And Rabin screamed—
Shocked, the memory of the little girl's hysteria strong in him, Winthrop spun toward Rabin, and found the man's dark face suddenly vacuous. Rabin's hands were spread out, clutching the table's edge. His eyes were blank, blind.
"Rabin!" Winthrop yelled. He slapped the man's face stingingly. The dark head rocked, but the expression did not change.
A doctor administered a sedative and took Rabin away, silent, stumbling in a trance provoked, it seemed, by concentrated study of pictures too vividly drawn in some extra-solar abyss of depravity.
Benton Allan returned to the computers. Winthrop followed. There was much in Winthrop's mind then that he had still to rationalize.
At length he whispered, "Al—" and it was urgent then. "There's more to the ship than we suspect. To the books, too. I'm not sure about Rabin. He may have been on the verge of a breakdown. The book may have simply contributed. I don't know. It's hard to be sure.
"I'm just getting over a breakdown myself. I studied the book, and I haven't had a decent moment's rest since the ship came. But I haven't cracked. Be that as it may, there's something wrong in all this, Al. Whatever you find from this point on, let me know about it first, please!"
Allan turned quickly from the computer, peering owlishly over his glasses. "Why, George?" He searched Winthrop's tense face.
"A crazy hunch, Al. Just let me know."
"I will," Allan promised. "But, damn it, man, stop giving me the creeps!"