He walked down the hallway with an arrogant swagger that was perhaps, his right considering his pre-eminent station within the world of medicine. His esteem ran highly throughout the galaxy, from the Conglomerate to the Cluster people knew his name, simply because he was the best in his field.

He had charming good looks, eyes that twinkled with a superior humour and a smile that was intelligent in it's own right. His polished shoes clipped against the shiny tiles of the floor as he strode ahead of his staff as though he owned the walls around him.

In a way, it was true, he did have a certain claim to the facility, but only because he had just been named its head of staff. A strange choice, perhaps, for such a prominent man, but then it was not as though the station was without celebrity of it's own. A single asteroid, on the edge of an uninhabited solar system, hollowed hallways and recycled air, with little contact from the rest of the galaxy. Once perhaps it had been a posting of some embarrassment, but no longer; now it was a place where the greatest of minds begged to go, just so they could prove to others what they, themselves already believed – that they were the best at what they did.

Their own natural belief was enough to take them there, but none had managed to truly justify the claims that they may have made of themselves. But it did not stop the others from trying.

Trying her best to keep up, Senior Station Nurse Tireen strode behind the imposing figure of her new senior, glancing again at the data screen in her hand. She did her best not to sound out of breath as she delivered her report.

"We currently have fourteen inmates," she began, but stopped as the man brought himself to a sudden halt, making her stride two paces onwards, while the other staff behind him stumbled into one another. "Nurse Tireen," he said sternly, although he would have believed that there was some kindness in his voice, "Please, they are not inmates. The people within our care are patients. Nothing more, nothing less. They are here so that we may heal them, then show them back into society."

The nurse nodded, "Yes doctor." He smiled and began to walk once more, his entourage rapidly jostling back into place behind him. "Of the patients," she continued, glancing nervously at him out of the corner of her eyes, "Three are traumatised, five have a chemical imbalance; there are five self admittances with varying phobias, and the final one is… well is The Patient."

"Yes," he said with relish, "The Patient. Before anything else, I would like to meet The Patient."

It was true to say that the Patient was a form of celebrity. It was without a doubt the reason that the facility had become the magnetic attraction for all those eminent doctors and psychiatrists who took the time to head the operation. They came to see a single man, the one that it was claimed that could not be cured. Surely though, if just one of them could cure him, then they would be the greatest exponent of their profession.

The staff led him through the halls, down stairways and an elevator, through security doors and into a secured section. The walls around them became clean and white, so smooth that they betrayed none of the ancient rock from which they had been carved. To one side of the corridor there was a single, solid door, a transparent window at head height. The doctor peered through it, taking in the virtually empty room beyond. There was a door on the far side of the small cell, the only features were a simple chair and table. There was an orderly in the room, a large man with a shaved head, bent over as he cleared something from the floor.

Sitting, half watching him was a second man. He leaned forward looking more than a little distracted, amused as the other worked. He was of average height, his hair an unruly mess of badly cut grey. His chin rested in his hands, his mouth stuck in a humourless straight line.

"That is him," Nurse Tireen informed her new superior.

The doctor looked at her for a moment and then waited as she opened the door, then walked into the room. He caught the stench of medicinal soap and cleansers, plus the unappealing aroma of prepared food. The orderly looked up from the floor and smiled thinly, not recognising the face, but guessing that the man was the new head of the facility, while the patient did not respond, other than to move his grey eyes at the direction of the newcomer.

"Sir?" the orderly began starting to stand, but the doctor waved at him to continue, "Don't worry about me, carry on." He walked on as he spoke, coming to stand before the unmoving madman, the patient that could not be cured.

Slowly the head moved, shifting position on the hands so that they grey eyes stared straight into the doctors own. There was something more than a little disconcerting in their gaze. They were sharp, penetrating, not at all as he had imagined them to be. There was a focus about them that was more than slightly unsettling, that could cut diamonds; they simply said that they knew more than any man could hope to understand.

"So," the madman said, his voice measured and balanced, if slightly quiet, "You are the next one that has come to make his name by curing me."

The doctor nodded slowly, allowing his years of experience to kick in, to try and catch the intonation behind the others words, the meaning that the tones and inflections conveyed. "I am the new head of this facility, yes."

