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The first infra…red photographs Quaid took of Stephen's confinement pictured his exploration。 As Quaid had expected the subject was being quite rational about his situation。 No hysterics。 No curses。 No tears。 That was the challenge of this particular subject。 He knew precisely what was going on； and he would respond logically to his fears。 That would surely make a more difficult mind to break than Cheryl's。
But how much more rewarding the results would be when he did crack。 Would his soul not open up then； for Quaid to see and touch？ There was so much there； in the man's interior； he wanted to study。
Gradually Steve's eyes became accustomed to the darkness。
He was imprisoned in what appeared to be some kind of shaft。 It was； he estimated； about twenty feet wide； and pletely round。 Was it some kind of air…shaft； for a tunnel； or an underground factory？ Steve's mind mapped the area around Pilgrim Street； trying to pinpoint the most likely place for Quaid to have taken him。 He could think of nowhere。
Nowhere。
He was lost in a place he couldn't fix or recognize。 The shaft had no corners to focus his eyes on； and the walls offered no crack or hole to hide his consciousness
in。
Worse； he was lying spread…eagled on a grid that hung over this shaft。 His eyes could make no impression on the darkness beneath him： it seemed that the shaft might be bottomless。 And there was only the thin network of the grill； and the fragile chain that shackled his ankle to it； between him and falling。
He pictured himself poised under an empty black sky； and over an infinite darkness。 The air was warm and stale。 It dried up the tears that had suddenly sprung to his eyes； leaving them gummy。 When he began to shout for help； which he did after the tears had passed； the darkness ate his words easily。
Having yelled himself hoarse； he lay back on the lattice。 He couldn't help but imagine that beyond his frail bed； the darkness went on forever。 It was absurd； of course。 Nothing goes on forever； he said aloud。
Nothing goes on forever。
And yet； he'd never know。 If he fell in the absolute blackness beneath him； he'd fall and fall and fall and not see the bottom of the shaft ing。 Though he tried to think of brighter； more positive； images； his mind conjured his body cascading down this horrible shaft； with the bottom a foot from his hurtling body and his eyes not seeing it； his brain not predicting it。
Until he hit。
Would he see light as his head was dashed open on impact？ Would he understand； in the moment that his body became offal； why he'd lived and died？
Then he thought： Quaid wouldn't dare。 'Wouldn't dare！' he screeched。 'Wouldn't dare！'
The dark was a glutton for words。 As soon as he'd yelled into it； it was as though he'd never made a sound。
And then another thought： a real baddie。 Suppose Quaid had found this circular hell to put him in because it would never be found； never be investigated？ Maybe he wanted to take his experiment to the limits。
To the limits。 Death was at the limits。 And wouldn't that be the ultimate experiment for Quaid？ Watching a man die： watching the fear of death； the mother lode of dread； approach。 Sartre had written that no man could ever know his own death。 But to know the deaths of others； intimately to watch the acrobatics that the mind would surely perform to avoid the bitter truth … that was a clue to death's nature； wasn't it？ That might； in some small way； prepare a man for his own death。 To live another's dread vicariously was the safest； cleverest way to touch the beast。
Yes； he thought； Quaid might kill me； out of his own tenor。
Steve took a sour satisfaction in that thought。 That Quaid； the impartial experimenter； the would…be educator； was obsessed with terrors because his own dread ran deepest。
That was why he had to watch others deal with their fears。 He needed a solution； a way out for himself。
Thinking all this through took hours。 In the darkness Steve's mind was quick…silver； but uncontrollable。 He found it difficult to keep one train of argument for very long。 His thoughts were like fish； small； fast fish； wriggling out of his grasp as soon as he took a hold of them。
But underlying every twist of thought was the knowledge that he must out…play Quaid。 That was certain。 He must be calm； prove himself a useless subject for Quaid's analysis。
The photographs of these hours showed Stephen lying with his eyes closed on the grid； with a slight frown on his face。 Occasionally； paradoxically； a smile would flit across his lips。 Sometimes it was impossible to know if he was sleeping or waking； thinking or dreaming。
Quaid waited。
Eventually Steve's eyes began to flicker under his lids； the unmistakable sign of dreaming。 It was time； while the subject slept； to turn the wheel of the rack …Steve woke with his hands cuffed together。 He could see a bowl of water on a plate beside him； and a second bowl； full of luke…warm unsalted porridge； beside it。 He ate and drank thankfully。
As he ate； two things registered。 First； that the noise of his eating seemed very loud in his head； and second； that he felt a construction； a tightness； around his temples。
The photographs show Stephen clumsily reaching up to his head。 A harness is strapped on to him； and locked in place。 It clamps plugs deep into his ears； preventing any sound from getting in。
The photographs show puzzlement。 Then anger。 Then fear。
Steve was deaf。
All he could hear were the noises in his head。 The clicking of his teeth。 The slush and swallow of his palate。 The sounds boomed between his ears like guns。
Tears sprang to his eyes。 He kicked at the grid； not hearing the clatter of his heels on the metal bars。 He screamed until his throat felt as if it was bleeding。 He heard none of his cries。
Panic began in him。
The photographs showed its birth。 His face was flushed。 His eyes were wide； his teeth and gums exposed in a grimace。
He looked like a frightened monkey。
All the familiar； childhood feelings swept over him。 He remembered them like the faces of old enemies； the chittering limbs； the sweat； the nausea。 In desperation he picked up the bowl of water and upturned it over his face。 The shock of the cold water diverted his mind momentarily from the panic…ladder it was climbing。 He lay back down on the grid； his body a board； and told himself to breathe deeply and evenly。
Relax； relax； relax； he said aloud。
In his head； he could hear his tongue clicking。 He could hear his mucus too； moving sluggishly in the panic…constricted passages of his nose； blocking and unblocking in his ears。 Now he could detect the low； soft hiss that waited under all the other noises。 The sound of his mind …It was like the white noise between stations on the radio； this was the same whine that came to fetch him under anaesthetic； the same noise that would sound in his ears on the borders of sleep。
His limbs still twitched nervously； and he was only half…aware of the way he wrestled with his handcuffs； indifferent to their edges scouring the skin at his wrists。
The photographs recorded all these reactions precisely。 His war with hysteria： his pathetic attempts to keep the fears from resurfacing。 His tears。 His bloody wrists。
Eventually； exhaustion won over panic； as it had so often as a child。 How many times had he fallen asleep with the salt…taste of tears in his nose and mouth； unable to fight any longer？
The exertion had heightened the pitch of his head…noises。 Now； instead of a lullaby； his brain whistled and whooped him to sleep。
Oblivion was good。
Quaid was disappointed。 It was clear from the speed of his response that Stephen Grace was going to break very soon indeed。 In fact； he was as good as broken； only a few hours into the experiment。 And Quaid had been relying on Stephen。 After months of preparing the ground； it seemed that this subject was going to lose his mind without giving up a single clue。
One word； one miserable word was all Quaid needed。 A little sign as to the nature of the experience。 Or better still； something to suggest a solution； a healing totem； a prayer even。 Surely some Saviour es to the lips； as the personality is swept away in ma