continued down the hall, Mitchell described all the technical devices, until Dr. Glover interrupted, saying, “Adam understands all this, for God’s sake. He’s been to medical school.”
   But Dr. Mitchell didn’t even pause in his narrative. Using his thumb, he opened the double doors leading to the ward, and Adam and the others filed in.
   For such a modern hospital facility, Adam was surprised to find the ward laid out identically to the one at University Hospital. But aside from the floor plan, everything else was different. At University Hospital the beds, the nightstands, and even the ceilings were about to collapse from lack of maintenance. In sharp contrast, the ward at MTIC was so spotlessly clean that it looked as if it had just opened. Even the patients were lying well cared for in their beds, their covers uniformly pulled up to their chests. They were awake but immobile. Only their eyes moved as they followed the visitors’ progress down the ward. Adam had never seen such a peaceful ward and certainly not such a peaceful psychiatric one.
   Adam’s eyes roved over the blank faces. Dr. Mitchell had begun another of his interminable lectures. Adam was wondering how long he’d have to listen when his eyes fell on the patient in the second bed to the right. It was Alan Jackson! Adam’s heart began to pound. He was horrified that Alan might recognize him. He turned quickly to hide his face, but when he glanced back, Alan’s expression had not changed. He was obviously heavily sedated. Adam permitted himself a closer look. Alan’s head was swathed in bandages, and there was an IV dripping clear fluid into his right arm. Adam realized that the Fjord must have stopped in Puerto Rico the day before. No wonder they had kept Alan so heavily sedated. They had scheduled him for involuntary surgery all along.
   When Mitchell paused in his patient survey, Adam pointed to Alan and asked, “What was this man’s problem?”
   Dr. Mitchell looked at Dr. Nachman, who nodded. Mitchell picked up the chart at the foot of Alan’s bed and read the summary out loud. “ ‘ Robert Iseman of Sandusky, Ohio; admitted for intractable temporal lobe epilepsy with criminally violent episodes; unresponsive to traditional treatment.’ Iseman had been committed to a psychiatric prison without hope of parole. He volunteered to participate in the Arolen treatment series.” Dr. Mitchell placed the chart back in its rack.
   “Has he been here long?” asked Adam.
   “A few days,” said Dr. Mitchell vaguely. “Why don’t we…”
   “Excuse me,” said Adam, interrupting, “but sometimes it’s easier to learn from a specific case than from generalities. What kind of treatment has this man had? It would seem from his bandages that he’s had some form of brain surgery.”
   “He has indeed,” said Mitchell after another quick glance at Dr. Nachman. “We know from his history that he was a particularly intractable case, and after a course of Conformin we implanted microelectrodes into the limbic system of his brain. That was his only hope for a lasting cure. You remember the classic experiments in which electrodes were imbedded in a bull’s head and used to stop it from charging? Well, we’ve perfected the technique. We can do a lot more than merely stop a bull from charging.”
   Adam nodded slowly, as if trying to understand, but his mind recoiled in horror.
   “Keep in mind that Mr. Iseman’s treatment has just begun,” Dr. Nachman said. “After he’s more fully recovered from the operation, he will undergo conditioning.”
   “Absolutely,” echoed Dr. Mitchell. “In fact, treatment will begin tomorrow, and he can anticipate discharge in about four days. Why don’t we go down to the conditioning rooms so you can see exactly what we do.”
   Adam took a final glance at Alan’s expressionless face and followed the doctors through the ward.
   “Mr. Iseman will be given a combination of reinforced operant conditioning and adversive conditioning,” Dr. Mitchell was saying. “A computer-guided program will be able to detect undesirable mental processes and reverse them before they manifest themselves in outward behavior.”
   Adam’s mind whirled. He wondered what Mitchell meant by “undesirable mental processes.” It probably ranged from refusing to prescribe Arolen products to belief in fee-for-service medicine.
   “Here is one of our conditioning rooms,” said Mitchell, swinging open a door and allowing Adam to look inside. It was a miniature of the theater on the Fjord. There was a large projection screen on the far wall facing two chairs that were fully equipped with electrodes and straps. Adam turned away in horror, allowing the door to swing shut.
   “Is there much effect on the personality?” he asked.
   “Of course,” said Dr. Mitchell. “That is part of the program. We select only the most desirable personality traits.”
   “What about intellect?” asked Adam.
   “Very little adverse effect,” said Dr. Mitchell, leading the way back through the ward. “We’ve been able to document some minor decrease in creativity, but memory retention is normal. In fact, in some regards memory is enhanced, particularly for technical information.”
   Adam looked at Alan as they passed. The man’s expression still hadn’t changed. He had been reduced to some kind of zombie.
   “The research is progressing well,” said Dr. Nachman as he let them through the steel doors. “Of course, application is limited.”
   “The fetology work certainly can be put to more general use,” said Dr. Glover.
   “That’s a matter of opinion,” said Dr. Mitchell. “With the behavior-modification techniques we are perfecting, there will eventually be no locked wards either in hospitals or in prisons. In fact, both the National Institute of Mental Health and the Prisons Administration Board are funding our experiments.”
   They emerged into the three-story lobby with the bubble skylights. Dr. Glover was not about to let Mitchell get in the last word. He began to enumerate the various government agencies that were funding fetology.
   Adam was in a state of shock. MTIC planned the ultimate destruction of an independent medical profession. Doctors would no longer be free-thinking professionals. They would be employees of the MTIC-Arolen medical empire.
   “Adam,” said Dr. Nachman, trying to get Adam’s attention. “Are you still with us?”
   “Yes, of course,” said Adam quickly. “I’m just overwhelmed.”
   “Quite understandable,” said Dr. Nachman. “And I think that we should give you some time to enjoy our recreational facilities. A few hours at the beach will do you a world of good. Shall we meet for dinner at eight?”
   “What about visiting the operating rooms for psychosurgery? If possible, I’d like to see them.”
   “I’m afraid that is out of the question,” said Dr. Nachman. “They’re getting ready for a case this evening.”
   “Could I watch?” asked Adam.
   Dr. Nachman shook his head. “We appreciate your interest, but unfortunately there is no viewing gallery. If you decide to take the job down here, though, I’m certain we can get you into the OR.”
   As Adam went back to his room to change, he realized that he’d better figure out some way of smuggling tangible evidence out of the center. But what evidence? What could he bring back to New York that not only would convince Jennifer not to have an abortion, but would cause the medical profession to put MTIC out of business?
   After several hours of lying in the sun, Adam thought he had an idea. It was wild, and probably impossible to execute, but if successful, Adam knew he would have no trouble convincing anyone to take his warnings seriously.
   Cocktails and dinner were an ordeal for Adam. Dr. Nachman seemed to want to introduce him to as many people as possible, and it was almost eleven before he could escape to his room after pleading fatigue.
   He had decided he could not start to put his plan into effect until midnight. Too restless to lie down in the meantime, he took off his suit and dressed in a dark blue shirt and jeans, then carefully opened his shoulder bag and checked the supplies he’d organized that afternoon.
   At eleven fifty-five he could stand the suspense no longer. He left his room and took the stairway to the roof. The moonlight was again almost as bright as day. He quickly crossed the bridge to the first inner building and then walked across to look down at the second. The skylights blazed, but Adam wasn’t certain that indicated any special activity inside.
   Setting his bag on the roof, Adam opened it and pulled out the rope he’d stolen that afternoon from one of the sailboats. Then he searched for an appropriate ventilation pipe. After testing to see if it were securely fastened to the roof, he tied the rope to it and dropped the free end down three floors onto the bridge to the innermost building.
   Unaccustomed to climbing and terrified of heights, Adam summoned all his fortitude to climb up on the four-foot wall and lower his legs over the side. After a short prayer, Adam grasped the rope and let go of the wall. Hanging on for dear life, he inched his way down until his feet touched the roof of the bridge. He dropped to his hands and knees and scrambled to the roof of the hospital building, where he made his way over to the large central skylight. A movement below made him hold up.
   Slowly, he inched to the edge and looked down. Below him was a scene straight out of a science fiction horror film. The area under the skylight was an enormous operating room, but instead of being staffed with doctors and nurses, it was fully automated. Two patients were being worked on at once by robotlike machines with long flexible arms.
   On the far side of the room several patients were lying on a conveyor-beltlike system, their heads locked into stereotaxic vises. At present, there were only four, but Adam could see that the system was designed to accommodate at least a dozen at a time.
   Adam remained glued to the skylight, mesmerized by the sheer scope of the horror. One of the patients on the belt began to move forward and was fed into a large CAT scanner, which started to rotate around the patient’s head. When the rotation was complete, the machine paused while robotlike arms extended and incised the patient’s head at the same points at which Vandermer’s scars were made. A small amount of blood appeared and pooled below the patient’s head. Other arms appeared and smoothly bored into the patient’s skull. Adam could hear the whine of the drill through the skylight. Then the scanner began to function again, while a third set of arms extended and pushed into the patient’s brain. Adam guessed that the system was inserting the controlling electrodes into the patients’ brains using the CAT scanner to ensure proper placement.
   A movement at the left of the room caught Adam’s eye and he pulled back. Behind a leaded-glass partition, a group of people were seated at a control panel. They would have had a clear view of Adam if they cared to look up. Adam lay down. He could see in by peeking over the edge of the skylight, but was pretty sure now that he couldn’t be seen.
   He saw Dr. Nachman reach out and slap Dr. Mitchell on the back. One of the patients had been completed and was being moved off in preparation for the next. Adam thought he was going to be sick. MTIC-Arolen was definitely planning psychosurgery on a massive scale.

