Emotional Distress

Checking the readout, John saw he had forty-five minutes left. He could switch it to negative, but that would cost him four times as much, and cut his time down to ten, maybe even eight minutes. Besides, he didn't feel like being angry tonight. Last night had been enough.

Flipping TV channels, John found a comedy one and settled in with his popcorn and beer. It felt good to laugh, but not as much as it had a few months ago. Maybe people just weren't as funny anymore. He might as well take whatever enjoyment he could from it - work tomorrow would come quickly enough.

He felt satisfied at the thought of work. What he did there was for the benefit of the World Council, even if it was only peripherally. Whenever he was there sorting the mail, making sure no Dissident letters got through, he always managed to feel a twinge of pride. He had asked about that once, and been told that pride, when warranted, actually straddled the border between logic and emotion, and could be 'felt' even with the Monitor functioning.

Something the fat comedian on TV said brought him back to the present and he laughed. Long and loud and hard. In his mind, he knew that the joke wasn't that funny, but emotions unfiltered by the E-mo were always strong.

Forty-three minutes later, John slowly turned his E-mo back on. It made his left ear tingle, as it always did, and he could feel it pulse just a little in the hollow behind his earlobe. He knew he could wait it out until all of his time had been exhausted, but then the 'Mo would come on full-bore, and the sensation, or lack thereof, really, was quite unpleasant.

Once he had it back up and running he took a moment and let the calm, cool certainty of a world with no emotion wash over him. His first few minutes with it on every night always felt like a cool breeze - he was clear, focused and unstoppable. He had vague memories as a child - living through the horrors of the Fourth Great War - of running around madly, his emotions uncontrollable, pressing in on him from all sides.

Now that he was focused, John felt ready to deal with the News. Flipping the channel, he found his favourite announcer, Pamela Cross, on Channel Seven. He had sometimes used his time off of the E-mo to ramp up his sex drive and had had numerous fantasies about Pamela, but they were ultimately unsatisfying. He preferred to watch her now, when he could respect her calm precision, the way she enunciated every 't' per-fec-T-ly, and the sincerity in her eyes. It was much more satisfying, this way.

"And in local news tonight," Pamela was saying, her voice carrying with it a calm authority "another group of Emotional Dissidents have been arrested. Captain Mike Logan of the Washington Police Department joins me now."

A small box appeared in the upper-right hand corner of the screen, filled with the chiselled face of Captain Logan. The Captain was no stranger to the News program, having been called on many times to give his opinion on some matter of security or another.

"Good evening Pamela." Mike's face was all hard angles and his voice was deep and sure.

"Good evening, Captain Logan. What can you tell us about today's events?"

"Frankly, Pamela, there isn't much to tell. Acting on a tip from a watchful resident, a handful of Emotional Dissidents were apprehended in the lower quarter of Blakestown this afternoon. They were taken in to custody without incident."

Pamela nodded, then glanced down at the sheaf of papers she had on her desk.

"Now, tell me, Captain - what level of emotional response had these people reached? We've received word at the station that they may have actually been able to remove the Emotional Monitors all together."

John suppressed a shudder. How could anyone live like that?

Captain Mike Logan's face tightened, and he briefly touched his lower left earlobe. John wasn't surprised. His E-mo still ached a little bit, even after all of the these years, and especially when he was under pressure.

"Pamela, that is completely untrue. These Dissidents had managed to slightly alter the functioning of their Monitors, such that some emotion could be continuously filtered. But they were by no means able to completely remove them. As you are well aware, to do so would mean a slow and likely painful death."

Pamela nodded curtly. "Of course, Captain. As I said, this was simply information we had received. Can you give our viewers anything that they should be vigilant for themselves, in case they suspect there are Dissidents in their area?"

"Of course. Watch for anyone who seems unfocused, or who has an excessive interest in socializing. While these are not sure-fire - they are at least indicators that the Monitor may be malfunctioning - possibly through general use, or by Dissident tampering."

John clicked off the TV - he didn't really want to hear any more. Glancing at the wall, he saw that it was already 2130 hours. He had to be up, as always, at 0615, and today had been long and hard enough as it was. Standing, he grabbed the remnants of his beer and chugged it down, recycled the bottle and dumped the rest of his popcorn in the trash. Nothing really ever tasted as good when the E-mo was on, anyway, but it was a small price to pay for peace.

