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came on with that low buzz that signified soundattachment two-way.
    An amiable bald head at close quarters dwarfed the intricate network of a circulatory system that filled the wall behind.
    Carter said, “Max!”
    Michaels looked up. His eyes narrowed. He looked rather washed out. “Yes, A1.”
    “Grant is ready for you. Hurry it on. There isn’t much time.”
    “There certainly isn’t. I’ll come get him.” For a moment, Michaels caught Grant’s eye. He said, slowly, “I hope you are prepared, Mr. Grant, for the most unusual experience of your life. —Or of anyone’s.”

CHAPTER 4

Briefing
     
    In Michaels’ office, Grant found himself looking at the map of the circulatory system open-mouthed.
    Michaels said, “It’s an unholy mess, but it’s a map of the territory. Every mark on it is a road; every junction is a crossroad. That map is as intricate as a road map of the United States. More so, for it’s in three dimensions.”
    “Good Lord!”
    “A hundred thousand miles of blood vessels. You see very little of it now; most of it is microscopic and won’t be visible to you without considerable magnification, but put it all together in a single line and it would go four times around the Earth or, if you prefer, nearly halfway to the Moon. —Have you had any sleep, Grant?”
    “About six hours. I napped on the plane, too. I’m in good shape.”
    “Good, you’ll have a chance to eat and shave and tend to other such matters if necessary. I wish I had slept.” He held up a hand as soon as he had said that. “Not that I’m in bad shape. I’m not complaining. Have you ever taken a morphogen?”
    “Never heard of it. Is it some kind of drug?”
    “Yes. Relatively new. It’s not the sleep you need, you know. One doesn’t rest in sleep to any greater extent than one would by stretching out comfortably with the eyes open. Less, maybe. It’s the dreams we need. We’ve got to have dreaming time, otherwise cerebral coordination breaks down and you begin to have hallucinations and, eventually, death.”
    “The morphogen makes you dream? Is that it?”
    “Exactly. It knocks you out for half an hour of solid dreaming and then you’re set for the day. Take my advice, though, and stay away from the stuff unless it’s an emergency.”
    “Why? Does it leave you tired?”
    “No. Not particularly tired. It’s just that the dreams are bad. The morphogen vacuums the mind; cleans out themental garbage-pit accumulated during the day; and it’s quite an experience. Don’t do it. —But, I had no choice. That map had to be prepared and I spent all night at it.”
    “That map?”
    “It’s Benes’ system to the last capillary and I’ve had to learn all I could concerning it. Up here, almost centrally located in the cranium, right near the pituitary, is the blood clot.”
    “Is that the problem?”
    “It certainly is. Everything else can be handled. The general bruises and contusions, the shock, the concussion. The clot can’t be, not without surgery. And quickly.”
    “How long has he got, Dr. Michaels?”
    “Can’t say. It won’t be fatal, we hope, for quite a while, but brain damage will come long before death does. And for this organization, brain damage will be as bad as death. The people here expect miracles from our Benes and now they’ve been badly rattled. Carter, in particular, has had a bad blow and wants you.”
    Grant said, “You mean he expects the Other Side will try again.”
    “He doesn’t say so, but I suspect that’s what he fears and why he wants you on the team.”
    Grant looked about. “Is there any reason to think this place has been penetrated? Have they planted agents here?”
    “Not to my knowledge, but Carter is a suspicious man. I think he suspects the possibility of medical assassination.”
    “Duval?”
    Michaels shrugged. “He’s an unpopular character and the instrument he uses can cause death if it slips a hairbreadth.”
    “How can he be stopped?”
    “He