   After ducking away from the skylight, Adam climbed to his feet and crossed the roof to the access door. Luckily, it was not locked. He entered a stairwell similar to the one he had used to reach the roof of his building. Except for a steady hum of the automated machinery from the OR, everything was quiet. Moving quickly, he descended to the second floor and carefully opened the door. As he had expected, he was just beyond the conditioning room. He looked down the hall into the darkened ward. The only light came from the glass-enclosed nurses’ station on the opposite side of the ward. The nurse on duty appeared to be eating. Beyond her were two immobile orderlies sitting in straight-back chairs.
   Staying close to the wall, Adam moved into the ward and ducked down behind the first bed. In the half light he caught a glimpse of the patient’s face. To his surprise, the man was awake. Adam waited, wondering if the patient would sound an alarm, but he just lay still, his unblinking gaze fixed on Adam.
   Taking a deep breath, Adam began to crawl the length of the ward under the beds. When he got to the second from the end, he raised his head to look at the nurses’ station. He was surprised how close he was to it. The nurse was still working on her sandwich, and the two orderlies hadn’t moved.
   It was now or never for his plan. Adam turned to the patient on the bed above him. Alan gave no sign of recognition.
   “Alan, I want to take you out of here,” Adam whispered. “Can you make it?”
   There was no response. Adam might as well have been talking to the IV pole. Alan didn’t even blink as Adam carefully undid the tape that held the IV in place and pulled out the catheter.
   “If I get you up, do you think you can walk?”
   Again, there was no response.
   Grasping Alan’s covers, Adam was about to yank them back when he saw a flashlight beam dance across the ceiling of the ward. Looking at the double entry doors, Adam saw the nurse pressing her thumb against the scanner. As the doors hissed open, Adam slid to the floor and ducked under the bed.
   The nurse walked up the center aisle, shining her flashlight at each patient. Adam held his breath as she passed Alan’s bed, hoping she wouldn’t spot the detached IV. She didn’t pause. Adam could see her feet move to the end of the ward, pivot, then return. The double doors hissed open, and the nurse went back outside.
   Guessing she wouldn’t be back for a while, Adam felt it was an opportune time to make his move. Pulling back Alan’s covers, Adam grabbed him by the arms and eased him over to the side of the bed. Then, as gently as he could, he lifted Alan’s torso and lowered the man to the floor. There was a slight thud when his legs hit the floor, but no one at the nurses’ station seemed to hear.
   “Can you crawl along the floor?” Adam whispered in Alan’s ear.
   There was no response.
   Refusing to give up, he grasped Alan’s hand and began to pull him along the floor. To his surprise, Alan responded and soon began to crawl on his own. It was as if he couldn’t act unless he were shown what to do.
   They made it to the end of the ward. When Adam looked back, all was quiet at the nurses’ station. The next fifty feet were going to be the most dangerous. Leaving the protection of the beds, they crawled down the hall toward the stairs. If anyone looked in their direction, they would be seen. When they reached the door, Adam opened it a few inches and was alarmed when light spilled out from the stairwell. Holding his breath, he opened the door wider and urged Alan through. A moment later they were safe.
   Adam stood up and stretched. Then he bent over and lifted Alan to his feet. He was unsteady at first but regained his balance after a few seconds.
   “Can you understand me?” asked Adam. There was a suggestion of a nod, but Adam wasn’t sure. “We’re getting out of here!” Taking Alan by the hand, Adam led the way up the stairs. Alan walked as if he had no idea where his feet were, but by the time they reached the third floor his movements became smoother. It seemed that the more he had to do, the easier it became. By the time they got to the roof, Alan seemed to be operating under his own power. Such rapid improvement made Adam think that Alan had been receiving a small but constant dose of tranquilizer through the IV. When they emerged onto the roof, Alan seemed almost awake, and Adam noticed that the pupils of his eyes were no longer fully dilated. But there still seemed no way Alan would be able to climb the rope three stories to the outer building. Adam wasn’t sure he could even do it himself and cursed his lack of foresight in not planning better for their escape.
   Looking at the landscaped space between the hospital and the next building he knew they could probably go down easier than up, but he suspected there was no way of escaping from the enclosed garden.
   Afraid Alan’s absence would be noticed, Adam realized he had to act. For lack of a better idea, he took the end of the rope and tied it under Alan’s arms. Then, grasping the rope, Adam began to pull himself up the side of the building. The most difficult part was at the top when Adam had to let go of the rope and grasp the top of the wall. His feet flailed in the air as he tried to get purchase on the sheer concrete. Finally, he made it onto the roof.
   After catching his breath, he bent over the wall. Alan was still standing with his back against the side of the building.
   Adam tensed the rope but was only able to lift Alan a few inches. He realized he needed more leverage. Suddenly, he remembered seeing pictures of Egyptian slaves hauling stones up the pyramids. They’d held the ropes over their shoulders like beasts of burden. Adam decided to do the same. Straining forward with all his might, he staggered back to the far wall and quickly tied the slack onto the same pipe where the rope had initially been fastened. When he ran back to the side, he saw Alan dangling about a third of the way up.
   Adam repeated his maneuver three more times. On the fourth tug the rope stuck, and when Adam looked, he saw Alan was caught directly under the lip of the wall surrounding the roof. Reaching down, he pulled the doctor sideways and got hold of his legs, and with great effort, he heaved him over. The two men fell onto the roof.
   When Adam got his breath back, he untied the rope and stuffed it into his shoulder bag. Then he helped Alan up. There was an angry abrasion on the man’s right cheek, but otherwise he seemed to have weathered the ordeal admirably.
   Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Adam led Alan across the roof to the outer building and then down the stairwell. At that point Adam was stumbling more than Alan. His arms felt limp, his thighs quivered from exertion, and the palms of his hands were raw. When they reached Adam’s room, he dropped the doctor on the bed and collapsed beside him.
   Adam was out of shape for such rigorous physical activity. He would have liked to have rested, but he knew the danger of discovery increased with every minute that passed. He helped Alan out of his hospital gown and quickly dressed him. Fortunately, the two men were approximately the same size. Then he tucked Alan into bed and prayed that he was still sufficiently drugged to go back to sleep. As a precaution, Adam locked the door behind him when he left the room to see if he could find a car. As he hurried down the hall, he wished once again that he had made better plans for escape.

