My Name is Legion

All right, I believe you, I said. It's okay. Just take it easy.

He reached out and took hold of my arm.

It's all beautiful, he said.

Yeah.

Everything is just, like it's never been before.

What did you take? I asked him.

... Beautiful.

What are you on? I insisted.

You know I never take any, he finally said.

Then what's causing it, whatever it is? Do you know?

Damn fine ... he said.

Something went wrong on the bottom. What was it?

I don't know! Go away! Don't bring it back ... This is how it should be. Always ... Not that crap you take ... Started all the trouble ...

I'm sorry, I said.

... That started it.

I know. I'm sorry. Spoiled things, I ventured. Shouldn't have.

... Talked, he said. ... Blew it.

I know. I'm sorry. But we got him, I tried.

Yeah, he said. Then, Oh, my God!

The diamonds. The diamonds are safe, I suggested quickly.

Got him ... Oh, my God! I'm sorry!

Forget it. Tell me what you see, I said, to get his mind back where I wanted it.

The diamonds ... he said.

He launched into a long, disjointed monologue. I listened. Every now and then I said something to return him to the theme of the diamonds, and I kept throwing out Rudy Myers' name. His responses remained fragmentary, but the picture did begin to emerge.

I hurried then, trying to learn as much as I could before Barthelme returned and decompressed us any further. I was afraid that it would sober him up suddenly, because decompression works that way when you hit the right point in nitrogen-narcosis cases. He and Mike seemed to have been bringing in the diamonds, all right, from where, I did not learn. Whenever I tried to find out whether Frank had been disposing of them for them, he began muttering endearments to Linda. The part I hammered away most at began to come clear, however.

Mike must have said something one time, in the ashram back of the Chickcharny. It must have interested Rudy sufficiently so that he put together a specialty of the house other than a Pink Paradise for him, apparently, several times. These could have been the bad trips I had heard about. Whatever Rudy served him, he got the story out of him and saw dollar signs. Only Paul proved a lot tougher than he had thought. When he made his request for hush money and Mike told Paul about it, Paul came up with the idea for the mad dolphin in the park and got Mike to go along with it, persuading Rudy to meet him there for a payoff. Then things got sort of hazy, because the mention of dolphins kept setting him off. But he had apparently waited at a prearranged point, and the two of them took care of Rudy when that point was reached, one holding him, the other working him over with the jawbone. It was not clear whether Mike was injured fighting with Rudy and Paul then decided to finish him off and make him look like a dolphin slashee also, or whether he had pla

That was the story I got, punctuated rather than phrased by his responses to my oblique questioning. Apparently, killing Mike had bothered him more than he had thought it would, also. He kept calling me Mike, kept saying he was sorry, and I kept redirecting his attention.

Before I could get any more out of him, Barthelme came back and asked me how he was doing.

Babbling, I replied. That's all.

I'm going to decompress some more. That might straighten him out. We're on our way now, and there will be someone waiting.

Good.

But it did not straighten him out. He remained exactly the same. I tried to take advantage, to get more out of him, specifically, the source of the diamonds, but something went wrong. His nirvana switched over to some version of hell.

He launched himself at my throat, and I had to fight him off, push him back, hold him in place. He sagged then, commenced weeping, and began muttering of the horrors he was witnessing. I talked slowly, softly, soothingly, trying to guide him back to the earlier, happier part of things. But nothing worked, so I shut up, stayed silent and kept my guard up.

He drowsed then, and Barthelme continued to decompress us. I kept an eye on Paul's breathing and checked his pulse periodically, but nothing seemed amiss in that area.

We were fully decompressed by the time we docked, and I undogged the hatch and chucked out our gear. Paul stirred at that, opened his eyes, stared at me, then said, That was weird.

How do you feel now?

All right, I think. But very tired and kind of shaky.

Let me give you a hand.

Thanks.

I helped him out and assisted him down the plank to a waiting wheelchair. A young doctor was there, as were the Cashels, Deems, and Carter. I could not help wondering what was going on at the moment inside Paul's head. The doctor checked his heartbeat, pulse, blood pressure, shined a light into his eyes and ears, and had him touch the tip of his nose a couple of times. Then he nodded and gestured, and Barthelme began wheeling him toward the dispensary. The doctor walked along part of the way, talking with them. Then he returned while they went on, and he asked me to tell him everything that had happened.

So I did, omitting only the substance I had derived from the babbling part. Then he thanked me and turned toward the dispensary once more.

I caught up with him quickly.

What does it look like? I asked.

Nitrogen narcosis, he replied.

Didn't it take a rather peculiar form? I said. I mean, the way he responded to decompression and all?

He shrugged.

People come in all shapes and sizes, inside as well as out, he said. Do a complete physical on a man and you still can't tell what he'd be like if he got drunk, say, loud, sad, belligerent, sleepy. The same with this. He seems to be out of it now, though.

No complications?

Well, I'm going to do an EKG as soon as we get him to the dispensary. But I think he's all right ... Listen, is there a decompression chamber in the dispensary?

Most likely. But I'm new here. I'm not certain.

Well, why don't you come along until we find out? If there isn't one, I'd like to have that submersible unit moved over.

Oh?

Just a precaution. I want him to stay in the dispensary overnight, with someone around to keep an eye on him. If there should be a recurrence, I want the machine handy so he can be recompressed right away.

I see.

We caught up with Barthelme at the door. The others were there also.

Yes, there is a unit inside, Barthelme told him, and I'll sit up with him.

Everyone volunteered, though, and the night was finally divided into three shifts, Barthelme, Frank, and Andy, respectively. Each of them, of course, was quite familiar with decompression equipment.

Frank came up and touched my arm.

Nothing much we can really do here now, he said.

Shall we go have that di

Oh? I said, automatically glancing at my watch. So we eat at seven instead of six thirty, he said, chuckling.

Fine. That will give me time to shower and change.

Okay. Come right over as soon as you're ready. We'll still have time for a drink.

All right. I'm thirsty ... See you soon. I went on back to my place and got cleaned up. No new billets-doux, and the stones were still in the disposal unit. I combed my hair and started back across the islet.

As I neared the dispensary, the doctor emerged, talking back over his shoulder to someone in the doorway. Barthelme, probably. As I approached, I saw that he was carrying his bag.

He withdrew, began to move away. He nodded and smiled when he saw me.

I think your friend will be all right, he said.