The madman nodded slowly with understanding, "I see, and what is your name, or do I just call you doctor?"

"No, no there will be no need for any ceremony between us. I would believe that you and I will be friends. My name is Ristaq Bonforman."

"Friends," the seated man crooned to himself for a moment, "We shall see. Ristaq, though, what kind of name is that then? Ristaq, perhaps I shall call you that, or perhaps not, maybe I should just call you Rick. Yes, Rick seems more suitable to one such as myself."

Bonforman frowned slightly, but kept his tone amiable, "If that is what you wish, and in return what should I call you?"

The patient frowned and shook his head as though he was trying to focus on something else, when he spoke his voice came from a great distance as though he was more than partially lost in another place, "What's in a name? By what should I want to be known? I have had many names, none of which are important now, just as I have lived many lives! How then, should I choose a name from so many? It is like looking up to the stars in the sky and trying to tell one from the other…" his voice trailed away slightly, wistfulness creeping into his tone, "It has been so long since I last saw the stars. Circling about the universe, suns to a billion planets. Life to a trillion worlds."

Bonforman coughed, "A name?"

"Oh, yes, a name, a name from so many," he suddenly grinned, "I suppose that you had better call me something fitting, and John Smith fits so well."

"And is that your name?"

"It is a name."

The eminent doctor Bonforman frowned, "I see. Well I just thought I would come down and introduce myself, Mr. err, Smith, and I will look forward to speaking with you again later."

"Excellent!" the man who had named himself Smith beamed, a cheeky grin passing over his lips, "I anticipate it with relish. Be seeing both of you later."

Bonforman paused and frowned back at his patient then walked away shaking his head.

The orderly finished wiping the floor then looked up at the patient and shook his own head slowly, "John Smith this time?"

Smith looked at him and shrugged loosely, "Smith, Doe there is very little difference, they both mean the same thing."

"So you say. Sometimes, you know, I think that you are not as mad as they think."

"Of course not," Smith grinned, "I'm the only sane one in the universe!"

All of us are damned, there is no doubt in this, from the moment of birth to the end of days we are damned; as doomed as the world on which we choose to walk. We are inexorably linked to one another, race, creed age nor species important. There is a defining factor that all people miss, the common bond in which we all share: Nothing matters, for in the end there is only death and oblivion; no matter how long we breathe, it is the inevitable unknown which shall claim us all.

Fiery catastrophe writes itself across the skies, blazing gases that we call stars. Even they are not eternal; one day they will flicker and die, the same as any cheap candle. Space itself will contract and fall, obliterating all that remains in total collapse. Entropy is the law of the universe, the force against which we cannot hope to prevail. So why bother to fight?

Listen! Can you hear the distant whispering voices? Can you?

It is the voice of all things laughing at us, pathetic and puerile, trying to define who and what we are, our place in creation. But we are nothing more than a cosmic joke, nothing more than a natural progression of time as it draws us from birth to destruction.

I am little more than a blister upon the skin of eternity. I exist in a shallow mess of chaos. We all are. Yet I am one of those that realises it. There is little more that I can say than that.

From upon high they fall, twisting images of golden light. They define perfection and yet they must be flawed, for if they were truly perfect they would not have failed their maker. I can see all of this so clearly, and yet none of you can understand the nature of what I am saying. I laugh because I am truly free, while you are confined by your laws. No, not the laws of society, but the laws you imprison yourself with, the rules of science, the logic practical thinking that blinds you to all that I know.

You are caged, and I, I am truly free!

Tell me can a good man do evil?

I know! I know! I hear the voices in the night, billions of souls that spit a name in hate. It is not my name, but it is, as well, and it makes me want to cry! You tell me that I should be sane, but how can I be when I can always hear those accusations? They come in the moments of peace and damn my soul into rigid darkness. They eat into my heart and into my mind as though they were vultures feeding upon my liver! And what can I do? Nothing but stand and scream the bile of my madness at you; I might as well be chained to the side of a mountain.

Is there a god?

Sometimes I wonder. There are so many named, from one end of time to another, the people are so sure, time and time again they call upon an image of divinity and there must be a reason for it. But I have never heard him speak, neither have I felt him watching over me, unless it is those distant voices.