   Selma Parkman yawned and glanced at the clock over the medication locker. It was only one-fifteen. She had over five hours’ more duty, and she was already bored to death. Glancing over at the two orderlies, she wished she had a little of their patience. From the moment she had arrived at the center she had been amazed at the staff’s placid acceptance of the dull routine.
   “I think I’ll take a walk,” she said, flipping closed her Robert Ludlum novel. The orderlies didn’t answer.
   “Did you hear me?” she asked petulantly.
   “We’ll watch the ward,” said one of them at last.
   “You do that,” said Selma, working her feet into her shoes.She knew that nothing would happen while she was gone. Nothing ever happened. When she’d taken the job, she’d expected a bit more excitement than baby-sitting a bunch of automatons. She’d left a good job in Philadelphia at the Hobart Psychiatric Institute to come down to Puerto Rico, and she was beginning to wonder if she had made a mistake.
   Selma left the nurses’ station and, desperate for some conversation, took the elevator to the OR floor and entered the gallery. Dr. Nachman smiled when he saw her. “Bored?” he said. “I can see we’ll have to get you a more exciting schedule.” In reality, he was irritated by her restlessness and had put her on the list for a course of Conformin treatment.
   Selma watched the computer-generated images appearing on the screen in front of the operators, but she had no idea what she was seeing and soon became as bored as she’d been downstairs. She said good-bye, but no one responded. Shrugging her shoulders, she left the gallery, descended a floor, and retraced her steps to the nurses’ station. The orderlies were as she’d left them. It wasn’t time for her rounds, but since she was already up, she got the flashlight and went into the ward.
   The job wasn’t demanding to say the least. About half of the patients were on IVs, and she was supposed to check them at least twice during her shift. Otherwise all she had to do was shine her flashlight into the face of each patient to make sure he was still alive.
   Selma stopped, her light playing on an empty pillow. Bending down, she looked along the floor. Once a patient had fallen out of bed, but that did not seem to be the case here. She moved over to the chart and read the name: Iseman.
   Still thinking that the patient must be nearby, she went back to the nurses’ station and flipped on the ward’s overhead lights. A harsh fluorescent glare flooded the room. Summoning the orderlies, Selma quickly checked the room herself. There was no doubt about it: Iseman had vanished.
   Selma began to worry. Nothing like this had ever happened. Telling the orderlies to keep searching, she hurried back up to the OR.
   “A patient is missing,” she said, spotting Nachman and Mitchell as they were about to leave.
   “That’s impossible,” said Dr. Mitchell.
   “It may be impossible,” said Selma, “but Mr. Iseman’s bed is empty, and he’s nowhere in sight. I think that you’d better come down and see for yourselves.”
   “That’s the patient that was operated on yesterday,” said Dr. Nachman. “Wasn’t he on a continuous Conformin drip?”
   Without waiting for Mitchell’s answer, he hurried off downstairs. As they entered the ward, Selma gestured triumphantly toward the empty bed.
   Dr. Mitchell picked up the IV line and looked at the catheter. It was still slowly dripping. “Well, he can’t be far.”
   After exhausting all possible hiding places on the floor, Dr. Nachman and Dr. Mitchell tried the fetology floor, then the roof, and finally the garden.
   “I think we’d better call out all the orderlies,” said Dr. Nachman. “We have to find Iseman immediately.”
   “This is incredible,” said Dr. Mitchell with disbelief. “I’m surprised the man could even walk.”
   “If we don’t find him right away,” asked Dr. Nachman, “what would happen if we were to activate his implanted electrodes? Would that let us home in on him?”
   Dr. Mitchell shrugged. “The patient has not started conditioning. If we activate him, the signals could cause either pain or pleasure but without any specific control on behavior. It could be dangerous.”
   “Dangerous to whom?” asked Dr. Nachman. “The patient or people around him?”
   “That I can’t answer,” admitted Dr. Mitchell.
   “Well, that’s a worst-case scenario,” said Dr. Nachman. “I hope he’ll be found in short order. Maybe the dosage in his IV was wrong. In any case, let’s alert all the orderlies. Tell them to carry full hypodermics of Conformin so that when he is found there’s no trouble.”

   Adam was beginning to get desperate. There were plenty of cars in the parking lot opposite the main building, but no keys. Adam had assumed that with the tight security, people would be careless. But unfortunately, that was not the case. He cursed himself again for his casual planning.
   Not quite sure what he might find, he made his way down the secluded walk to the beach and over to the club. A handful of cars were in the parking lot behind the clubhouse, and Adam went from one to another without luck. Then he noticed a good-sized Ford truck parked at the delivery entrance.
   The door was open and Adam swung himself into the cab. He started to search for the ignition, but before he could find it, an alarm went off with an ear-piercing wail. Adam fumbled for the door and leapt out in panic.
   The club door opened and Adam ran around the building to the shelter of a stand of pines. The alarm was turned off, but the sound of approaching voices made Adam realize he would have to keep moving. Seeing the masts of the Hobie Cats, Adam raced to the beach and slid under the nearest one.
   He could hear the men returning to the club. They had obviously decided it was a false alarm, but Adam knew he only had a few more hours before daylight to figure out how to get Alan out of the compound. He wondered if anyone had noticed the patient was missing.

   Dr. Nachman’s face appeared more haggard than usual. His eyes seemed to have visibly sunk into their sockets.
   “He has to be here,” said Dr. Mitchell.
   “If he’s here, then he should have been found,” said Dr. Nachman humorlessly.
   “Perhaps he’s in the garden. It’s the only place left.”
   “We have twenty orderlies searching,” snapped Dr. Nachman. “If he were there, they would have found him by now.”
   “He’ll be found,” said Mitchell, more to convince himself than anyone else. “Maybe we’ll have to wait until it gets light.”
   “I’m wondering if he could have gotten out of the hospital,” said Dr. Nachman. “He’s not the kind of patient we’d like to have found on the outside.”
   “He can’t have escaped, even if he’d wanted to,” said Dr. Mitchell. “He couldn’t have opened the security doors. And besides, Ms. Parkman has been here. She said she definitely saw the patient when she made her earlier rounds.”
   “She wasn’t here when she came up to the OR,” said Dr. Nachman.
   “But that was just for a few minutes,” said Selma. “And the two orderlies on duty said that everything was quiet.”
   “I want the search extended to the main building,” said Dr. Nachman, ignoring Selma. “I’m beginning to fear that someone else is involved, someone with access to the ward. If that is the case, I think we should try to activate the patient’s electrodes. That might allow us to trace the man via the transmitter.”
   “I don’t know if it will work,” said Dr. Mitchell. “We’ve never tried to activate from a distance.”
   “Well, try it now,” ordered Dr. Nachman. “Also, call security and tell them that no one goes through the main gate.”
   Dr. Mitchell went to the telephone and called Security. Then he called the head of programming, Edgar Hofstra, telling him that there was an emergency and he was needed in the control room. Then he and Nachman went upstairs.
   The control room was on the same floor as the automated operating room. At one end, protected by a glass wall, was the MTIC mainframe computer. About a half dozen white-coated technicians were in evidence, performing a wide range of operational and maintenance procedures.
   Hofstra arrived about ten minutes later, his eyes still puffy with sleep.
   Not even bothering to apologize, Mitchell outlined the problem. “If we can activate the patient’s electrodes, I think security can trace the patient by the transmitter. Do you think you can activate him from long range?”
   “I’m not certain,” said Hofstra, seating himself at the terminal. As soon as he punched in Iseman’s name, the computer responded by saying that there was an error and that the patient was not engaged. Hofstra overrode the signal.
   Everyone in the room watched anxiously. After a minute the screen flashed “electrodes activated,” followed in another minute by the word “proceed.”
   “So far, so good,” said Hofstra. “Now let’s see if his battery has any power.” He entered the command for Iseman’s electrodes to transmit. The result was a very weak signal that was unintelligible to the computer.
   Hofstra swung around in his chair. “Well, the electrodes activated, but the signal is so weak, I doubt we can trace the location.”

