But Morrissey’s face was growing smaller. No, it was receding. The ceiling light shrank. He was falling—
He shot down with blinding rapidity. White walls rushed up past him. Morrissey’s face receded to a shining dot far above. It grew darker as he fell. Winds screamed, and there was a slow, gradually increasing thundering like an echo resounding from the floor of this monstrous abyss.
Down and down, faster and faster, with the white walls fading to gray and to black, till he was blind, till he was deafened with that roaring echo.
Visibility returned. Everything was out of focus. He blinked, swallowed, and made out the rectangular shape of a bedside screen. There was something else, white and irregular.
“Are you awake, Doctor?”
“Hello, Harwood,” Bruno said to the nurse. “How long have I been out?”
“About two hours. I’ll call Dr. Morrissey.”
She stepped out of the room. Bruno flexed his muscles experimentally. He felt all right. Not even a headache. His vision was normal now. He instinctively reached for his wrist and began counting the pulse. Through the window he could see the slow motion of a branch, the leaves fluttering in a gentle wind. Footsteps sounded.
“Congratulations,” Morrissey said, coming to the bed. “Gregson’s in shock, but he’s already beginning to come out of it. No prognosis yet, but I’ll bet a cookie you’ve done it.”
Bruno let out his breath in a long sigh. “You think so?”