CHAPTER IIIGillings still sat in his chair, passively listening, but saying nothing. His utter calmness, his impassivity, right up to the instant when Crawford stopped speaking was what made his violent outburst seem so unnatural.
He made straight for Crawford, his heavily-veined, claw-like hands reaching out for the startled medical officer’s throat. Crawford upset his chair in a frantic effort to escape from the maniacal fury he saw in the old man’s eyes. He went back so far he collided with the wall and was unable to regain his equilibrium fast enough.
Abruptly Gillings was upon him, clutching his throat in a strangling grip, squeezing, refusing to let go.
“You had no right to make me remember,” he muttered, his voice guttural, harsh, as if each syllable had been wrenched from him by