   Adam never knew where he found the courage to go back into the main building, particularly when he saw that most of the lights had been turned on and that groups of men in blue blazers, carrying hypodermic syringes, were swarming over the ground floor. Only the thought of Jennifer and her impending abortion had forced him to risk the comparative safety of the outdoors. Now he simply walked through the main building lobby as if nothing was wrong. When he got out of the elevator on six, the hall was quiet and Adam guessed that they hadn’t begun to search the guests’ rooms.
   He turned on the light when he got to his room and was relieved to find Alan still sleeping peacefully.
   “I don’t know if you can understand me,” said Adam tensely, “but we have to get the hell out of here.”
   He pulled Alan to a sitting position and checked the rolls of gauze covering his head. Once he’d carefully unwound them, he was pleased to see that the automated surgery had only shaved a small area on either side of the man’s head. Adam grabbed his comb and carefully covered the bald patches with Alan’s remaining hair.
   With his heart pounding, he helped Alan to his feet and quietly opened the door. Three orderlies were entering a suite at the end of the corridor. Adam knew that if he hesitated he wouldn’t get a second chance. The moment they disappeared into the suite he grabbed Alan’s hand and hurried him down to the bathers’ elevator. As the doors closed, Adam heard voices, but no one seemed to be shouting alarm.
   He pressed the ground-floor button. To his horror, after descending briefly, the elevator stopped on three!
   Adam glanced at Alan. He looked better without his bandage, but his face still had that telltale drugged blankness.
   The doors opened and a scarfaced orderly stepped into the elevator. Glancing mechanically at Adam and Alan, he turned to face the closing doors. He was so close, Adam could see the individual hairs on his neck. Adam held his breath as the elevator recommenced its descent.
   They were just passing two when the orderly seemed to recognize their presence. He made a slow turn. In his left hand he held a hypodermic syringe without its protective plastic cap.
   Adam reacted by reflex with speed that surprised him. He went for the syringe, wresting it from the orderly’s grip with a quick twist, and then pushed the orderly forward into Alan. As the men collided, Adam jammed the needle into the man’s back just to the side of the spine, depressing the plunger with the heel of his hand.
   All three of them fell against the wall of the elevator and collapsed in a heap with Alan on the bottom. The orderly arched his back, rolled to the side, and opened his mouth to scream. Adam clamped his hand over the man’s mouth to muffle the cry. The elevator stopped and the doors opened.
   The orderly grabbed Adam’s arm in a tight grip and began to pry his hand from his face. Adam strained to keep the man’s mouth covered. Then he saw the man’s eyes cross. Abruptly, the man’s grip loosened and his body went limp.
   Adam removed his hand and then recoiled in horror. He pushed himself away and stared at the man, whose eyes had now rolled up into his head. Although he appeared to have had some kind of plastic surgery to mar his facial features, Adam still recognized him. It was Percy Harmon!
   For a second Adam was too startled to react. Then the elevator doors started to close, and Adam knew he had to keep moving. Wedging Alan against the door to keep it ajar, he dragged Harmon outside and dropped him behind the dense ferns. He had a moment’s hope of taking him along, then realized it would be hard enough just handling Alan. He led the doctor out the back door to the path that led to the beach. His vague plan was to head over to the condominiums and see if he could find a car there.
   The moon was now partially concealed, and the beach was not the bright landscape it had been before. The palms and pine trees provided deep concealing shadow.
   Halfway to the club, Adam and Alan came upon the Hobie Cat Adam had hidden under. Adam halted. An idea stirred in the back of his mind. He looked out at the ocean and wondered. He wasn’t a good sailor by any stretch of the imagination, but he knew a little about small boats. And he was pleased to note that the last person to use the Hobie Cat had beached it without taking off the sails.
   The sound of a man’s shout from the area of the main building made him decide for sure. Time was running out. First, Adam dragged the boat to the water. Next, he led Alan to it and helped him climb on, forcing him to lie down on the canvas. With the bowline, Adam tied Alan loosely to the mast. Wading into the water, Adam pulled the Hobie off the sand and into the surf. The waves were only two or three feet high, but they made it hard to control the boat. When he was waist-deep, he hauled himself aboard.
   His original idea was to paddle the boat out of sight around the point, but he saw that was going to be impossible. He would have to raise the sail. As quickly as he could, he hauled up the mainsail. He winced in pain from his raw palms, but he kept at it. Finally the sail billowed out, and the boom lifted with a clatter. To his relief, the boat stabilized the moment it was under sail. Turning around, he snapped the rudders into position, then pushed the tiller to the right.
   For an agonizing minute, the boat seemed to drift back toward the beach. Then, falling off the wind, it shot forward, smacking the incoming waves as it headed away from the beach. There was little Adam could do but grab Alan with one hand and hold the tiller with the other.
   The boat passed directly in front of the club, but Adam was afraid to try to change his course. He heaved a sigh of relief when they got beyond the breakers. Soon after, they were around the point and safely out of sight.
   Relaxing to a degree, Adam looked up at the parabolic curve of the sail contrasted against the star-strewn tropical sky. Glancing to the west, he saw the moon intermittently veiled with small, scudding clouds. Below the moon was the dark silhouette of Puerto Rico’s craggy mountains. The beauty was overwhelming. Then the boat hit the long Atlantic swells and Adam had to turn his full attention to the tiller. Cleating the mainsheet securely, he raised the jib and the Hobie Cat shot through the water at even greater speed. He started to feel optimistic that within a few hours he’d be far enough up the coast to find help.

   Dr. Nachman turned from the computer in a rage. Harry Burkett had come to update the research director on the search, but Nachman wasn’t content with false assurances.
   “Are you telling me that all you’ve learned with forty men and a million dollars’ worth of security equipment is that one of the orderlies has been found unconscious and one of our guests, Mr. Schonberg, is missing from his room?”
   “That’s correct,” said Mr. Burkett.
   “And the orderly,” continued Dr. Nachman, “was presumably injected in the back with his own syringe of Conformin?”
   “Exactly,” said Mr. Burkett. “He was injected with such force that the needle broke off and is imbedded in the man’s skin.” Mr. Burkett wanted to impress the research director with the completeness of his investigation, but Nachman wasn’t having any of it. He found it inconceivable that Mr. Burkett, with his huge staff and sophisticated resources, could not locate a heavily sedated patient. Thanks to Burkett’s inefficiency, what had started as an inconvenience was rapidly becoming a serious affair.
   Dr. Nachman angrily lit his pipe, which had gone out for the tenth time. He couldn’t decide whether or not he should inform the inner circle of MTIC. If the problem got worse, the earlier he reported it, the better off he’d be. But if the problem resolved itself, it would be best to remain silent.
   “Has there been any evidence of anyone touching the perimeter fence?” he asked.
   “Absolutely not,” said Burkett. “And no one has been allowed out of the main gate since Dr. Mitchell called.” He glanced at the psychiatrist, who was nervously examining his cuticles.
   Dr. Nachman nodded. He was certain the patient was still on the grounds and that the electrified fence was an insurmountable barrier, but he still worried about the competence of Burkett’s security force. There was no reason to take chances.
   “I want you to send someone to the airport to check the departing flights,” he ordered.
   “I think that’s going a bit far,” said Burkett. “The patient won’t get off the compound.”
   “I don’t care what you think,” interrupted Dr. Nachman. “Everyone told me the patient couldn’t have left the hospital, and obviously he has. So cover the airport.”
   “OK,” said Burkett with an exasperated sigh.
   Dr. Mitchell, who was well aware that he was the man who had insisted the patient couldn’t have left the hospital, stood up, saying, “Even if the transmitter is too weak to use to trace the patient, maybe if we stimulate his electrodes, he’ll reveal himself.”
   Dr. Nachman looked at Mr. Hofstra. “Could we do that?”
   “I don’t know,” said Hofstra. “The position of his electrodes hasn’t been neurophysiologically mapped. I don’t know what would happen if we stimulated him. It might kill him.”
   “But could we stimulate him?” asked Dr. Nachman again.
   “Maybe,” said Hofstra. “But it will take some time. The present program has been written with the expectation that the patient would be initially present.”
   “What kind of time are you talking about?”
   Hofstra spread his hands apart. “I should know if I’ll be able to do it in an hour or so.”
   “But you didn’t have any trouble activating the electrodes.”
   “That’s true,” said Hofstra. “But actual stimulation is much more complicated.”
   “Try it,” said Dr. Nachman wearily. Then, gesturing with his hands toward Mr. Burkett, who was still on the phone, he said, “I’d like to have some kind of backup for his Keystone Kops.”

