"I am not a psychiatrist," Dr. Temple went on gently, each word falling like the blow of a hammer, "but everything you have told me admits of a known delusional pattern with which even I am familiar. The presence of enemies with super-human powers, your own possession of abnormal abilities and the fact that your unique talents make you an object of persecution by these enemies, seems to fit a schizophrenic syndrome. I would have to look it up, but—"
"That won't be necessary," I said dully. "I looked it up. Paranoid schizophrenia."
"The hallucinations, if I'm not mistaken, both visual and auditory are also part of that pattern," the scientist added. "And also the indications of withdrawal which you've admitted. Even the idea of being possessed, forced to do things you don't want to—"
"Oh, yes," I agreed bitterly. "It all fits. Perfectly."
Dr. Temple caught himself and stopped abruptly, as if embarrassed by his own absorption in the problem. He coughed self-consciously. I avoided his eyes. Silence was loud in the room.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Cameron," the scientist said at last. "You have come to me for help. I can't give it to you—but I think you can help yourself. You were confronted suddenly when you were young with a shocking fact which apparently destroyed your sense of security. Now, years later, your attempt to escape the reality you tried to push out of your mind has created an intolerable conflict. But now that you know what has happened you can resolve that conflict. You can face the reality. After all, it is not so very important or shameful to know that you are the bastard son of a very distinguished scientist and a woman you loved deeply. Is it so hard to accept that you must escape from it into fantasy?"
I shook my head, unable to answer. The mind is not that simple, I thought. It does not move in such neatly laid out channels. I rose stiffly and walked to the windows. For a moment I stood there staring at the city becoming lost in darkness. On impulse, I opened one window. Fresh, cool air washed against my face. I stood listening to the whisper of voices, soft in the distance, to the tinkling fall of laughter.
The final god had spoken. I knew at last, without doubt, that I was insane.
19
Alone and on foot, I wandered through the garish streets of the city. I moved without purpose or destination, with the drunk's uncertain and aimless step. Like the sponge it resembled, my brain soaked up the sights and sounds, soon became sodden with the glut of sensation until the images were overlapping, blurred and meaningless. I walked. Around me there was the blare of horns, the swish of tires on pavement, the scrape and clip of feet along the sidewalk, the eager call and the murmured phrase. Overhead, the slow and heavy throbbing of a helicopter or, higher in distance and frequency, the whine and clap of a jet slapping through the sound barrier. Sometimes the rumble of an unseen train speeding along the monorail nearby, whistling shrilly as it neared a stop. At intervals the clashing sound effects and throbbing voices from a public telescreen, rising in volume and urgency as I approached, then fading slowly behind me. And always there was music, blaring from a loudspeaker, muffled by an intervening wall, exploding as a door was opened. The soar of a violin, the call of a trumpet, the crash of a drum, the croon of a human voice. All these followed me along the crowded streets.