Jonathan Drake swam back to consciousness as a bubble rises through molasses—slowly, and with great effort. His arms lay heavily on the padded rests of the shock-chair, and his lids drooped persistently despite the shouted commands of his brain. A bubble of air rose reluctantly up his throat to operate his paralyzed vocal cords. "Doc," he croaked. "Doc?" The words bounced off the polished metal walls of the room. There was no sound after that but the soft purr of the control board. Jonathan walk