   Looking at his watch, Adam realized that they’d been sailing for nearly two hours. Once they’d rounded the point north of the MTIC-Arolen beach, they’d encountered increasingly high swells that occasionally crested and broke over the canvas trampoline. A couple of times when they were in the rough of a particularly high wave, Adam was afraid they would be buried by tons of seawater. But each time the boat had bobbed up and ridden like a cork over the top of the wave.
   They headed due west along the northern coast. Unsure if there were any reefs or not, Adam stayed about two or three hundred yards offshore. By far the hardest part of the adventure was dealing with his imagination. Each minute, his concern grew about sharks lurking beneath them in the dark swirling water. Every time he glanced down, he expected to see a huge black fin break the surface.
   Certain that they had long since passed the limits of the MTIC-Arolen compound, Adam began to aim the Hobie Cat toward land. In the past fifteen minutes or so he’d begun to see occasional lights along the shore. He now could hear the waves pounding on the beach. He tried not to think about what that might mean.
   A scream shattered the silence. All at once Alan grabbed his head with both hands and shrieked into the night. Adam was caught totally off guard. A large bolus of adrenaline shot into his system.
   Alan’s screams increased to full lung capacity, and he tried to stand up, straining against the rope that secured him to the mast. He began to throw himself from side to side, threatening to capsize the boat. Adam abandoned the tiller and the mainsail sheet and tried to restrain the crazed man. The boat immediately fell off the wind and the mainsail luffed.
   “Alan!” yelled Adam above the sound of the wind. “What’s the matter?” He grabbed Alan by the shoulders and shook him as hard as he could. Alan was still clasping his head with his hands with such force that his face was distorted. His shrieks came amid gasps for breath.
   “What’s the matter?” shouted Adam again.
   Alan let go of his head, and for a second Adam could see his face. The man’s previously blank expression had twisted into one of pain and rage. Like a mad dog, Alan lunged for Adam’s throat.
   Shocked at Alan’s strength, Adam tried to scramble out of his reach, but there was little room on the Hobie Cat’s trampoline. Alan twisted within his bonds and flailed his arms, catching Adam in the face with a forceful punch. Screaming himself, Adam teetered on the edge of the Hobie Cat, his hands frantically grabbing for a purchase. His fingers found the uncoiled mainsail halyard, but it did not provide any support. In a kind of agonizing slow motion Adam toppled into the forbidding ocean.
   He plunged beneath the surface of the icy water. Desperately clawing at the water, Adam fought back up to the air, terrified that at any moment he would be bitten by a sea monster. His leg brushed the rope in his hand and he screamed.
   Although the sails were luffing, the strong trade wind continued to push the boat through the water. Adam held on to the mainsail halyard and was dragged behind like bait on the end of a fish line. He could feel his right eyelid swelling, but worst of all, there was trailing warmth from his nose, which he guessed was blood. He expected his legs to be snapped off at any moment. Hand over hand, he frantically pulled himself back to the boat. On the trampoline Alan was still shrieking in pain. Adam grabbed a pontoon and started to scramble out of the water.
   The snapping of the uncleated mainsail sounded like rifle shots. The boat had rotated to windward, and suddenly the boom wildly traversed the back of the boat, slamming into the side of Alan’s head and pitching him face downward onto the trampoline.
   Adam hauled himself out of the water and, watching out for the swinging boom, approached the man uneasily, half expecting him to explode anew. But Alan was unconscious and breathing deeply. Steadying himself on the bobbing boat, Adam felt Alan’s head for a fracture. All he found was an actively swelling egg-shaped lump.
   Carefully Adam rolled Alan over, wondering what had possessed the man. He’d been so peaceful until that terrifying moment. Adam noticed that one of the sutured incisions had pulled open, and suddenly he guessed what might have happened.
   Scrambling back to the stern, Adam grabbed the tiller and then pulled in on the mainsail tackle. The boat responded and the sails filled. Falling off the wind, Adam headed for the shore. He now had another, unanticipated problem. He had no idea what Alan could be made to do. Adam shivered, more from fear than from the chill of his damp clothes.

   Edgar Hofstra glanced up at Dr. Nachman, whose eyes had become blood red. The man’s lower lids hung away from his globes while he bent over Hofstra’s shoulder, staring at the computer screen.
   “I can’t be one hundred percent sure that the electrodes responded,” said Hofstra, “but that was the strongest signal I could send at the moment. If you give me a couple of hours, I will be able to increase the power.”
   “Well, see if you can speed things up,” said Dr. Nachman. “And maybe you can remember if any of our early experiments with monkeys gave us clues as to how the subject will respond.”
   “I hate to tell you,” said Mitchell, “but in addition to destroying everything around them, the monkeys in such situations ended up killing themselves.”
   Dr. Nachman got up and stretched. “Listen, that may be the good news.”
   “I’ll have to take the whole system off line while we work on it,” said Hofstra.
   “That’s OK,” said Dr. Nachman. “At this hour I can’t imagine anybody wanting to send instructions to any of the ‘controlled’ doctors.”
   “Too bad the patient hadn’t at least been conditioned for the self-destruct mode,” said Dr. Mitchell.
   “Yeah, too bad,” agreed Dr. Nachman.

   By the time Adam got within a hundred feet of shore, the night had become significantly darker. He turned the boat to the west and paralleled the island while he listened carefully to the waves crashing on the shore. He hoped that the type of sound would enable him to guess the composition of the beach. With the heavy surf, he was afraid of coral.
   Alan had moaned a few times but had not tried to get up. Adam thought that he was either still unconscious from the blow to his head or in some kind of post-ictic state from what had been a seizure of sorts. In any case, Adam hoped that he’d stay quiet until they reached the shore.
   The sound of a dog barking against the noise of the ocean caught Adam’s attention, and he strained his eyes shoreward. He could make out, nestled among the graceful trunks of a forest of coconut palms, a group of dark houses. Thinking that they were a good indication of a sand beach, Adam shoved the tiller over, ducked under the jibing mainsail, and headed the boat toward land.
   Although Adam let the sail out and was spilling the wind, the boat seemed to be flying. Holding the tiller with his leg, he reached up and let loose the jib, which began to flap angrily in the wind. Ahead, he could see where the waves were cresting, a white line of foam against the blackness of the island.
   The closer they got, the louder was the noise of the breakers pounding the shoreline. Adam prayed silently for a sand beach, although at that speed even sand would be trouble. A huge wave passed under the boat, then a larger one built behind. The Hobi rode up the face of the wave, and with terror, Adam thought they were about to flip end over end. But the boat righted itself as the wave rolled under. Looking behind again, Adam saw another wave bearing down on them. It looked as big as a house. Its upper edge feathered against the sky, suggesting it was about to break. Adam saw the top begin to curl. Holding the tiller with one hand and the side of the trampoline with the other, he closed his eyes and braced himself for submersion.
   But the tons of water that Adam expected didn’t come. Instead, the Hobie Cat shot forward with an exhilarating burst of speed. Adam opened his eyes and saw that they were racing toward shore in front of the torrent of white water.
   Before he knew what was happening, the speeding boat hit the backwash of the previous wave and bounced into the air, throwing him over the side into the water. He came up sputtering, but happily surprised that the water was only waist deep. Alan had remained on the boat’s trampoline, secured by the line around his chest, but he had rotated around the mast and his legs dangled over the side. Adam grabbed the boat and pulled it toward shore, straining against the undertow. The pontoons finally hit the bottom, and Adam waited for the next wave before running the boat up onto dry land.
   He immediately collapsed onto the sand to catch his breath, then fished out his glasses and slipped them on. Looking around, he saw that they had landed on a narrow and rather steep sand beach that was strewn with all sorts of debris. A number of old wood-planked boats were drawn up from the water’s edge and secured around the trunks of nearby coconut palms. Within the darkness of the trees was a village of ramshackle houses.
   A welcoming committee of two scraggy dogs appeared at the edge of the beach and began to bark loudly. A light went on in the nearest house. When Adam struggled to his feet, the dogs dashed out of sight for a moment, only to reappear and bark more insistently. Adam ignored them. He untied Alan and got the man standing.
   Alan held his head as Adam led him up the beach. Just within the shelter of the palms, they came upon a ramshackle house with a beaten-up half-ton pickup parked outside. Adam peered hungrily inside the cab. No keys were dangling from the ignition. He decided to knock on the door of the house and take his chances. The dogs were barking wildly now, nipping at his legs.
   As he walked up the steps, a light went on and a face appeared at the window. Adam checked his back pocket to make sure his wallet was safe. A moment later the door opened. The man who opened it was stripped to the waist and barefoot. He had a gun in his hand, an old revolver with a mother-of-pearl handle.
   “No hablo much español,” said Adam, trying to smile. The man did not smile back.
   “Me puede dar un ride al aeropuerto,” said Adam, turning slightly and pointing toward the truck.
   The man looked at Adam as if he were crazy. Then he made a waving motion of dismissal with the pistol and started to close the door.
   “Por favor,” pleaded Adam. Then, in a combination of Spanish and English, he rapidly tried to explain how he’d been lost at sea on a sailboat with a sick friend and that they had to get to the airport immediately. Pulling out his wallet, he began counting out soggy bills. That finally perked the man’s interest. He put the gun into his pocket and allowed Adam to lead him down to the beach.

