For a space he stood looking down at the small woman. Peace dwelt in her smile. Doubtless she, like most aboard, owed her continued sanity to this apparatus. Despite every effort at decoration, at actual interior construction of desired facilities, the ship was too sterile an environment. Total sensory deprivation quickly causes the human mind to lose its hold on reality. Deprived of the data-flow with which it is meant to deal, the brain spews forth hallucinations, goes irrational, and finally collapses into lunacy. The effects of prolonged sensory impoverishment are slower, subtler, but in many ways more destructive. Direct electronic stimulation of the appropriate encephalic centers becomes necessary. That is speaking in neurological terms. In terms of immediate emotion, the extraordinarily intense and lengthy dreams generated by the stimulus— whether pleasurable or not— become a substitute for real experience.

Nevertheless…

Glassgold’s skin was loose and unhealthy in hue. The EEG screen behind the helmet said she was in a soothed condition. That meant she could be roused fast without danger. Reymont snapped down the override switch on the timer. The oscilloscopic trace of the inductive pulses that had been going through her head flattened and darkened.

She stirred. “Shalom, Moshe,” he heard her whisper. There was nobody along of that name. He slid the helmet off. She squeezed her eyes tighter shut, knuckled them, and tried to turn around on the padding.

“Wake up.” Reymont gave her a shake.

She blinked at him. The breath snapped into her. She sat straight. He could almost see the dream fade away behind those eyes. “Come on,” he said, offering his hand to assist. “Out of that damned coffin.”

“Ach, no, no,” she slurred. “I was with Moshe.”

“I’m sorry, but—”

She crumpled into sobbing. Reymont slapped the box, a crack across the ship’s murmur. “All right,” he said. “I’ll make that a direct order. Out! And report to Dr. Latvala.”

“What the devil’s going on here?”

Reymont turned. Norbert Williams must have heard them, the door being ajar, and come in from the pool, because the chemist was nude and wet. He was also furious. “You’ve gotten to bullying women, huh?” he said. “Not even big women. Scram.”

Reymont stood where he was. “We have regulations about these boxes,” he said. “If a person hasn’t the self-discipline to obey them, I have to compel.”

“Yah! Snooping, peering, shoving your nose up our privacy— by God, I’m not going to stand for it any longer!”

“Don’t,” Glassgold implored. “Don’t fight. I’m sorry. I will go.”

“Like hell you will,” the American answered, “Stay. Insist on your rights.” His features burned crimson. “I’ve had a bellyful of this little tin Jesus, and now’s the time to do something about him.”

Reymont said, spacing his words: “The regulation limiting use wasn’t written for fun, Dr. Williams. Too much is worse than none. It becomes addictive. The end result is insanity.”

“Listen.” The chemist made an obvious effort to curb his wrath. “People aren’t identical. You may think we can be stretched and trimmed to fit your pattern— you and your dragooning us into calisthenics, your arranging work details that a baby could see aren’t for anything except to keep us busy a few hours a day, your smashing the still that Pedro Barrios built— your whole petty dictatorship, ever since we veered off on this Flying Dutchman chase—” He lowered his volume. “Listen,” he said. “Those regulations. Like here. They’re written to make sure nobody gets an overdose. Of course. But how do you know that some of us are getting enough? We’ve all got to spend time in the boxes. You too, Constable Iron Man. You too.”