Free Psychlone by Greg Bear Page B

hospital,” she said. “I don't know if they have any connection with Lorobu or not.” She shuddered involuntarily. “Mr. Jacobs—"
    “Frank."
    “These—receptions. They caused me a great deal of distress. I've never felt so sickened by a contact. There was nothing but pain and burning and ... incompleteness. I don't know how else to describe it."
    Jacobs looked at the list by the candle lantern. “These were the people who talked to you?"
    “They weren't the only ones talking. They were just the only ones I could understand. It was cacophony. I'm not even sure whether the background noise was people speaking. Or just animals, or demons...” She stopped as if to gauge his reaction. “Do you believe in demons, Mr. Jacobs?"
    “I believe in the forces which create them."
    “That's an ambiguous response."
    “Miss Unamuno, I have never met a demon. Other people tell me they have, and that demons are real. When I meet one, I'll judge.” He lowered his voice. “However, I've seen things attributed to demons. My attitudes are too complex to explain here.” He reached into his coat pocket for a pencil, then hesitated. “Do you mind if I copy these down? And ask more questions?"
    She shook her head. “If anything can be done to ease their misery, I'm only too glad to help."
    “Just the names. Is that all you received?"
    “And some visual impressions. I believe one of them was a pilot or something. He appeared in an airplane cockpit. Another was on a ship. Not actually, while they communicated with me—if you can call it that—but by way of biographical shorthand. Like we use names."
    “Lieutenant William Skorvin, United States Navy,” he read from the top of the list. “Corporal S.K. Percher, U.S. Army Air Force.” He wrote the names carefully on his paper. “I'm surprised there were no serial numbers,” he said.
    “There were,” she said, “but I was too sick to write them down."
    “What made you sick?” Jacobs asked.
    “Like I said, they were in misery. A big bundle of ... agony, suffering. These people, these names, they were caught, I think. Like bits picked up by a cyclone."
    Jacobs wrote her description down, then noticed he had misspelled a word. He brought the eraser down and hesitated. He had written psychlone.

Psychlone

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    “You're going to like it in Salt Lake City,” Richard Townsend said, bending over his younger brother. “Suzanne and I have a real nice home up there. You can meet your nephew—you're an uncle, know that?"
    Tim nodded. “Will I have a room to myself?"
    “Yes, I think so. They've got good schools in Utah, lots of pretty country. I can take you out hunting, fishing—"
    “Don't want to kill anything,” Tim said.
    “Huh?” Rick stood up straight and frowned. “No, no,” he said thoughtfully, “of course not. I mean animals, Tim, fish, not people."
    Tim saw the nurse who had just entered the room give Rick a disapproving look and shake her head. “Mr. Townsend,” she said, handing him papers, “here are the hospital release forms. A lot of newsmen have been trying to speak to Tim. We don't recommend they be allowed to do so for a long time."
    Tim was about to say, “But I want to tell someone—” but he kept his mouth shut. He wanted to talk to someone besides doctors. He already knew they didn't understand.
    Rick gathered up the luggage and a cardboard box full of spaceship and airplane models. He opened the lid on the box and peeped in, then smiled. “Got a real fine hobby store near us, too."
    “Let's go,” Tim said. He looked up at the nurse and said, “Thank you."
    She smiled and tousled his hair. “No problem, Tim,” she said. But he could tell she was relieved. At least he wouldn't go around acting crazy and killing people, she was thinking. Cynthia Furness and Beverly Winegrade, dead. Tim Townsend, alive. He could tell. All the doctors and nurses were afraid of him. Even the FBI agent didn't treat him like a little boy, but