Free Tiger! Tiger! by Alfred Bester Page B

irradiated, disinfected, dosed and inoculated. Their paper uniforms were removed and burned. New uniforms were issued. Then they shuffled back to their cells which had been automatically scrubbed out while they were in sanitation. In his cell, Foyle listened to interminable therapeutic talks, lectures, moral and ethical guidance for the rest of the morning. Then there was silence again, and I nothing but the rush of distant water and the quiet steps of goggled guards in the corridors.
     
    In the afternoon came occupational therapy. The T.V. screen in each cell illuminated and the patient thrust his hands into the shadow frame of the screen. He saw three-dimensionally and he felt broadcast objects and tools. He cut hospital uniforms, sewed them, manufactured kitchen utensils and prepared foods. Although actually he touched nothing, his motions were transmitted to the shops where the work was accomplished by remote control. After one short hour of this relief came the darkness and silence again.
     
    But every so often . . . once or twice a week (or perhaps once or twice a year) come the muffed thud of a distant explosion. The concussions were startling enough to distract Foyle from the furnace of vengeance that he stoked all through the silences. He whispered questions to the invisible figures around him in Sanitation.
     
    `What's them explosions?'
     
    `Explosions?'
     
    `Blow-ups. Hear 'em a long way off, me.'
     
    `Them's Blue Jauntes.'
     
    `What?'
     
    `Blue Jauntes. Every sometime a guy gets fed up with Jeffrey. Can't take it no more, him. Jauntes into the wild blue yonder.'
     
    'Jesus.`
     
    `Yep. Don't know where they are, them. Don't know where they're going. Blue Jaunte into the dark . . . and we'll hear 'em in the mountains. Boum! Blue Jaunte.' He was appalled, but he could understand. The darkness, the silence, the monotony destroyed sense and brought on desperation. The loneliness was intolerable. The patients buried in Gouffre Martel prison hospital looked forward eagerly to the morning Sanitation period for a chance to whisper a word and hear a word. But these fragments were not enough and desperation came. Then there would be another distant explosion.
     
    Sometimes the suffering men would turn on each other and then a savage fight would break out in Sanitation. These were instantly broken up by the goggled guards, and the morning lecture would switch on the Moral Fiber record preaching the Virtue of Patience.
     
    Foyle learned the records by heart; every word, every click and crack in the tapes. He learned to loathe the voices of the lecturers; the Understanding Baritone, the Cheerful Tenor, the Man-to-Man Bass. He learned to deafen himself to the therapeutic monotony, and perform his occupational therapy mechanically, but he was without resources to withstand the endless solitary hours. Fury was not enough.
     
    He lost count of the days, of meals, of sermons. He no longer whispered in Sanitation. His mind came adrift and he began to wander. He imagined he was back aboard Nomad, reliving his fight for survival. Then he lost even this feeble grasp on illusion and began to sink deeper and deeper into the pit of catatonia; of womb silence, womb darkness and womb sleep.
     
    There were fleeting dreams. An angel hummed to him once. Another time she sang quietly. Thrice he heard her speak; `Oh God. ..' and `God damn!' and `Oh ... in a heart-rending descending note.
     
    He sank into his abyss, listening to her.
     
    `There is a way out,' his angel murmured in his ear, sweetly, comforting. Her voice was soft and warm, yet it burned with anger. It was the voice of a furious angel.
     
    `There is a way out.' It whispered in his ear from nowhere, and suddenly, with the logic of desperation, it came to him that there was a way out of Gouffre Martel. He had been a fool not to see it before.
     
    `Yes,' he croaked. `There's a way out.'
     
    There was a soft gasp, then a soft question: `Who's there?'
     
    'Me, is all,'