Sadness invoked in the silence, and there is very little more that I can say.

It is so long ago now, but I wish that I could go back, to be a small boy again. There were no fears in those lost days, just the warmth of a simple existence. The glow of a fire meant more than my weight in gold… You tell me to keep speaking, but I am no longer amused by your puerile banality, I want to be left alone, alone with the voices that come in the night.

Bonforman looked towards the patient, and watched as the energy bled out of him, the deep grey eyes faded, losing the spark of brilliance, and his head fell down to the top of the table, resting on his arms as though they were little more than a pillow.

"Mr. Smith?" he asked softly.

The figure did not move, for all the world looking as though he had fallen asleep immediately, but the doctor doubted that. There were enough instruments concealed about the room for him to be able to know that the other was conscious still.

He sighed and stood, and began to walk away from the table, accepting that, for the time being at least, the interview was terminated. He mulled over the words in his great mind, trying to make sense of the enigma before him.

He had been on the station for the best part of a month, and unsurprisingly he had been able to help some of the others in the facility, but when it had come down to the patient he was at a loss. His professional superiority had stood him in good stead; he had used standard chemical treatments to restore the balance of one of his charges minds, used the brilliance of his arguments to show the lost sense; but it had not worked on the man who claimed the name John Smith.

Bonforman could see now what a unique case the man was, what a twisted and serious challenge it was to his own remarkable skills. There was no pattern to the madness, no president in any previous cases. In short the man was unique, so incredibly unique. For the first couple of days the eminent doctor had poured over the records of his predecessors reading note after note, report after report, seeing all the things that his fellows had tried.

There was report after report of his brain scans; transcript after transcript of his diatribes and interviews, none of them were the same, all uniquely different. Some of them were little more than the ramblings of a mad man, a pure insanity that was unmistakable, but there was more. There were times when Smith seemed to be sane, indeed he had conversations that were filled with intelligence and insight. He had a biting sarcasm that demeaned the great doctors, almost as though he knew more than they ever would, that he could match and surpass their brilliance with ease. Yet, as to the cause of his madness there was no clue, nor was their any sign.

Bonforman had done little except talk to his charge, he had not done any of the other tests that were open to him. He felt that there was little point, especially to start with. He instead read through all the old reports, studying just what his predecessors had done, to see whether there was anything that they had not done, something that they might had missed. But it did not seem to be the case. In fact, even without cross referencing, it appeared that they had tried every standard and obscure course of action open to them, and none of them had managed to even come close to a cause, let alone a cure.

He walked down the corridor lost in thought. Perhaps it would be better, he decided, to forget all that had gone before, to throw it all aside and start from scratch. Do everything for himself, get his own results, study them and learn from them, make his own decisions. And yet he knew that many of the others had done that, and in the end had come to the same conclusions: namely that there was nothing that could be done to help the man. Which was not possible. Allowing for even a moment, that some of those men might have come close to being an equal, Bonforman realised that he had a hard case before him. But he would crack it in the end, he would have to as it would be the ultimate proof of his pre-eminence within the medical community.

The question remained though, would he be able to see something those he had succeeded had missed, would he be able to do something, no matter how small that would lead to a breakthrough?

He entered his office and walked around the desk, ignoring the relaxing decor and dropped heavily into the padded chair. The desktop was covered in papers and datapads, a computer terminal and keyboard, all filled with more than enough information on Smith. He sighed, considered the mess and wondered whether there would ever be a time when the desk would be uncluttered and free of complications.

Did the founding fathers of his profession have it any easier? He wondered, when all they had was their observations and skill. There was very little of the fantastic technology he had access to. Of course, some of the old treatments had been close to barbaric, but it had been a breakthrough from claiming demonic possession.

He paused and took a deep breath, his smooth brow creasing into furrows as he stood and made his way to a metallic book case, filled with books, papers and countless discs of data. He flicked his way through a few discs, then moved onto some of the older texts, actual books. He discarded most of those written by doctors, and in the end selected one that dealt with the history of psychiatry itself.

