Two spots on Bruno’s head had been shaved clean. Parsons carefully affixed electrodes, which were already in place on Gregson’s skull.
“Remember,” Parsons said, “you should be as relaxed as possible.”
“You took no sedative, Doctor,” Morrissey said.
“I don’t need one. The anesthetic will be enough.”
The nurses moved with silent competence about the table. The emergency oxygen apparatus was tested. The adrenalin was checked; the sterilizer steamed on its table. Bruno emptied his mind and relaxed as a nurse swabbed his arm with alcohol.
Superimposure of the electronic mental matrix of sanity ... psychic rapport ... the pattern of his sanity-dampers would be fixed unalterably in the twisted, warped mind of the manic-depressive.
He felt the sting of the needle. Automatically he began counting. One. Two. Three....
He opened his eyes. The face of Morrissey, intent and abstracted, hung over him. Beyond Morrissey was the bright ceiling fluorescent, glaring down with a brilliance that made Bruno blink. His arm stung slightly but otherwise there were no after effects.
“Can you hear me, Doctor?” Morrissey said.
Bruno nodded. “Yes. I’m awake now.” His tongue was a little thick. That was natural. “Gregson?”