Gaylord's face seemed to sag. Breathing fast and shallow, he let go of me and began chewing at his lower lip.
Still pointedly casual, I smoothed my tunic. "Take a good look at yourself, Controller," I suggested. "How would you diagnose a man whose temper flares, in a world where temper can't exist? How would you judge someone who jumps and jerks and jitters under pressure?"
No response.
I leaned forward. "You know the answer, of course, as well as I do. When the thrill-mills began to come in, you thought you'd experiment with one a little—try it out, see how it worked.
"Next thing you knew, your patterns were cracking. You found you couldn't stand the drabness of conditioned living. The world was too bright, too vivid; reality was just too wonderful to give up.
"So, instead of turning yourself in for reconditioning, you've tried to hide the truth and pretend to be just as dull and unresponsive as you were before...."
Gaylord's face had grown paler and paler as I talked. Now suddenly, he spun in his seat and tried to throw himself out the grav-car's open door.
I caught his shoulder; slammed him back. "Controller, I've got news for you! Run out on me now, and I'll see that Kruze has you blocked back to Drudge Third."
Gaylord stared at me for so long my arm was beginning to ache with the strain of holding him.
Finally, then, in a sullen voice, he said, "What do you want me to do?"