   In the midst of his frantic attempts to capture the man’s interest, Adam had had an idea. When he got to the beach, he picked up the bowline of the Hobie Cat and put it into the Puerto Rican’s hand. At the same time he struggled to explain to the man that the boat was his if he took them to the airport.
   The Puerto Rican finally seemed to comprehend. A broad smile appeared on his face. Gleefully, he pulled the boat higher on the beach and lashed it to one of the coconut palms. Then he went back to the house, presumably to dress.
   Adam lost no time in getting Alan into the cab of the truck. Almost immediately the Puerto Rican reappeared, swinging his keys. He started up the truck, glancing warily at Alan, who was slumped in his seat, and at the point of drifting off to sleep again. Adam tried to explain that his friend was sick, but he soon gave up, deciding it was easier to pretend that he, too, had fallen asleep. He sat with his eyes closed until they reached the airport. Indicating that he wanted to be dropped at the Eastern departure area, he began to worry how on earth he could explain Alan’s and his appearance to the ticket clerk.
   The truck came to a stop, and Adam touched Alan’s shoulder. This time it was easier to wake him up.
   “Muchas gracias,” Adam said as they got out.
   “De nada,” called the driver, and roared away.
   “OK,” said Adam, taking Alan by the arm. “This is the last lap.” He walked into the almost empty terminal. A few taxis and an ambulance idled by the entrance, but it was too early for many departing tourists. Adam surveyed the old-fashioned building and seated Alan at an empty shoeshine stand. Then he went over to the ticket counter.
   Looking up at the schedule, he saw that the next Eastern flight to Miami was in two hours. A small sign said “For After Hours, Use Phone.” Adam picked up the receiver next to the sign. When the agent answered, he told Adam that he’d be right out. Sure enough, by the time Adam hung up, a man in a clean and pressed brown uniform emerged from a door behind the counter. When he saw Adam, his smile faltered.
   Adam was acutely conscious of his ragged appearance. The ride in the truck had almost dried his clothes, but seeing the agent’s reaction, he decided he’d better come up with a good story. Hesitating only a moment, he launched into a long explanation that featured an end-of-vacation party with lots of booze and a last-minute sail. He and his friend had washed up on a beach miles from their hotel and then had hitched a ride to the airport. Adam said they had to be at work the next day and that their luggage would follow when the rest of their group flew back.
   “It’s been a hell of a vacation,” he added.
   The agent nodded as if he understood and said there was plenty of space available. Adam asked if there were any earlier flights to the States and was told that Delta had a flight to Atlanta in an hour.
   As far as Adam was concerned, the sooner they got off the island the better. He asked for directions to Delta and was told to go to the next building. Deciding Alan was best off where he was, Adam hurried to the next terminal, where there were a number of travelers waiting to check in.
   Adam joined the end of the line. When he got to the counter, the agent eyed him uneasily, but Adam repeated his now practiced story. Again, the agent seemed to believe him.
   “First-class or coach?” he asked.
   Adam looked at the man, wondering if he were trying to be funny. But then, remembering that Arolen paid his Visa card charges, he said, “First-class, of course.”
   Adam scanned the terminal nervously as the man wrote up the tickets, but he didn’t spot anyone who appeared to have been sent by MTIC.
   When the agent had finished, Adam said, “We could use a wheelchair. My friend really got banged up when we tipped over in the surf.”
   “Oh my gosh,” said the agent. “I’ll see what I can do.”
   In less than five minutes he was back with the wheelchair.
   Adam thanked him and set off for the other building to get Alan.

   From a vantage point on the mezzanine overlooking the Delta ticket counter, two ambulance attendants dressed in white uniforms watched as Adam disappeared from sight. The fact that he was pushing a wheelchair suggested that Iseman could not be far away.
   The two men quickly descended to the terminal floor and hurried outside to the ambulance, where they told the driver to radio Mr. Burkett that the subjects had been spotted. The taller of the attendants, a burly man with a blond crew cut, pulled two collapsible gurneys from the back of the ambulance, while his partner stuffed a number of syringes into a medical bag.
   Back in the terminal, they checked the gate number for the Delta flight to Atlanta and set out for Concourse B.
   When Adam got back to the shoeshine stand, he was horrified to find the bench empty. Frantically, he ran the wheelchair back toward the Eastern counter, where he spotted Alan trying to talk to the agent, who was telling him that he was in Puerto Rico, not Miami, but that he could give him a reservation to Miami if he wanted one.
   “He’s with me,” explained Adam, helping Alan into the chair.
   “The man thinks he’s in Miami,” said the agent.
   “He’s been through a lot,” said Adam. “You know, the shipwreck…” He let his voice trail off and started back to Delta.
   “What am I doing in Puerto Rico?” asked Alan. Although his diction was still slurred, he was the most alert he’d been since Adam had talked to him at the Fjord departure terminal.
   With only twenty minutes before flight time, Adam pushed Alan at a rapid pace. A tour group with gaudy shirts was noisily assembled in front of the Delta counter. Having the people around gave Adam a sense of safety. Going through security before boarding the plane, Adam helped Alan out of the wheelchair so he could go through the metal detector. The guard eyed them suspiciously but didn’t say a word. Once they were through and on their way to the gate, Adam felt a growing sense of excitement. He’d done it. In a few hours they’d be landing in the States.
   The floor of the concourse angled downward and Adam now had to restrain the wheelchair from rolling forward on its own accord. Ahead was a water fountain and rest rooms, and Adam considered stopping; they had nearly twenty minutes to spare. He noticed a small sign on the floor next to the men’s room door, indicating that the rest rooms were being cleaned. Adam decided to do his drinking and peeing on the plane.
   He had slowed to a normal walk and was about to continue on when out of the corner of his eye he caught a sudden movement. Just as he began to turn his head, someone grabbed him from behind, crushing his arms against his torso. Before Adam could respond, he was lifted off the floor.
   Adam tried to twist as he cried out, but he was rammed directly against the closed door of the men’s room, hitting it with his chest and forehead. The impact threw open the door, and both Adam and his attacker fell headfirst onto the tile floor.
   The force of the fall released the man’s stranglehold on Adam. Although dazed, Adam got his arms free and scrambled to his feet, only to be tripped again when the man grabbed him around the ankles. Again Adam fell, his head narrowly missing the edge of the sink, but this time his hands were free to cushion the fall.
   Behind him, Adam was dimly aware of Alan in the wheelchair being propelled by a second man in white. Alan had been pushed against the men’s room door as Adam had, his head snapping forward on impact. When the door had opened, he was forcibly shoved forward, his head hyperextending. The unguided wheelchair now sped through, arcing to the left and then colliding with the bank of urinals, spilling Alan out of the chair.
   The second man turned and locked the door behind him, then came to the aid of his partner. Together, the two men bore down on Adam, quickly overwhelming him and pinning him to the floor.
   Marshaling his strength, Adam gave a powerful kick with his legs and succeeded in getting one arm free. Swinging widely, he connected with the lower jaw of the larger of his two attackers. The man cried out. His partner snapped back and, in a fit of anger, punched Adam solidly in the stomach.
   Adam’s breath left him with an audible whoosh, making him gag and leaving him momentarily helpless. The two men held Adam on the floor with their combined weight. The smaller medic pulled a syringe from his pocket. Using his teeth, he removed the plastic cover from the needle. With one hand he smoothed out the cloth covering Adam’s thigh and then plunged the needle into Adam’s flesh, all the way to the hilt.
   Adam tried to move but without success. The medic pulled back on the plunger to make certain that the needle was not in a blood vessel, then, regrasping the syringe, prepared to inject.
   Suddenly, a fearsome shriek reverberated around the tiled room. The unworldly sound momentarily paralyzed the two men holding Adam to the floor.
   Alan grabbed his head as he’d done on the Hobie Cat and leapt to his feet. His eyes snapped open and his lips rolled back to expose his teeth. With a ripping sound, his hands came away from his head, clutching tufts of hair from his scalp. Like a rabid animal, he sprang from the urinals toward the threesome sprawled on the floor. He grasped his hands together to form a club and after swinging them in a great arc, pounded the man who had just inserted the syringe into Adam. The blow caught the man on the side of the head with such force that he was propelled from astride Adam into the mouth of an open toilet stall, ramming into the divider with a sickening crunch.
   The smaller medic stood up in shock, his eyes reflecting the horror of having witnessed the materialization of a monster. He took a step backward and raised his hands, but Alan was on him in a flash, biting off most of the man’s ear with a snap of his jaws. The medic’s terror made it impossible for him to defend himself. Alan grabbed his head and began to beat it against one of the mirrors above the sinks, whipping frothy spirals of blood onto the glass in graceful arcs. The mirror cracked, splintered, and then shattered in a cascade of shards.
   Adam had also been initially transfixed by the unexpected transformation of Alan, but having seen it once before, he was better able to recover. He yanked the syringe from his thigh and, scrambling to his feet, quickly assessed the chances of being able to pass Alan, who continued to smash the medic’s head against the mirror. Unfortunately, at that moment the medic’s body went limp and he fell to the floor. Alan immediately lost interest in him. Throwing his head back and shrieking again, Alan now came after Adam.
   Adam’s only recourse was to dash into a toilet stall and try to close the door behind him. Alan got his hand around the edge of the door though, and began to prevail in the shoving match that ensued. As Adam sensed that he was losing the test of strength, he lifted his legs against the door. With his back against the wall, he thrust the door closed, catching Alan’s fingers in the jamb. Alan shrieked anew and pulled his hand free.
   Adam latched the door and backed against the wall, the toilet between his legs, His mind raced as to what he could do next.
   Alan began to throw his body against the door repeatedly. Each time the latch bent a little more. Finally it snapped, and the door burst open.
   Adam screamed Alan’s name, but Alan came at him like a locomotive, his pupils pinpoints and his eyes crazed. More out of pure defense than thought, Adam held out the syringe which he had been clutching. Alan ran directly onto the needle, which pierced his abdomen. The force of his charge depressed the plunger, sending the contents into his flesh.
   Alan did not even feel the needle. He grabbed Adam’s head with seemingly superhuman strength and practically lifted Adam off the floor. But then, as Adam watched, his crazed eyes fluttered and his pupils dilated. His right eye wandered like a child’s lazy eye, and his left one assumed a questioning look. His grip relaxed and he slowly sagged to his knees. Finally, he collapsed backward and flopped out of the stall onto the floor in front of one of the sinks.
   For a moment Adam could not move. He felt he’d come close to death. Slowly he lowered his eyes to look at the tip of the needle that was still in his hand. A drop of fluid had collected there and now dropped off. Adam let go of the syringe, and it clattered to the floor.
   Stepping out of the stall and pushing aside two gurneys that were at the back of the room, Adam knelt beside Alan and felt his pulse. It was strong and normal. To Adam’s surprise, the man’s eyes fluttered open. In a very slurred voice he complained that his hands hurt.