On the way through to the bedroom of his one-level flat - he could get a bi-level if he stayed with the Postal Service for long enough - he checked the front door lock and headed off to the bedroom. A quick shower and shave before bed, and he was ready to go for the next morning. John preferred sleep over food, so he would always get ready the night before work, lay out all his clothes and just grab a breakfast bar at the little café outside the Service's main office.

One final check to make sure the alarm was set, and John let his head hit the pillow. Almost instantly, he was out, cradled by the strong, silent arms of a sleep without dreams.

* * *

John paid the man and took his breakfast bar. He had already seen three of his co-workers today - slightly out of the ordinary but nothing too far off kilter. He typically only saw Laura Lamish, who took the same train as he did. Today, though, she had been absent and he had seen Bill Weiss, Thom Farquar and Danny Wiseman just as he had entered the building. John knew that without the E-Mo, he would have detested all of them, with their incessant interest in sports and motor cars. Not his cup of tea.

But with the 'Mo on, there was no need for competition or jealousy, and the male drive to 'posture' had been almost completely eliminated. As a result, his encounter with the three men was nothing but cordial, and in no way interrupted the pace of his day.

Munching the bar, he headed for the level 'C' elevators, but a commotion on the way there drew his attention. Two city police, dressed in full riot gear, were leading a shabby, dishevelled looking man through the crowd, away from elevator bank.

The man must have been a Dissident, since the police never dealt with those unless they were fully geared. John studied the man as they walked him past, to see what he could notice.

First of all, he was struggling, which right away told John his E-mo couldn't be working at full power. If it were, obedience to authority and the police would come naturally. Second, the man's lips were pulled back in a snarl, and his eyes darted back and forth, taking in everything but registering nothing.

John took a closer look at the man's face. He seemed normal enough - clean shaven, maybe thirty-five years old, with a pug nose and reasonably short brown hair. But it was expression on the man's face that was so disconcerting - the violence, the hatred and revulsion in it.

As the police pulled him past John on the way to the exit, he noticed that the man's slacks were ripped and torn, and the edges seemed almost burnt. What was left of what appeared to be a brown collared shirt hung in tatters across his chest, covered by the standard-issue police SecuriJack, which kept the man from moving his arms or walking any faster than a slow crawl.

Just as he came abreast of the man, their eyes met and for a moment John could see purpose in them. He stared hard at John and then abruptly drove his gaze downward. Unthinkingly, John slid his eyes downward as well - and caught the glint of metal on the mans right breast pocket. It was a pin, in the multi-colors of the World Council flag, shaped like a small 'u'. John glanced down at his own breast pocket, which bore a matching pin. He knew they were given to Servicemen of only his classification or above. This man had been one of them. And he was a Dissident.

Shaking his head, John turned his back on the spectacle and headed upstairs. The mail waited for no one. And it appeared that now, more than ever, the world needed him men like him.

* * *

The day had not gone well. John felt - well felt was the wrong word, but old habits die hard - restless, unfocused. He just couldn't seem to shake the image of the bedraggled man being led away by the police. Clearly a dissident, yet he was supposed to be one of the "good guys". It just seemed so incongruous.

Setting aside his work for the moment, he rested his chin in his hands. He had slightly larger cubicle than most, owing to the fact that he had been promoted to File Overseer last quarter, but functionally it was no different than anyone else's. No windows, no personal effects, just a neat and tidy workspace. So it was that with his chin in his hands, he really had nothing to distract him.

He knew that there had been a great deal of resistance to the Monitor when it was introduced. "Big Brother!", people had cried. "Government spy device!", the left-wing media had proclaimed. And yet...John had never really felt better. Oh sure, today was a wash, but nine of ten days were productive and focused for him now, when before the E-mo it was maybe half that. The thing really did work wonders - but not everyone could see that.

The sound of footsteps coming down the carpeted hall brought him back to the moment. His cubicle, 42A-1, lay at the end of a row, nowhere near the stairwell, elevator, or bathrooms. If someone came down the hallway, it was usually to see him.

A few seconds passed, and then Eric Standford popped into view. As always, Eric was dressed in a crisp shirt and tie - his short hair perfectly styled. John had never liked Eric - his time away from the E-mo had shown him that. He was sure that when Eric turned his device off, he was a self-serving, vain little prick who wouldn't have given him the time of day. But, thanks to technology, he had a grudging respect for the fellow's work.

