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 comes to the lips, as the personality is swept away in 
madness? There must be something.
  Quaid waited like a carrion bird at the site of some atrocity, counting the minutes 
left to the expiring soul, hoping for a morsel.
  
  Steve woke face down on the grid. The air was much staler now, and the metal bars bit 
into the flesh of his cheek. He was hot and uncomfortable.
  He lay still, letting his eyes become accustomed to his surroundings again. The lines 
of the grid ran off in perfect perspective to meet the wall of the shaft. The simple 
network of criss-crossed bars struck him as pretty. Yes, pretty. He traced the lines back 
and forth, 'til he tired of the game. Bored, he rolled over onto his back, feeling the 
grid vibrate under his body. Was it less stable now? It seemed to rock a little as he 
moved.
  Hot and sweaty, Steve unbuttoned his shirt. There was sleep-spittle on his chin but he 
didn't care to wipe it off. What if he drooled? Who was to see?
  He half pulled off his shirt, and using one foot, kicked his shoe off the other.
  Shoe: lattice: fall. Sluggishly, his mind made the con-nection. He sat up. Oh poor 
shoe. His shoe would fall. It would slip between the bars and be lost. But no. It was 
finely balanced across two sides of a lattice-hole; he could still save it if he tried.
  He reached for his poor, poor shoe, and his movement shifted the grid.
  The shoe began to slip.
  'Please,' he begged it, 'don't fall.' He didn't want to lose his nice shoe, his pretty 
shoe. It mustn't fall. It mustn't fall.
  As he stretched to snatch it, the shoe tipped, heel down, through the grid and fell 
into the darkness.
  He let out a cry of loss that he couldn't hear.
  Oh, if only he could listen to the shoe falling; to count the seconds of its descent. 
To hear it thud home at the bottom of the shaft. At least then he'd know how far he had 
to fall to his death.
  He couldn't endure it any longer. He rolled over on to his stomach and thrust both arms 
through the grid, screaming:
  'I'll go too! I'll go too!'
  
  He couldn't bear waiting to fall, in the dark, in the whining silence, he just wanted 
to follow his shoe down, down, down the dark shaft to extinction, and have the whole game 
finished once and for all.
  'I'll go! I'll go! I'll go!' he shrieked. He pleaded with gravity.
  Beneath him, the grid moved.
  Something had broken. A pin, a chain, a rope that held the grid in position had 
snapped. He was no' longer horizontal; already he was sliding across the bars as they 
tipped him off into the dark.
  With shock he realized his limbs were no longer chained.
  He would fall.
  The man wanted him to fall. The bad man - what was his name? Quake? Quail? Quarrel 
-Automatically he seized the grid with both hands as it tipped even further over. Maybe 
he didn't want to fall after his shoe, after all? Maybe life, a little moment more of 
life, was worth holding on to -The dark beyond the edge of the grid was so deep; and who 
could guess what lurked in it?
  In his head the noises of his panic multiplied. The thumping of his bloody heart, the 
stutter of his mucus, the dry rasp of his palate. His palms, slick with sweat, were 
losing their grip. Gravity wanted him. It demanded its rights of his body's bulk: 
demanded that he fall. For a moment, glancing over his shoulder at the mouth that opened 
under him, he thought he saw monsters stirring below him. Ridiculous, loony things, 
crudely drawn, dark on dark. Vile graffiti leered up from his childhood and uncurled 
their claws to snatch at his legs.
  'Mama,' he said, as his hands failed him, and he was delivered into dread.
  'Mama.'
  That was the word. Quaid heard it plainly, in all its banality.
  'Mama!'
  By the time Steve hit the bottom of the shaft, he was past judging how far he'd fallen. 
The moment his hands let go of the grid, and he knew the dark would have him, his mind