Drug of Choice

His own duties were not taxing. When the storm blew over and good weather returned, the cases of pneumonia cleared quickly, and the number of sunburns was quite small. One fifty-year-old man began to develop chest pain, and was — with the help of the psychologist and the sociologist — sent home to a hospital. Otherwise, life was uneventful.

He had one bad moment with Sharon Wilder. He went to her room to check a possible eye infection; she had complained about itching eyes to one of the waiters who brought her dinner.

When he entered her room, he found her wearing a nightgown, sitting up in a chair. It was midday; she looked tanned and healthy.

“Hello,” she said, when he entered the room. She gave no sign of recognition.

“Hello,” he said. “I am the hotel doctor.”

“Oh,” she said. “Good.”

He went over and examined her eyes. One was red and inflamed. “Has your eye been bothering you?”

“Yes,” she said. “It happened while I was sailing yesterday. I think the wind blew something in.”

He turned back the lid, and found an eyelash, which he wiped away with a bit of cotton.

“Thank you,” she said, when he was through. “You’re very gentle. I like doctors.”

He nodded.

“I came here with a doctor,” she said. “You know Dr. Clark?”

“Yes, I think so…”

“I came here with him,” she said. “But I wish I hadn’t.”

He told himself that he ought to leave now, that he Wouldn’t hear more. But he stayed. “Why is that?”

“They made me do it,” she said.

“Who did?”

“George, and the others.”

“What others?”

“Harvey Blood, all the others.”

“How do you happen to know them?”

“I’ve been working for them,” she said, “for a long time. They control everything.”

“And they made you bring Dr. Clark?”

“Yes. They have some kind of plan for him.”

“A plan?”

“Yes.”

“For here? At the resort?”

“Yes. But also later…”

“Do you know what the plan is?”

“No.” She shook her head. “But I worry.”

“What about?”

“Roger,” she said. “I worry about him.”

“Why do you worry?”

“Because he’s so stupid,” she said, and lapsed into silence.

He tried to tell himself that it meant nothing, that she was simply expressing a fantasy under the influence of a drug. He had heard other fantasies from guests which were impossible and untrue; there was no reason to believe differently about Sharon Wilder.

He tried to tell himself, to convince himself.

It didn’t work.

Several days later, as his month at the resort was ending, he said to Lefevre, “I’ll be going back soon.”

“Yes,” Lefevre said. “You will.”

“To Los Angeles?”

Lefevre laughed. “Of course. That’s your home, isn’t it?”

Clark frowned. “But I know a lot. I know a lot about this island, and about Advance. You don’t expect me to believe that you’re just going to turn me loose—”

“I do expect you to believe it,” Lefevre said. “That is exactly what we intend.”

“You’re not afraid I’ll talk?”

“Talk to whom?” Lefevre said, and laughed. “Nobody would believe you if you told them the truth. They’d laugh you out of town. No, no, we’re not worried.”

Three days later, he was in his room, packing his suitcase and preparing to return to Los Angeles.

16. THE SHORT SAD LIE OF ROGER CLARK

“Now seriously,” Sharon Wilder said, as the seaplane took off, “wasn’t that the most fabulous place?”

“Fabulous,” Clark said.

“I adored every minute of it,” Sharon said, and snuggled up against his shoulder. “I just loved it.”

“So did I.”

She yawned. “But I’m sleepy…all that excitement…”

A few minutes later, she dozed off. Looking around the airplane, Clark saw that most of the other passengers were sleeping as well.

He did not feel sleepy at all. In fact, he was more wide-awake than he had felt in days. He checked his watch; in an hour, they would reach Nassau, and then an hour after that, Miami.

Miami, he decided, was the place. Not Los Angeles. They would almost certainly be waiting for him in Los Angeles, but they might not be expecting anything in Miami.

He tried to formulate a plan. He wouldn’t have much time; it would have to be done in the airport. He could call the police — or he could go to the airport police — or perhaps the medical station at the airport, he might be believed by doctors — or he could call his lawyer in Los Angeles from the airport, and get his advice — or he could call the police, an anonymous tip to investigate Eden Island, that it was all a fraud…

He considered each idea in turn, and tried to make up his mind.

But two hours later, when he landed in Miami, he still had not decided.

“Harry, will you come on already, we’ll miss the plane…. Harry, do you want us to miss the plane, is that what you want, Harry?”

The woman pounded on the glass telephone booth. Inside, Harry turned his back to her. Clark, waiting in line, sighed. This had been going on for five minutes.

“Harry…”

Clark looked around. The booth was located along a corridor leading to the departure gates. People were walking up and down, going to planes, leaving them, family, friends, everyone…

He watched the crowd carefully, wondering why he was bothering. Did he expect to find someone he knew?