"Hey John...I have a question." Eric's tone was smooth, and he spoke slowly, confidently.

"Sure Eric, what can I do for you?" John had always been a quick talker, given to nervous hand gestures which even the Monitor couldn't fully cure. He would never be as sure of himself as someone like Eric.

"Look, I've got a potential Level 1 that I'm dealing with, and frankly I feel a bit out of my depth. Would you mind if I forwarded it to you for a look-see?"

John straightened a little in his chair. He knew that his work around here was good - that was what had gotten him his promotion, but it was always a surprise when one of his colleagues asked for his help or advice.

"Of course, Eric. Send it on over and I'll have a look at it when I get the chance."

He turned his chair back toward his computer, expecting to hear the sound of Eric's footsteps fading away down the hall. After a minute, he swivelled back to find the man still standing there.

"Is there something else I can do for you?" There was a trace of irritation in his voice. The Monitor wasn't perfect, after all. He had work to get to.

Eric opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He seemed...hesitant, which was out of character for him.

"Look it's...well, some of the guys are planning on going out this Friday - we're thinking maybe The Den or that Irish place down the street. We're going to save up a couple of nights worth of E-time and do it up real well, you know?"

A little taken aback, John actually considered the idea for a brief moment, simply out of the sheer incongruity of the whole thing.

"Thanks, Eric, I appreciate the offer, but I've got plans Friday."

Shrugging, Eric turned and sauntered off down the hall without another word.

John was stunned. Shocked, even. Not once in his four-year career here had anyone even approached him in regards to doing anything social. He liked that. He was not, by nature, a social man. He had no plans Friday - no intention of doing anything but sitting at home with a good book and some decent wine. Eric must be angling for a promotion. You needed at least one letter of reference from an Overseer to even be considered, and that must be what he was hoping to get out of him. There was really no other explanation.

Unless...

It wasn't that he had thought that there could never be dissidents in the organisation, but he hadn't actively thought about it until this morning. And now...this gesture was wildly out of character for Eric.

Pulling his chair up to his desk, he pulled up Eric's file history. Moving quickly before he re-considered this plan, he opened Eric's work E-mail for the last two days. The company was quite clear that E-mail was a regulated function, and that Overseers had the right to access work accounts at any time, for any reason, but John was still hesitant.

He scanned quickly, in case Eric happened to come back. The missives all seemed innocuous, tedious, and John began to doubt his sudden flash of intuition. But then his eyes caught sight of one with no subject line. He opened it.

"Rm 213. 1630."

No signature, but that didn't mean that he couldn't find out...wait. John checked and double checked. There was no 'sender' address. That shouldn't be possible in the Council system. Everything was regulated, tracked. Something interesting was going on. He checked the time of delivery - 0830 this morning. And room 213? That was the old conference room. Hadn't been used in a while for that purpose, and was currently holding a small mountain of office supplies. Clicking the history, John saw that Eric hadn't even opened this E-mail himself yet. Using his supervisor's override, John deleted it from the system.

* * *

At 1635, John stuck his head into the conference room. Work having ended at promptly 1620, everyone had already gone home for the day. Under the new system, there was rarely if ever a need for overtime, so most office buildings were empty within minutes of the day being done.

Stepping inside, John pulled the door shut behind him. The room was as he remembered - a large dark wood conference table took up most of the space, and one of the floor's only windows, south facing, took up an entire wall. The north-east corner of the room was packed floor to ceiling with boxes, mostly old forms and outdated codes. Perfect.

John quickly checked the room to make sure no one else had slipped in ahead of him, and then he carved himself a niche in the box-pile and waited.

At 1640 hours, the door opened again. Peering out from his cardboard castle, John felt his breath catch in his throat. He wasn't really sure what he expected, coming here, but this was beyond imagining. Ernest Vren, chief Magistrate of Postal Services, stood not ten yards from him. John had never met him and had only seen him once, from a distance, but he had heard stories. Apparently the man was ruthlessly efficient, and had been in pre-Council times as well. The Monitor had only honed his edge.

John studied him for a moment, considering his next move. The man's appearance was certainly formidable enough - with his deep-set eyes and rakish salt-and-pepper hair. He stood tall, straight, confident. John could easily imagine him delivering a stern rebuke or well-deserved criticism. But - and this was the crux of the matter - what was he doing here? Clearly meeting with Eric, but for what purpose?

