Read Beastchild for Free Online

hood radiating, to all sides of him.
        Banalog worked other controls, calling forth a post which consisted of lenses and sensors of various types, all of high receptivity. It rose from the floor, half a dozen feet before Hulann, stopped when it was at his eye level.
        "I thought this equipment was for severe cases," he said to Banalog, losing the sense of ease he had entered this room with, a hard edge of terror in his voice.
        "Misconception," Banalog said as if he were quite bored, really, with this whole affair. "We have much more sophisticated equipment for a severe case."
        "But are you afraid that I would lie to you?"
        "No, no. I do not insult you, Hulann. Such a thing is opposite of my purpose. But remember that the mind is strange. Your overmind may lie to you. You would sit there telling me what you thought was the truth about your guilt complex-but it would still be festering inside you. We are all creatures strange to our own selves."
        The machines vibrated slightly as they came to life out of oiled slumber. Some of the sensors glowed green, like a naoli's eyes. Others were yellow and purple. Hulann's skin crawled as the probing waves penetrated him without sensation and began collecting data for the traumatist.
        "Then it is necessary?" he asked.
        "Not necessary, Hulann. That makes it sound as if you are in a bad way. You do not feel ill, do you? I should hope not. Believe me, I think your problem is a minor one. Not necessary, just standard procedure in such a case."
        Hulann nodded, resigned to it. He would have to be extremely cautious and hedge his answers, try to be as honest as possible-but also try to phrase his responses so that they were literally true while not giving away the exact situation.
        The questioning began gently.
        "You like your work, Hulann?"
        "Very much."
        "How many years have you been an archaeologist?"
        "Seventy-three."
        "Before that?"
        "A writer."
        "How interesting!"
        "Yes."
        "A writer of what?"
        "History. Creative history."
        "Archaeology, then, was a natural follow-up."
        "I suppose so."
        "Why do you like archaeology, Hulann? Wait. Why do you like this archaeological job in particular?"
        "The excitement of resurrecting the past, of finding things unexpectedly, of learning."
        Banalog checked the readout monitors on his desk and tried to keep from frowning. He looked up at Hulann and, with an effort, smiled. "Does your work here on this planet assauge your guilt any?"
        "I don't understand."
        "Well, do you feel as if you are working out a penance, so to speak, in re-constructing the daily life of mankind?"
        And so the questions went. Probing… prodding… It soon began to be clear to Hulann that Banalog was learning more than he had intended to let him discover. He tried to answer as well as he could, but there was no way to hide from the probing traumatist and the clever machines.
        Then the trouble came.
        Banalog leaned forward, conspiratorially, and said, "Of course, Hulann, you are as aware as I am that your subconscious guilt is now a conscious one."
        "I-"
        Banalog frowned and waved him to silence before he could offer denial. "It is. I can see that, Hulann. But there is something else you are hiding from me."
        "Nothing."
        "Please, Hulann." Banalog looked pained. "This is for your own good. You know that, don't you?"
        "Yes," he said reluctantly.
        "Then, will you tell me?"
        "I can't."
        "You would feel guilty?"
        He nodded.
        Banalog sat back in his chair and was quiet for a long while. The machines continued to hum and lance their invisible fingers through Hulann. Banalog turned to the window and watched the snow falling in the dim light. It had been spitting for a day now, but it was