"What's the matter, Jeff?"
"I—I don't like ... those ... cards."
"But they're only ink blots, Jeff."
Jeff frowned and squinted at the cards. He scratched his head in perplexity. Slowly he sank back down in the chair, didn't even notice as the web-belt restrainers closed over his arms and legs, tightened down.
"Now look at the pictures, Jeff. Tell me what you see."
The perplexity grew on his heavy face, but he looked and talked, slowly, hoarsely. A dog's head, a little gnome, a big red bat.
"Gently, Jeff. Nothing to be afraid of. Relax, man, relax...."
Then came the word-association tests: half an hour of words and answers, while fear curled up through Jeff's brain, gathering, crouching, ready to spring, waiting in horrible anticipation for something, something that was coming as sure as hour followed hour. Jeff felt the web restrainers cutting his wrists, as the words were read. He trembled in growing foreboding.
Dr. Schiml's face was back, still concerned, his eyes bright. "Going all right, Gabe?"
"Dunno, Rog. Something funny with the ink blots. You can glance at the report. Word association all screwed up too. Can't spot it, but there's something funny."