Vren took a chair, glanced at his watch, and then steepled his hands on the desk. A minute passed. Five. At ten, Vren got up out of the chair and began to head for the door. It seemed that Eric was the only one who was supposed to be here.

John thought quickly. Was it worth standing up, making himself known? Or should he simply let the man leave, and report him to the authorities? But - who would believe him? He had no proof of any wrongdoing, simply a failed meeting between Vren and Eric - nothing criminal in that, even though it was a bit odd.

John surprised himself by standing. The boxes around him shifted, shuffled. One fell over on to the floor. Vren turned just as he reached the door, his eyes wide. John felt something click inside him, but not emotion. Logic. Purpose.

"Dissident!" He hissed.

Vren took a step back, almost into the door.

"Who are you?" He said in a low, firm voice. His eyes were hard, but dull like cloudy steel.

John clambered over the boxes.

"John Pritcher. Overseer, Level Two Section Five." The words came out in a rush, as usual. Fortunately the Monitor kept his voice from shaking, but he still didn't sound as authoritative as he wanted.

"Well, Mr. Pritcher. Just what are you doing in this conference room and just where do you get off calling me such a despicable thing?" Vren had advanced now, to within several feet of John. He was a short man, but the authority he had so much practice carrying seemed to add an extra foot. John forced himself to meet the man's gaze.

John decided that lying would be a poor choice.

"In my position as Overseer, it is my job to maintain the efficiency and effectiveness of my staff. One of my members received an e-mail from an unknown, untraceable address which had this time and this location listed as a meeting point. I read and deleted that e-mail before he could access it and chose to investigate the matter myself." Through a supreme effort of will, John managed to keep the pace of his delivery at least marginally slow.

Vren considered him, his eyes probing, piercing. The dullness had still not left them, but that made them none the less disconcerting. Vren slowly pulled a chair out from the table and sat. After a moment he motioned for John to do the same.

"So." The word was a sentence unto itself, coming from Vren. John knew he was expected to fill the silence that followed the word, but he refused. The moment stretched out as both men waited.

"You've come here in hopes of exposing a Dissident uprising in the Sector, is that it?" Vren's tone was laced with just a hint of scorn. Another one of those pesky emotions that even the most sensitive E-mo wouldn't completely filter out.

John waited.

Vren glared at him.

John waited some more. He knew he should say something, break the ice, defend himself, make a joke - anything - but he was holding back. Why?

There was something about Vren that was nagging at him. For such a formidable fellow, why were his eyes so dull, so lifeless? He seemed clever enough, quick enough and alive enough. The dead eyes just didn't add up.

"Are you deaf, man? Speak up! What did you hope to find here? Answer me!" The scorn in Vren's voice had risen - one might even call it irritation now.

Suddenly John was sure. He had heard of drugs, high-level, and illegal, that would mimic the E-mo, but at a cost. Not only could the effects be counteracted if the user was under a high degree of stress, but they could cause side effects including night terrors, bleeding, and glassy eyes.

John forced every word to count. "I came here to find Dissidents. Like you."

Vren stared at him a moment, and then produced a small silver remote from his jacket pocket. He thumbed a blue button on it and a short, sharp buzz filled the air, it's tone quickly rising. John's head swam and the room seemed to undulate behind the other man. He felt, distinctly, a quick, hot flash of anger before he hit the conference table face first.

* * *

Opening his eyes, John could immediately feel that something had changed. It was that notion - feel - that brought him up short. John raised a hand to his left ear. He heaved a quick sigh of relief - the E-Mo was still there, at least, but the distinct lack of tingling told him it had been, if not turned off, at least reduced in efficiency. Strangely, he was calm, as if it were working as normal.

Focusing his eyes and glancing around, he saw that nothing had else had changed. He was still in the conference room, seated across from Vren, who was looking at him with what appeared to be concern. A difference in ambient light made him glance out the window - the sun was setting, now. He guessed he had been in here at for at least the past five hours. But to what point?

He opened his mouth to ask that question, but the other man put up a hand. "Shh. Don't say anything. I have a story to tell you. One you need to hear."

John was about to protest, but eyes were drawn to Vren's right hand, partially obscured by the lip of the desk. In a tight grip he held a police-issued pistol, and he had it pointed directly at John's chest. John kept his mouth shut.