In itself the book was a good representation of an antique, the pages loose or taped with browning tape, the paper substitute browning and torn. The cover itself was faded, pockmarked leather stained with the fingerprints of generations. Almost reverently he walked back to his chair and opened the tome, flicking through the pages, reintroducing himself to the ancient words written there. It told of the oldest days of the calling, of the belief of spirits and possessions. It was magic and witchcraft, with no grounding in science, and it told of the beginning of a true medicine forming in the minds of men.

He raised an eyebrow as he found what he was looking for, reference to an older time. They had tried to remove everything that might have been a distraction from the perceptions of the mad. No stimulus other than blank white walls. It was harsh, old fashioned but it might be useful. Just a few days, he mused, a complete break in the pattern for the patient, something to make him think.

He rummaged through the papers on his desk, finding a notebook and pen then began to jot down a few words. It took him five minutes at most, then he walked from the room and handed his orders over to one of the nurses. He did not stop to see his reaction, it did not matter. In his mind it was a forward step, even though he was trying something that was outdated and outmoded, it was at least something different, and he was eager to see how 'John Smith' reacted to a sudden change.

The patient was taken from his room and walked down a corridor, into a medical bay. There he was stripped of his clothes, and then bathed in a bio-gel that cleansed the body thoroughly, dissolving all extraneous matter including hair. Then he was taken to a new room, specially prepared. Empty, with white walls, floor and ceiling, a door that appeared to be little more than part of a wall. He bore it all calmly, almost as though his mind was not there, his body a shell, and only when they explained to him that he would be fed a simple diet, and that he would be taken to a toilet twice a day did he show any understanding at all. He nodded then and smiled, as though he did not have a care in the world.

As the door slid closed behind him Smith looked around the empty space that was to be his home for the next few days. Not particularly comfortable, he noted, but he was covered for the basic requirements of existence. There was shelter, steady warmth. He would be provided with food and water; which was all he needed really, and even then he could probably survive an unspecified time without it.

He ran his hand over his smooth scalp and played with the idea of growing all the hair back, perhaps even longer than it had been before. That would make them wonder. He shrugged and decided that it would not be a good option. Amusing for him perhaps, but no more than that, and it would take a lot of explaining. Besides, he guessed that the room was not as empty as it looked, there was bound to be hidden surveillance devices throughout the cell.

He sighed and decided that he was going to have to make the most of the situation, for however long the new doctor decided to keep him where he was. Ignoring his nudity he took the few paces into the centre of the room and sat down crossing his legs and staring straight ahead. He closed his eyes and allowed himself a small smile. He relaxed his perceptions and sank back into the depths of his mind, dropping into a patchwork of images and memories that would have been hard to match throughout the bounds of known space. Wherever it was that his consciousness roamed it was not in the present and who was to say that it was not lost somewhere within the seas of madness?

Bonforman watched as Smith walked from the room. He seemed to be much the same as when they took him in, apart from the stubble that covered his head and body. He took the simple clothing when it was offered to him and stepped into it, without showing a glimmer of emotion on his face.

"How do you feel Mr. Smith?" the doctor asked.

The patient actually looked at the doctor and seemed to almost focus upon the man, but his voice when it came was slightly listless and distant, "I feel fine thank you.

"I appreciate the time that you have given me to myself. It has enabled me to look into the nature of my mind. You would not appreciate the nature of the insights it has given me."

"Really? That is good, I am very impressed, I am look forwards to discussing them with you in the near future."

Smith grinned, "I'm sure you do. However I feel that the subject may not be one worth talking about. The nature of my meditations is probably a bit more than you are able to comprehend, and they might be just a little bit too complex to dumb down." He smiled as he spoke, and there was a good natured humour in his words, that combined with the cheeky grin took the edge of his words, but there was no doubt in the doctors mind that he meant them.

A good question. What do I believe in?

Is this a question of the mind, or is it one of faith? If it is of the mind then I can say very little, after all who truly knows everything about their own mind? All I can say is that I believe in myself, after all there is very little more than any one can say other than that. Of all things the only thing I can be certain is me, anything else is subject to whatever distortions and lies you might throw back at me. In fact there is a school of thought that says that nothing is real but me, and that everything else is the product of my mind. Keeping this in mind it is highly improbable that I can trust anything other than myself and so my answer must stand. I believe in myself; everything else, you, this room, the stars and planets, the whole universe itself is suspect and I take it all under advisement.

