“I don’t know, but something’s wrong,” Park said. “His affect—”

She stopped as Holt brushed past her, completely ignoring her existence. Boone squared up to him and thrust his arm out, hitting Holt lightly in the chest with his palm. The physicist stopped and stared slackly ahead.

“You can’t go in there,” Boone growled. “You know that.”

“I have to,” Holt murmured. “Have to.”

“Boone,” Park interjected. “Look at him. Something’s going on. He’s experiencing some kind of—trance.” Her heart was thrumming so quickly now that she could barely feel it. Holt’s face told her that he wasn’t registering his surroundings, that he was addressing presences that were half-felt and barely-seen—like a sleepwalker. Parasomnia, she thought then. God help us. Was he trapped in some kind of unending nightmare? Was that what had been driving him all along? Had he gotten up and escaped the medical ward in the throes of a dream, some kind of hypnotized reverie?

“Eric,” she said, moving so that she was speaking directly into his right ear. “Can you hear me? Can you tell me what’s going on?”

No response. Holt was still leaning forward against Boone’s outstretched hand, as if he were walking into a strong wind. His arms reached out to the door behind Boone, grasping feebly. Boone said, with a note of slight trepidation: “What do we do?”

“Don’t shake him,” Park said. Frantically her mind ran over cases of somnambulism, sleep disorders. “He might react violently if he’s woken too abruptly. Help me lead him back to the medical bay.”

“I can’t,” Boone said.

“What? Why not?”

He looked at the door behind him. At that moment Holt jerked away from his hand and began lurching once more for the utility room, arms extended like a zombie from an old filmstream. Boone gave a low shout of alarm and said, “Holt! You can’t go in there!”

For God’s sake, Park thought. He really was hiding something—something he didn’t want anyone to find. Could it be drugs? His behavior was certainly erratic enough.

“Let him be,” she began. “I can—”

Holt was reaching for the center door’s palm lock. Boone drew his EL gun and yelled, “Get away from that door right now!”

Idiot! Park thought. Can’t you see he’s not himself? “Boone, stop!” she shouted. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing!”

The utility closet’s lock flashed to green. It was open. Park heard the tumble of pneumatic locks turning, the hiss of escaping air. Holt let out a noise: something between a cry of joy and a sob. Park said, lunging forward to grab his shoulder, “We need to get him—”

Boone fired his gun.