   “At that level of energy, there is no doubt that our patient’s electrodes were stimulated to maximum,” said Hofstra. “The result has to have been devastating.”
   “But now we may have a new problem,” said Dr. Nachman. “If the patient is dead, no one can examine the body. We can’t let anyone find the implants. We must find him at once.”
   The phone rang, and Dr. Mitchell answered. After listening and saying “good” several times, he turned to Nachman with a thumbs-up sign.
   “Your idea of covering the airport was a good one,” he said. “Burkett says the patient and Mr. Schonberg were sighted and are being picked up by the ambulance medics.”
   “What if they were already in the ambulance when the stimulus was given?” asked Nachman.
   “It could have been big trouble. I think we’d better search the road between here and the airport.”
   Dr. Nachman threw up his hands. “When is this going to end?”

  Adam had no doubt that Alan’s psychotic episodes were due to remote stimulation, and he prayed that once they were airborne Alan would be out of range. Their one hope was to get aboard, but Adam was now afraid they both looked so bad that the Delta agents might turn them away. There were only five more minutes until their flight was due to take off.
   Adam washed his face quickly and tried to wipe Alan’s hands, which were coated with blood. Worse still, there were several raw patches on his head, where Alan had torn out clumps of his hair. Adam mopped at them with little result. Well, there was nothing more he could do. He lifted Alan onto the wheelchair and was about to push him out the door when he spotted a full hypodermic lying on the floor. He picked it up, deciding it would be useful if Alan had another fit.
   As he approached the gate, Adam saw the plane was in the final boarding process.
   “Hold it,” he yelled. Two Delta agents eyed him curiously. Then one of them said, “Are you the two who were stranded on the sailboat?”
   “That’s right,” said Adam, handing over the tickets.
   “The agent at the ticket counter said to expect you. We thought that perhaps you’d changed your minds.”
   “Heavens, no,” said Adam. “It’s just been hard getting my friend motivated.”
   The agent looked at Alan, whose head was lolling sideways. “He’s not drunk, is he?”
   “Hell, no,” said Adam. “He got pretty scraped up when we capsized. They had to give him a painkiller, and it seems to have knocked him out.”
   “Oh, I see,” said the agent, handing Adam the boarding cards. “Seats 2A and 2B. Will you need a wheelchair in Atlanta?”
   “That would be nice,” said Adam. “Actually, we’ll be going on to Washington. Could you make those arrangements for us?”
   “Absolutely,” said the agent.
   Adam wheeled Alan down the jetway with a sense of relief. The stewardesses were less than enthusiastic when they saw the pair board, but they helped Alan out of the wheelchair and listened politely as Adam ran through his shipwreck story one more time. The plane was only half full, and most of the other passengers were asleep. Adam decided to close his eyes too and slept all the way to Atlanta except for the few minutes when he woke to wolf down breakfast.
   Adam dreaded the transfer, thinking that there might be trouble. But a Delta agent had a wheelchair waiting and ticketed them straight through to Washington. The layover was only forty minutes, but it gave Adam a chance to call Jennifer. Luckily, she answered herself.
   “Jennifer, everything is going to be all right. I can explain everything.”
   “Oh,” she said vaguely.
   “Just promise me you won’t have the abortion until I get there.”
   “The hearing is this morning,” said Jennifer, “and I won’t do anything today, but if you’re not here by tomorrow…” Her voice trailed off.
   “Jennifer, I love you. I have to get to the plane now. We’re just taking off from Atlanta.”
   “Atlanta?” said Jennifer, completely confused. “And who’s ‘we’?”

   “Adam?” asked Margaret Weintrob, her nimble fingers coming to an abrupt halt on her typewriter. “Is that you?”
   Arm in arm, like drunken buddies, Adam and Alan staggered past the startled secretary’s desk.
   “Adam!” shouted Mrs. Weintrob, starting to rise. “You can’t go in your father’s office. He has…”
   But Adam had already opened the door.
   The two well-dressed men sitting across from Dr. Schonberg turned in surprise. Momentarily speechless, Dr. Schonberg sat helplessly as Adam asked the two men to wait outside.
   “Adam,” said Dr. Schonberg finally, “what on earth is the meaning of this?”
   “Did you take any action on the charges we discussed the last time I was here?” asked Adam.
   “No, not yet.”
   “I’m not surprised,” said Adam. “You said that you needed more evidence. Well, I’ve brought all the proof you’ll ever want. Come over here and meet Dr. Alan Jackson of the University of California. He has just come from one of the famous Arolen cruises. And made a short stop at the research center in Puerto Rico.”
   “Is the man drunk?” asked Dr. Schonberg.
   “No,” said Adam. “Drugged and a victim of psychosurgery. Come over here. I’ll show you.”
   Dr. Schonberg approached Alan cautiously, as if he expected the man to leap suddenly out of his chair.
   Adam gently tilted Alan’s head so his father could see the small incisions where the electrodes had been implanted.
   “They implanted some kind of remote-control device there,” said Adam, his voice softer and shaded with compassion. “But I got Alan out before they ‘conditioned’ him. As soon as his drug wears off, he’ll be able to tell you at least some of what happened. And I know he will agree to have the electrodes removed and examined.”
   Dr. Schonberg looked up at his son after examining the incisions on the sides of Alan’s head. He was silent for a moment and then turned on the intercom and said, “Margaret, I want you to call Bernard Niepold at the Justice Department. Tell him it is urgent that I see him immediately. And call the Bethesda Naval Hospital and tell them to expect a confidential patient under my signature. And I want a twenty-four-hour guard.”