Vren smiled, and it seemed genuine, friendly.

"Look, John - you're about forty, right?"

John nodded.

"So you were there when the war started, just like me. You were a kid, of course, but you remember the hate, the violence, the fear."

John swallowed hard. Sometimes, when he had the E-mo off at night, and felt brave enough to take a trip to the negative side, memories of that time would surface, always bringing with them a hot choking fear and smothering sadness. There were times he had to reactivate the device before his time was up because he simply couldn't take the pain anymore. Oddly, today thoughts of the War garnered no reaction.

Vren stood up and begun pacing around the room, careful to always keep the business end of his weapon pointed squarely at John. He frowned.

"Distasteful business, using weapons. Words are far more effective. Now listen carefully, John, this is important. You know the tried-and-true history we're told as well as I do - after the war was over, the Forty Nations reached the Singapore Accord and the World Council was born. Capitalizing on the fear and horror that the war had created, the Council at first offered the use of their military Emotional Monitor technology to the public. When it became obvious how well it worked, E-mo's were made mandatory for everyone over the age of ten. Such a move would never have passed at any other time in history, but after the Forth Great War and the horrors of religious zealotry and hatred, the populace was ripe for anything that would soothe the pain they all felt, would drive it underground."

John gritted his teeth. This was a tedious and as far as he could see, pointless exercise. He said so. Vren swung around to his side of the table and drove the point of the gun into his chest.

John felt an odd sensation. It wasn't anger, or fear - he was familiar enough with those. This felt empowering, overwhelming. It seemed to burn inside him.

"Look, Vren." His tone was low and calm, his pace measured. The other man took a step back.

"I don't know what you hope to accomplish here. You're a Dissident, that much is obvious. If you thinking reciting history to me with your slant on it is going to get me to "see the light", you're sadly mistaken. If you're going to shoot me, do it, but I don't have time for this nonsense."

Pushing back his chair, John stood, surprising himself as much as Vren.

The other man looked at him through narrowed eyes.

"I've heard about cases like this. I've broken hundreds of people from their link to the E-mo, but never seen one like you. Most break down in tears or scream for joy, but I've heard rumours about this - the stress of breaking the link actually causes your brain to permanently function as if the thing is on. How intriguing..."

John stepped toward the door, shouldering the other man out of the way. He could sense the blood pumping in his veins. He should feel scared, or nervous or...something. But all he had was calm. And focus.

"Wait!" Vren's voice had real panic in it - John had seen enough now to expose him to the authorities - especially since all rooms in this building, used or not, were still monitored by closed-circuit camera.

"Look, there's something you need to know. I need help from someone inside the organization, and most of our people got caught in the raid this morning. I was going to use this "Eric" fellow of yours, but frankly I didn't have high hopes. But you! You would be perfect. Look!"

John turned toward him and with horror watched as the other man reached up and removed the monitor from behind his ear. How could this be?

John's face obviously mirrored his confusion because Vren spoke quickly.

"Ten years, John. Ten years I've been without this device functioning. Everyday, I struggle to remain calm, impassive, as I see what is being done to people, knowing that the slightest slip could result in my imprisonment or death. It's a dangerous game."

John sniffed derisively.

"And you expect what, my sympathy? Like I give a damn about the problems of a Dissident." John invested the last word with as much scorn as he could manage. He felt a little light-headed. Saying that had felt great.

Vren sank into one of the chairs.

"No, no - I need your help. You could do what I can't, go where I could never go, because my emotions would betray me, even with my best efforts at self-control. I've broken your link to the device, but you still retain its qualities. You are the perfect Dissident."

"Don't call me that!" Without knowing how he got there, or recalling the intervening space, John found himself standing over Vren, looming down on him.

"John, listen." Vren spoke softly, sweetly. Slowly, he reached his hand onto the table and dropped the gun there.

"There are things you don't know - can't know - in your position. I've been Magistrate here for ten years and it's been hard enough for me to find out. I doubt, after today, that there's a single other person outside of Washington that knows what's really going on."

In spite of himself, John was curious. If the fool wanted to continue to incriminate himself, let him.

"Oh? And what is really going on?"

Vren looked up, looked at John, but his eyes were far away, distant. The drugs that had clouded them before were gone, but now Vren's emotions clouded his action.

