"Why?" Constance asked. She wanted to shout, but it came out as the barest whisper. "Why have you brought me back here?"
Constance hesitated. She had visited the grove before out of curiosity. She had visited it out of boredom. She had visited it out of a desire to escape the creeping discomfort that plagued her since the expedition. But it was always her choice, her decision. She had never before been urged, cajoled. For a moment, her instinct to rebel nearly caused her to push John Mays away, to change her mind and run.
But where would she run? Back to Miss Anna, who would surely interpret the return of Constance as a form of repentance and submission? To the elevator shuttle? She imagined Abner Wade, glorying in his good fortune as he found her in some lower level of the tower, helpless and prone, waiting for a savior. She clenched her fists. She was under the arches of the canopy now. The statue stood as if patiently waiting. Its enigmatic form was familiar to her now, but it never ceased to be intriguing. Swelling up from the floor to a height of perhaps eight feet, its shape was abstract and yet strongly evocative of human proportions. It was regal and aloof, but also somehow inviting. It looked as if it had always been there, a thing out of time, unchanging, and yet vibrantly alive in the speckled prismatic glow from its canopy. And as always, when she came near the statue, everything else seemed to disappear. Gone was the grove, gone was John Mays, gone were the watching eyes of the gathered pilgrims. They were alone. She reached out to touch the smooth stone with her fingertips.
Instead of stone, though, she felt something soft and yielding against her skin, something like a shallow carpet laid over a pliable floor. The feeling wasn't only against her hands, it was against her arms and cheek as well. She was lying with her head resting against a gently curved, raised surface. Through half-opened eyes, she saw the indistinct outlines of slender, glassy columns filled with slowly dancing, luminous globules.
A rush of panic surged through her limp body, a surge of energy that dissipated as quickly as it had come, resulting in no apparent action. "Why?" Constance asked. She wanted to shout, but it came out as the barest whisper. "Why have you brought me back here?"
A shape loomed over her. Rosemary, the red-headed medic that Lamont habitually spent time with, crouched down beside her. Her round green eyes were glowing with sympathy, perhaps even pity. "Perhaps you never left," she said.
"What do you mean?" Constance whispered.
"This is your dream," Rosemary replied, setting down her medical satchel flipping it open. "I'm only sharing it with you."
"I don't want to be here," Constance insisted. Why couldn't she shout? Why couldn't she move? "This isn't where I want to be."
"Then what do you want?" Rosemary asked. She pulled a syringe from her bag. It was like something from a museum; old-fashioned, comically large, with brass rings for the medic's small, delicate fingers. The liquid inside the syringe was stark black, speckled with tiny bright points and swirling multicolored clouds. A tiny universe. Without waiting for an answer, Rosemary leaned close to jab the needle into helpless skin.