Epilogue

   Jennifer was exhausted. Despite all of the childbirth classes she’d attended, she’d not been prepared for the real thing. Giving birth was both better and worse than she’d expected. No amount of reading or hearing about other women’s experiences could have readied her for this unique and passionate event.
   The pain of labor had been intense yet strangely thrilling, but as the hours had gone by, she had felt progressively drained. She wondered if she would find the strength. Then the pain came more often and for longer periods until finally, from somewhere deep in her being, came a new burst of energy. She felt an irresistible urge, half voluntary, half involuntary, to push and bear down. A crescendo of pressure made her feel she was stretched to her limit, yet still she pushed and held her breath.
   Suddenly, there was an almost sensuous release, accompanied by a gush of fluid and the thrilling squeal of a newborn infant exercising its vocal cords for the first time.
   Opening her eyes, Jennifer gripped Adam’s hand with what little strength she had remaining. Looking up into his face, she could see that his attention was directed down between her outstretched legs. With a terrible feeling of dread, she watched him. No test had been able to dispel the worry she had about the health and well-being of the child within her. Doctors at University Hospital had repeated the amniocentesis and had reported that the baby was normal, but with all that had happened, Jennifer had had trouble believing it.
   She watched Adam to see what glimpse of disaster would register on his face. She wanted to know how their child was from him, not from seeing for herself. As she expected, he didn’t smile and didn’t blink. After what seemed too long a time, he lowered his eyes to meet hers, cradling her head with his hands as he did so. He spoke softly, sensitive to her feelings. First he told her he loved her!
   Jennifer’s heart seemed to stop. She held her breath, although the physical pain had ceased, and waited for the inevitable, dreaded news. In her heart she had known all along. She shouldn’t have listened to anyone, she told herself. She’d had a bad feeling ever since the mixup at the Julian lab, never mind that it had been done on purpose.
   Adam wetted his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. “We have a beautiful, healthy boy, Jennifer. Luckily, he looks like you.”
   It took a moment for Adam’s words to sink in. When she finally comprehended, tears of happiness and thanksgiving welled in her eyes. She tried to speak but couldn’t. She swallowed. Then she reached up and pulled Adam down and hugged his head as hard as she could. His laugh gave voice to the joy and relief in her heart. All she could think to do was thank God.

   Adam collected himself, smoothed out his surgical scrub suit, and stepped from the delivery area into University Hospital’s obstetrical waiting room. One glance was enough. It was hard to believe, but the message he’d gotten during the last stages of Jennifer’s labor had been correct. Sitting among a group of expectant fathers was his own, Dr. David Schonberg.
   Dr. Schonberg met his son as soon as he entered the room.
   “Hello, Adam,” he said in his usual cool manner.
   “Hello, father,” said Adam.
   Dr. Schonberg adjusted his glasses higher on his nose. “What’s it like being back in medical school?”
   “Just fine,” said Adam. “I’m so glad to be back. I’ve hardly minded the catch-up work.”
   “That’s good to hear,” said Dr. Schonberg. “How’s Jennifer?”
   Adam stared at his father. It was the first time the man had ever called Jennifer by name.
   “She’s just fine,” answered Adam.
   “And what about the baby?”
   “The baby’s a healthy, beautiful boy,” said Adam.
   To Adam’s utter astonishment he saw something he’d never seen before: tears in his father’s eyes. Before the shock could register, his father’s arms were around him, hugging him. Another first. Adam hugged back. Tears formed in Adam’s eyes as well, and the two men stood there, holding each other for so long that some of the soon-to-be fathers began to stare.
   Finally, a somewhat embarrassed Dr. Schonberg pushed Adam back, but lovingly held onto his arms. Each looked at the other’s tears, then both laughed.
   “I wasn’t crying,” said Dr. Schonberg.
   “Neither was I,” said Adam.
   “You know what I think?” said Dr. Schonberg.
   “What?” asked Adam.
   “I think we’re both lousy liars.”
   “I think I’d have to agree.”

Author’s Note

   Since I graduated from medical school in 1966, I have heard the term “crisis in medicine” so often that it conjures up the allegory of the shepherd boy who cried wolf too many times. But until now the crises have all been voiced by particular interest groups and were often contradictory: too few hospital beds, too many hospital beds; not enough physicians, too many physicians. It was enough to make anyone confused and apathetic.
   But now I have come to believe that “crisis in medicine” is applicable in a truly general sense. Unfortunately, because so many people have cried wolf in the past, the media have only just begun to take note of this very real crisis. What we are witnessing today is the gradual but quickening pace of the intrusion of business into medicine. It must be understood that the corporate mentality of the balance sheet is diametrically opposed to the traditional aspects of altruism that have formed the foundation of the practice of medicine, and this dichotomy augers disaster for the moral and ethical foundations of the profession. Big Business views the medical field as a high-cash-flow, high-profit, low-risk, and low-capital investment industry that is now particularly ripe for takeover.
   Evidence of this shift toward business interests in the medical field is reflected in the newly interlocking ownership of proprietary (for profit) hospitals and nursing home chains, medical suppliers, and a deluge of other health-care organizations like dialysis centers, surgi-centers, etc. Even research has gone in the direction of business as evidenced by the new biotech companies.
   Response to this activity has been surprisingly slight, despite the insidious effect it has on the practice of medicine. Professional journals have viewed the process with curious academic disinterest, doctors have either joined the entrepreneurial bandwagon or ignored it, the public has remained silent, and the media have only just begun to run articles sounding the alarm. It is my hope that Mindbend will help focus public attention. By couching the problem in an emotional framework, it brings the process into personal perspective and allows the reader to understand the implications of the situation through identification with the main character, which I believe is one of the key values of fiction.
   For me, the realization of the intrusion of business into medicine came with a letter I received from a hospital, informing me that its census was low and that I should admit more patients for surgery, as if I had a group of people in the wings who were being denied appropriate operations. That letter, more than any other experience, made me realize that our medical system had inadvertently been constructed to depend upon and reward overutilization of facilities and services, thereby fostering its own rising costs. No wonder businessmen became interested.
   For Mindbend I chose the drug industry as the focal point not because it has been any worse than any other group, but because it has been around longer than most businesses associated with medicine and it exerts a powerful and growing influence. The important point is that the drug firms are corporations which do not exist for the public weal, no matter how much they try to convince the public otherwise. Their goal is to provide a return on their investors’ capital.
   The overriding commercial interest of the drug firms is underlined by the ungodly amount of money (billions of dollars per year) that they spend on promotion of their products, primarily attempting to influence the physician, who unfortunately is rather easy prey. There are very few doctors who have not accepted some gift or service from the drug industry. I still have the black bag given to me as a third-year medical student, and I have attended a number of symposia sponsored by a drug company. The drug industry currently spends more on promotion and advertising each year than it does on research! According to Pills, Profits, and Politics, the amount is also more than the total spent on all educational activities conducted by all the medical schools in the United States to train medical students.
   It would be unfair to suggest that the pharmaceutical industry has not contributed to society. But this has been the by-product, not the goal. And there have been cases in which the public good has been ignored. One need only to mention the thalidomide disaster or the DES calamity to recognize that the record is variegated and that commercial interests can have unfortunate consequences. Drug companies have marketed products that they knew might be dangerous or ineffective or both merely to turn a profit.
   Medical practice as it has been known in this country for the last thirty years or so is changing. The doctor-patient relationship used to be the fulcrum, but it is losing ground to economic and business interests. The American public has a right and an obligation to know what kind of system is evolving.
   For those people interested in pursuing the issue, I recommend the following books:
   Ainsworth, T. H., M.D., Live or Die (Macmillan, 1983). Written by a physician who looks at the problem from the vantage point of having been both a practitioner and a hospital medical director, this book is particularly poignant in its appeal for physicians to recognize what is happening to the profession and to reexert their leadership.
   Silverman, Milton, et al., Pills, Profits, and Politics (University of California Press, 1974). This book gives an overall view of the pharmaceutical industry, and it makes for interesting reading. I’m confident it will arouse some unexpected emotions. Although it was written over ten years ago, it is still strikingly relevant.
   Starr, Paul, The Social Transformation of American Medicine (Basic Books, 1982). This book provides an impressive overview of the history of medicine in America and gives one a realistic comprehension of how the current situation has developed.
   Wohl, Stanley, M.D., The Medical Industrial Complex (Harmony Books, 1984). This readable, concise book discusses the issues with few embellishments.