The Dark Side Read Free Page A

unclassifiable. We toss it into the “fantasy” bin because it does not fit anywhere else; its basic assumption is one we must believe to be false. (Solipsism, as Kate Wilhelm has pointed out, is the one philosophical belief to which nobody can ever convert anyone else.) Yet it is as closely reasoned, as faithful to observed reality—and as irrefutable—as the hardest of hard s.f.
    This brilliant and compact story has the hallmark of great fiction: you will never be quite the same again after you have read it.

Robert A. Heinlein
THEY
    They would not let him alone.
    They never would let him alone. He realised that that was part of the plot against him—never to leave him in peace, never to give him a chance to mull over the lies they had told him, time enough to pick out the flaws, and to figure out the truth for himself.
    That damned attendant this morning! He had come busting in with his breakfast tray, waking him, and causing him to forget his dream. If only he could remember that dream—
    Someone was unlocking the door. He ignored it.
    “Howdy, old boy. They tell me you refused your breakfast?”
    Dr. Hayward’s professionally kindly mask hung over his bed.
    “I wasn’t hungry.”
    “But we can’t have that. You’ll get weak, and then I won’t be able to get you well completely. Now get up and get your clothes on and I’ll order an eggnog for you. Come on, that’s a good fellow!”
    Unwilling, but still less willing at that moment to enter into any conflict of wills, he got out of bed and slipped on his bathrobe. “That’s better,” Hayward approved. “Have a cigarette?”
    “No, thank you.”
    The doctor shook his head in a puzzled fashion. “Darned if I can figure you out. Loss of interest in physical pleasures does not fit your type of case.”
    “What is my type of case?” he inquired in flat tones.
    “Tut! Tut!” Hayward tried to appear roguish. “If medicos told their professional secrets, they might have to work for a living.”
    “What is my type of case?”
    “Well—the label doesn’t matter, does it? Suppose you tell me. I really know nothing about your case as yet. Don’t you think it is about time you talked?”
    “I’ll play chess with you.”
    “All right, all right.” Hayward made a gesture of impatient concession. “We’ve played chess every day for a week. If you will talk, I’ll play chess.”
    What could it matter? If he was right, they already understood perfectly that he had discovered their plot; there was nothing to be gained by concealing the obvious. Let them try to argue him out of it. Let the tail go with the hide! To hell with it!
    He got out the chessmen and commenced setting them up. “What do you know of my case so far?”
    “Very little. Physical examination, negative. Past history, negative. High intelligence, as shown by your record in school and your success in your profession. Occasional fits of moodiness, but nothing exceptional. The only positive information was the incident that caused you to come here for treatment.”
    “To be brought here, you mean. Why should it cause comment?”
    “Well, good gracious, man-if you barricade yourself in your room and insist that your wife is plotting against you, don’t you expect people to notice?”
    “But she was plotting against me—and so are you. White, or black?”
    “Black—it’s your turn to attack. Why do you think we are ‘plotting against you’?”
    “It’s an involved story, and goes way back into my early childhood. There was an immediate incident, however—” He opened by advancing the white king’s knight to KB3. Hayward’s eyebrows raised.
    “You make a piano attack?”
    “Why not? You know that it is not safe for me to risk a gambit with you.”
    The doctor shrugged his shoulders and answered the opening. “Suppose we start with your early childhood. It may shed more light than more recent incidents. Did you feel that you were persecuted as a child?”
    “No!” He half