Drug of Choice

“Oh no,” Roger said. “I wouldn’t do anything like that.” George gave him a funny look again, then smiled, and left.

The lab technician said, “We’re going to have a fine time here,” and Roger could only agree. Immediately, he began work.

The next two weeks were the happiest he had ever known. He had a worthy project, and he devoted himself to it during every waking hour. He lived in a pleasant room on the top floor of the building, so it was very convenient. He was close to his work and had no need to leave for anything. Whatever he requested was brought to him instantly. It was a very agreeable place to work.

He saw Sharon Wilder once, and she seemed happy to see him. She asked how things were going and he said they were going wonderfully.

During the second week, he saw Susan Ryle, the Glow Girl. She looked surprisingly different. They had done things to her, cut her hair and changed the way she made up her eyes. She was like a different person. She remarked to Roger that he looked different, too. He was very flattered.

Toward the end of the second week, he began having dreams. At first, they occurred only occasionally, strange and annoying dreams. They disturbed his sleep.

He thought of mentioning them to George, but never did. He was afraid that George would take him off the project if he knew. After all, they couldn’t have an unstable man working on an important project.

And he was feeling a little unstable.

Later, the dreams began to come every night. They were always the same. He was flying an airplane over tropical islands, shining in blue water. He was happy, flying the airplane. And then the airplane would go into a dense fog, and it would start to worry him.

He would wake up in a cold sweat.

Perhaps, he thought, I am working too hard. He took more of an interest in his lab technician, who was interested in him as well. She began to spend nights in his room, and he dreamed less when she was there.

But with time, the dreams progressed. He would fly into the fog, and then somehow he would know that there was an end to the fog, a frightening end. Something outside the comforting, frightening white fog.

He no longer invited the technician to stay with him. He was afraid that he would talk in his sleep, and she would report him to George, and that would mean he would be taken off the project. He couldn’t allow that to happen. Because he lived for that project; it meant everything to him.

Everything.

Sometime during the sixth week, his dreams broke through the fog. He saw what lay beyond, and it was some kind of hideous chair.

Immediately, he woke up. He was shivering and sweating, and angry. He did not understand precisely why, but he was very, very angry.

He got out of bed in a silent rage, and dressed. He had no real idea what he was doing, or where he was going. Once dressed, he looked around the room and saw a large paperweight on his desk. It was heavy plastic, with a piece of rock imbedded inside.

He carried it downstairs with him. As he moved quietly through the halls, his anger was very great; he could hardly wait until he met that damned guard.

As he reached the ground floor, he saw the guard. It was Sam, the night duty man; Roger had met him before in the evenings.

“Hello, Dr. Clark,” Sam said. “Another late night with the experiments?”

“Yes,” Roger said. “Looks like it.”

He let the guard walk past him. Then he turned, and swung with the paperweight. He felt a flash of horror as the heavy plastic struck skull and scalp; the guard fell and bled profusely.

His anger began to die.

The chair, he thought, and it slowly came back to him. Not all of it, but some.

Enough.

Quickly, he took the keychain from Sam’s belt and used it to shut down the alarm. Then he unlocked the front door and went down the steps into the night. Two cars were parked in the lot — a black limousine and a brown sedan, which he guessed was Sam’s car. He tried the keys until he found the one which unlocked the door; he got in and started the engine, and drove down the drive.

It was not until he was on the road that he realized he had no idea where he was going.

It was difficult to think clearly. Images were flashing through his mind, conflicting images.

“They did something to me,” he said aloud. “They did something to my head.”

That was it.

They had done something. And now where?

Dimly, he remembered bits of conversation. “…you’re nothing outside…” “nowhere to go…” “Friends aren’t friends, any more…” Was it true? He wondered.

And then, not knowing what else to do, he drove back to his old apartment.

It was foolish of him. He should have known it would be watched. When he pulled up across the street from the entrance, he saw the man sitting in the car, and the other man lounging against a lamppost on the streetcorner.

By now, they would know he had escaped. They would be after him. Where could he go?

The police.

But somehow he wasn’t ready to go to the police, not yet. He wanted to talk it over with somebody else, to try out the story, see how it sounded.

Sharon?