Dimly now, Bernard became conscious of the fact that he was losing himself. Truly losing control of his own mental functions, of his own responses. His own thoughts and the insinuating voice were becoming fused together. And he lay there in his woozy agony, watching it happen, as if from a restful far. It was a strange feeling, dreamy, even sweet, even sensual. So sweet, in fact, so sensual that he could not think of a single rational reason to make it stop. All he had to do was listen, after all, lie there and listen and go along, and eventually he would be let out of this place, which was all in the world he wanted. The lid would come off and he would be welcome—with smiles, with open arms—into the help and comfort of the daylight. All he had to do was stop fretting, stop trying to hold on, stop muddying the sweetness with his will, and the worst of this would soon be over.

Who had taught him, anyway, that he should do otherwise?

“And I’m offering you even more,” said the voice above him, around him, within him. “I’m offering you life, Bernard. I’m offering you free, unfettered, unending life. Come out of this coffin—come out to me—and you will be free of the prospect of burial forever. Free of decay, of the fate of that hideous thing in there beside you. Forever, Bernard.”

“I won’t!” The shout went off in the coffin like a bomb, like a flash of light, before Bernard even realized it had come from his own mouth. “I won’t listen anymore!” He felt as if he had awakened suddenly—had awakened from a deep sleep to find a thief making off with his most prized possession. His mind. He wanted his mind back. And his hands were up against the lid again, his raw fingers bleeding again as he pushed and scrabbled violently at the stone. The hot, filthy air filled his lungs. The nausea wrung his stomach. His movement brought a fresh sense of how tightly enclosed he was and with that came fresh panic and terror.

And, at last, he was overwhelmed by all this, by his own efforts. He was exhausted by his own helplessness. His hands fluttered down on top of him. “I won’t listen,” he said. Coughing. Sobbing.

There followed a long, an excruciating, pause. Bernard tried uselessly to shift onto his side. He coughed and dry-retched. He felt that he was gagging on .the very air and on his self-disgust. How little physical pain it takes to make a man nothing; nothing.

Then Iago spoke again: “All right.”

Panting, Bernard forced himself to stop coughing. Swallowed a hot gout of his own vomit. Gasped, gagged. Tried to listen.

He heard a sound that caused a tremendous solid sphere of icy cold to form itself in his abdomen. He tensed, swallowed again, held his breath. Listened.