The walls rushed in as Greg stumbled drunkenly. The ceiling sagged lower. Long knobs fell, like globules of paste, then lengthened into shapeless tendrils that snapped out at Greg.
He fell back.
Pat's scream penetrated again. No beauty remained in her face now. Her eyes were sick. Her lips were loose and trembling.
"Greg—help me—help me—see what it does—the others—"
He saw the others then. Maybe he hadn't noticed before, because his mind didn't want him to see.
Husks. Pallid wrinkled husks, sucked dry and shriveled. Several figures not recognizable anymore, hardly recognizable as human. Just vaguely human, broken, sucked dry.
His mind seemed covered by a grotesque shadow. His flesh crawled and his throat turned dry, and perspiration made a stream down his throat. He felt his eyes looking down at his right hand.
It held the heat-blaster. The skin felt tight as though it would split as he gripped the heavy butt of the coiled weapon.
He concentrated on the finger that was frozen on the firing stud. If he could destroy, then he was insane. His experience with Drakeson, that had been no test at all compared with this. This was Pat. Pat, and she was dying—dying unspeakably.
This was the great test of his sanity. He concentrated on the finger. He must keep it frozen. He must back out of here. Get away, get back to the Cowl, back to anesthesia and sleep.