Grant nodded. "Poor guy."
"Yes, it is a pity. Had he been properly taken care of in childhood - Well, it is best for Dr. Ralson that he have no contact with any of the other men here. He is too sick to be trusted with them. You, yourself, must arrange to be the only man who will see him or speak to him. Dr. Ralson has agreed to that. He apparently thinks you are not as stupid as some of the others."
Grant smiled faintly. "That is agreeable to me."
"You will, of course, be careful. I would not discuss anything with him but his work. If he should volunteer information about his theories, which I doubt, confine yourself to something noncommittal, and leave. And at all times, keep away anything that is sharp and pointed. Do not let him reach a window. Try to have his hands kept in view. You understand. I leave my patient in your care, Dr. Grant."
"I will do my best, Dr. Blaustein."
For two months, Ralson lived in a comer of Grant's office, and Grant lived with him. Gridwork had been built up before the windows, wooden furniture was removed and upholstered sofas brought in. Ralson did his thinking on the couch and his calculating on a desk pad atop a hassock.
The "Do Not Enter" was a permanent fixture outside the office. Meals were left outside. The adjoining men's room was marked off for private use and the door between it and the office removed. Grant switched to an electric razor. He made certain that Ralson took sleeping pills each night and waited till the other slept before sleeping himself.
And always reports were brought to Ralson. He read them while Grant watched and tried to seem not to watch.
Then Ralson would let them drop and stare at the ceiling, with one hand shading his eyes.
"Anything?" asked Grant.
Ralson shook his head from side to side.
Grant said, "Look, I'll clear the building during the swing shift. It's important that you see some of the experimental jigs we've been setting up."
They did so, wandering through the lighted, empty buildings like drifting ghosts, hand in hand. Always hand in hand. Grant's grip was tight. But after each trip, Ralson would still shake his head from side to side.
Half a dozen times he would begin writing; each time there would be a few scrawls and then he would kick the hassock over on its side.
Until, finally, he began writing once again and covered half a page rapidly. Automatically, Grant approached. Ralson looked up, covering the sheet of paper with a trembling hand.
He said, "Call Blaustein."
"What?"
"I said, 'Call Blaustein.' Get him here. Now!" Grant moved to the telephone.
Ralson was writing rapidly now, stopping only to brush wildly at his forehead with the back of a hand. It came away wet.
He looked up and his voice was cracked, "Is he coming?"
Grant looked worried. "He isn't at his office."
"Get him at his home. Get him wherever he is. Use that telephone. Don't play with it."
Grant used it; and Ralson pulled another sheet toward himself.
Five minutes later, Grant said, "He's coming. What's wrong? You're looking sick."
Ralson could speak only thickly, "No time - Can't talk - "
He was writing, scribbling, scrawling, shakily diagramming. It was as though he were driving his hands, fighting it.
"Dictate!" urged Grant. "I'll write."
Ralson shook him off. His words were unintelligible. He held his wrist with his other hand, shoving it as though it were a piece of wood, and then he collapsed over the papers.
Grant edged them out from under and laid Ralson down on the couch. He hovered over him restlessly and hopelessly until Blaustein arrived.
Blaustein took one look. "What happened?"
Grant said, "I think he's alive," but by that time Blaustein had verified that for himself, and Grant told him what had happened.
Blaustein used a hypodermic and they waited. Ralson's eyes were blank when they opened. He moaned.
Blaustein leaned close. "Ralson."
Ralson's hands reached out blindly and clutched at the psychiatrist. "Doc. Take me back."
"I will. Now. It is that you have the force field worked out, no?"
"It's on the papers. Grant, it's on the papers."
Grant had them and was leafing through them dubiously. Ralson said, weakly, "It's not all there. It's all I can write. You'll have to make it out of that. Take me back, Doc!"
"Wait," said Grant. He whispered urgently to Blaustein. "Can't you leave him here till we test this thing? I can't make out what most of this is. The writing is illegible. Ask him what makes him think this will work."
"Ask him?" said Blaustein, gentry. "Isn't he the one who always knows?"
"Ask me, anyway," said Ralson, overhearing from where he lay on the couch. His eyes were suddenly wide and blazing.
They turned to him.
He said, "They don't want a force field. They! The experimenters! As long as I had no true grasp, things remained as they were. But I hadn't followed up that thought - that thought which is there in the papers - I hadn't followed it up for thirty seconds before I felt... I felt - Doctor - "
Blaustein said, "What is it?"
Ralson was whispering again, "I'm deeper in the penicillin. I could feel myself plunging in and in, the further I went with that. I've never been in... so deep. That's how I knew I was right. Take me away."
Blaustein straightened. "I'll have to take him away, Grant. There's no alternative. If you can make out what he's written, that's it. If you can't make it out, I can't help you. That man can do no more work in his field without dying, do you understand?"