She said, “Nightmares are a normal reaction to stress, Eric. You are under an enormous amount of mental strain here, and this is a very common response to that.”

When he didn’t respond, she continued, “Nightmares are a response to fear and anxiety. They’re a way for our psyche to release pressure and operate with less of those pent-up emotions. Sometimes we can look at them as tools to cope and feel better.”

Holt still said nothing. When he spread his fingers to look at her through his hands, Park could see that the glaze was still in his eyes: a barely suppressed panic that made Park think, Something is really wrong here. They’d have to pull him off the expedition team altogether, give him some sedatives. They couldn’t send him out like that. She said aloud: “What else is bothering you, Eric?”

“It didn’t feel like a dream,” he murmured. “Didn’t feel like I was asleep. It felt real.”

“The human consciousness,” Park said, “is an extremely powerful force. Mere conviction and belief have made people ignore the pain of amputation, experience mass delusions—”

“You’re not listening to me!” The sudden ferocity in his tone silenced Park—even had her pulling up Sagara’s contact on her inlays. In the green MAD glow Holt looked shrunken, his features deceptively ravaged and scarred. His breathing hissed. He said again, “You’re not listening! Don’t you listen?”

Park sat, frozen, rapt. Her palms were slick; without realizing it she was gripping her own hand, tightly. It seemed to be melting out of her grasp.

“What is it that you need me to hear?” she asked Holt, barely hearing her own voice.

The physicist flopped back into his seat; his eyes floated away from hers. When he spoke again, his voice was as small and frail as a child’s. “I can’t tell if I’m still dreaming,” he mumbled. “I don’t know if I ever really woke up.”

—

“So you want me to pull him off the team?” Commander Wick asked, sitting back. “He’s due to go out tomorrow.”

“At least temporarily,” Park said. They were sitting in Wick’s quarters; she had avoided calling him to the counseling office, mindful of a power struggle, of making him feel like she was the school principal summoning a rascally student.

Wick frowned into the middle distance. At forty-two he was punching into the upper limit of the age range on the ship, but he looked younger; his body was rangy and tough, and lean as a rake. His face was tanned by alien suns. He was a somewhat solemn, reserved man—not the charismatic, jovial sort that Park had imagined would lead an expedition—but at least he was sensible. Easy to talk to. She hoped that he wouldn’t ignore her recommendation; otherwise she would have to go to ISF and override him.