Psychlone by Greg Bear Read Free Book Online Page B

thought you were stable, maybe a little too stable, but reliable. Someone who wouldn't do strange things. God knows I've—we've had enough of that sort of person."
    “You think I'm acting unstable?"
    “I make no accusations,” she said. “Only suggestions."
    “I backed down out there. Maybe there was something there. Whatever, I backed away from it."
    “We're both immune to spirits and spooks, aren't we?” she said. It was their private joke, in reference to their avowed, deep-seated agnosticism. “Matter is all."
    “I have to go back."
    “So be it, then. But make sure everything is set here, first."
    “I will.” His armpits were damp. She was right.
    The thought of going back was terrifying.

Psychlone

CHAPTER TEN
    Albuquerque
    Timothy Townsend turned twelve on December second. He put together a spaceship model kit given to him by the hospital staff, and looked out the window at the hospital parking lot, the church across the street and the airplanes leaving the airport.
    There was still blood on his hands, but only he could see it. He had learned that the doctors didn't want him to see it, so he didn't. It was better not to talk about certain things.
    He had been allowed to see Cynthia Furness in her room, once. It had been bad. She was still unconscious, and her hand was in bandages, but he could see it glowing through the dressings. He had screamed and they had taken him back to his room. In her sleep, Cynthia had moaned and turned her head a little.
    So he didn't tell them about that any more. He didn't like the hospital, but his future was even more bleak. Rick, his brother, was going to pick him up in a few weeks and take him to Salt Lake City to live. Tim didn't like Rick very much. They used to get along fine, but now Rick was different. He had changed since being married. His hair was short, he wore funny clothes, and he talked to Tim in a funny way. But the only choice was to go to Rick's house or stay in the hospital. Neither prospect sounded good.
    Tim knew he had problems to solve—personal problems. His nightmares were bad. Sometimes he would dream he was back in the house when everything happened. Other times he would dream his mother and father and somebody else were coming to visit him. They were very unhappy. The third person was a man in a uniform. Tim was pretty good at recognizing uniforms, but this fellow's was a puzzle.
    It was better not to think much at all. So he put together the spaceship model, careful that no glue slopped over—only little kids slopped glue, and it was time to grow up—and glad that they had finally let him use enamels and thinner. For a while he had used a plastic paint that a nurse had brought in. She was an artist as well as a nurse and she said that paint was called “acrylic” and wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't catch on fire or anything. But it scraped off with just fingernails. The enamel was better. Permanent.
    When he was done with it, the nurse put a tack in the ceiling and hung it from a thread. The doctor who talked to him that afternoon congratulated him. “It's a good job,” he said. His name was Jason, a neat name, and he was black-haired and dark-skinned, a Mex probably, but he was okay. Sometimes Tim's father complained—had complained—about Mexes, but he had once called Juan Oliveros the best mechanic in Lorobu, and Juan was—had been—a Mex.
    He hadn't told them that he wanted to see if the enamel thinner took the blood off his hands. He tried and it didn't.
    Tim ate dinner, feigning an appetite, and the orderly who picked up his tray said, “You'll be out of here real soon. Cynthia and Beverly are coming along fine, too."
    But he was lying. Cynthia was still in a coma. Another doctor had said that in the hall when Tim had gone to the bathroom. Cynthia was sleeping and she didn't even need to. Her hand was doing fine, though. She didn't have any fingers left, he could tell that because of the shape of the bandage, but it wasn't going to