"How much do you know about the Splinter Nations, John? Just what they told you in school, I'd imagine."

John grunted.

"I know as much as I need to. They refused to accept Council membership, even after being invited and living through the horrors of the war. They still live without the benefit of Emotional Regulation - prisoners of their own feelings."

"Exactly! As I said, just what the system has taught you. Tell me, have you ever been to a Splinter Nation?"

John took a step back.

"Of course not! Council ships don't even fly there. And why would I waste my hard-earned time and money trying to get a passport to one of those forsaken places?"

Vren laughed.

"I've been. It's nothing like what they describe on TV or in the books. Most of the Splinter Nations are full of friendly, normal people. They have no desire for war, or violence - they simply want to be left alone."

"Great. Fantastic. I don't really care. I don't want to go there, and I don't want them coming here. Case closed. Everyone's a winner!"

Vren shook his head, slowly.

"No John, that's just it. Don't you see? The Council is finding it harder and harder to maintain control of the population. The number of Dissidents has increased tenfold in the last five years. Tell me John, where do you think all of your excess emotion goes?"

The abrupt shift in topic caught John off-guard.

"What? My excess emotion? I've no idea. Why would it matter?"

Vren's face had turned deadly serious, and fixed John with his hawk's gaze. This time, the eyes bore right into him - this was a man who wielded his power well.

"Do you really think that emotional technology works only one way? That when they developed the ability to monitor and maintain soldiers emotional states they hadn't already developed a counter-technology?"

John opened his mouth, but Vren held up a hand.

"My turn, Pritcher. Listen. The tech to hurt people with emotion came long before the ability to control it. Weapons are often turned into useful devices, after the fact. The problem with Emotional Disturbance, as it was known, was that it really wasn't powerful enough to affect more than five or six people at a time - only good on very small-scale operations. The trouble was, ED could only draw on the emotions being output by its subjects, which even under stress was not enough to really incapacitate them. So I ask again, where do you think all of your excess emotion is going?"

John began to back up, unconsciously. His back hit the door. "No."

"Damn right. The council has a vat, a repository, call it what you want, but they're storing all of your emotions, positive and negative. Yours and everyone else's. When the time is right, they're going to emotionally 'bomb' the Splinter Nations. It will throw them into chaos, at the very least. Best case, they will attack the Council - driving us to another war, and paving the way for the Council to make sure everyone in the world has one of these damn things!"

Vren stood, then dropped his E-mo on the ground and crushed it under his heel.

Striding to John, he grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Help me, John. Help us, help yourself, whatever. We can't do this without someone like you. You've been freed of their shackles - don't let misguided loyalty or fear of the old wars keep you from doing the right thing. Help us!"

There was a silence in the room for a moment, and then a sound so loud John was surprised the window didn't shatter. He had never fired a gun before. Having grabbed it off the table after Vren dropped it there, he had intended only to hold to it as evidence.

Vren stumbled back, clutching at his chest. It was a belly wound, just above the navel. It would take him some time to die, and it would not be pleasant.

Flopping on to the table, Vren clutched a hand to his stomach.

"How could you? I freed you! What kind of madman are you?"

John smiled, his first real smile in years. The ones at home on his time off always felt fake, manufactured. This one was the genuine article.

"Sir, you have freed me, and for that I thank you. Freed me to see what needs to be done. This - " reaching up, he pressed the contacts on both sides of the E-mo, and felt it come loose in his hand "has made me the man I am today. We need this, the world needs this. I'll do my part to make sure that happens."

Turning his back on the struggling man, John quietly slipped out of the room and headed for Eric's cubicle. Once there, he logged into Eric's account and deleted the video footage from the conference room, replacing it with video already taped from the day before. Deliberately being clumsy, he left a trail of breadcrumbs for security to follow. Tomorrow morning, Vren would be discovered dead, and the trail would lead squarely to Eric. John would be free to do what needed to be done - ensure all of mankind was given the same glorious gift he had been.

Twenty minutes later he was at home, relaxing in his favourite chair. He had spent some time attaching and detaching the E-mo, and marvelling at how it now made no difference. He tried to call up anger, sadness, even joy, but nothing would come. He could feel only a deep sense of satisfaction. His work had just begun. Closing his eyes, he drifted into the silent arms of a deep and dreamless sleep.