But if we move onto faith things become so much more interesting, do you not agree doctor?

Yes, of course you do.

Once again I could say that all I believe in is myself, and that would be an acceptable answer, but the very notion of faith is believing in something even though you have no physical evidence to support those beliefs. It is knowing that there is something beyond your existence without seeing it, taking all things on faith, as it were. Therefore, if I was to go back to the first part of my answer, I can claim to believe in things beyond myself, because I have faith in the fact that they are there, and not some distorted aspect of my imagination. And even if they were such a thing, does that make them any less real?

I wonder.

But I digress, allow me to retrace my words, in what do I believe, is it indeed a question of faith? Do I believe in a religion, who is my god? Am I devotee of Tamerism, or perhaps a follower of Iscid. Perhaps I follow a cult from one of the smaller worlds, or maybe one of the splinter religions. There are a billion worlds scattered through the vastness of space. Each one has it's own beliefs, and I could choose any one of them. Which ones are any more valid than any other?

All have their congregations, and all of them would claim that theirs is the one true religion. Each would, have and will, fight wars in the name of peace and love, preaching that their world, the galaxy would be a better place following the philosophies and teachings of forbearance and forgiveness; while trying to annihilate the unbelievers who do not conform.

Even the oldest of religions must be suspect, how many of them are little more than perverted histories, lost stories and attempts by primitive minds to explain what they do not understand?

I see your scowl doctor, you would debate me on this. I take it then that you are a believer. There is something more that you have put your faith into. Please forgive me, I try not to make light of any mans beliefs, but I am just a humble madman, how can anything I say be taken as a valid truth?

Unless, like prophets of old, the ramblings of madmen take on an aspect of divinity?

But alas, locked away as I am, there is no-one here to listen to whatever words of wisdom I spout. And indeed I only mull over the possibilities, nothing else. I could follow one of many faiths, from the oldest to the newest all have their merits, and each has it's drawbacks. But no matter how attractive they are to the eye, they cannot ignite that spark of belief within my heart, they cannot take them on faith.

I could spout the causes of millennia, and they would mean nothing to you, nothing at all. Beyond religion there is much you believe in, because science says that it is so. You are told when life emerged for the first time, and you accept it, for it is what you are told. There is definite truth in these things, because there is no other explanation.

But I would belabour the point. I do not have faith in this, I do not accept what your historians tell you. I know, know without a shadow of a doubt that there was something before man rose to ascendancy on a central world. A million other worlds, touched by his hand, ten thousand other religions, with tenants and beliefs as strong as your own, each believing themselves to be followers of a true god. And all of them are as suspect as one another.

So, in what do I believe?

What if I was to say nothing? Is that not a belief in itself? If I was to say that there is nothing beyond our existence, that we come from nothing and when we die there is nothing more than the cold embrace of oblivion and darkness, is that not, in itself a form of belief? How can I know for certain that there is nothing, even that is something that has to be taken on faith.

And believing in nothing, does not my belief in that very absence, give it meaning, so the very concept of nothing changes and becomes something?

Beyond that itself, what if I was to say that I had met and talked with servants of god? What if I went on to say that I had heard the voice of the one true God, does that transcend the boundaries of faith? In actually knowing him, it is no longer belief, it is absolute knowledge, it is no longer faith but truth.

So, once again, in what do I believe? I believe that there is a glimmer of truth in all that we see, all that is written. That in the heart of every god there is an echo of piece of fact, and that no man, no matter how wise or clever can see the whole picture, or understand the truth at the centre of reality.

I believe in the moment, in the necessity of humankind having to believe in something more than what they are.

And God, the Creator of all things? I believe that whatever, whoever, wherever he is, is a humorous being that is laughing at how pathetic and confused his creations have become.

John Smith stopped talking, and leaned back into his chair, studying the doctor with his grey eyes. As always they seemed slightly too clear and focused, piercing in a way that sent a shiver down the doctors spine, almost as though the patient were too sane.

His lips parted and he began to chuckle, which grew into a laugh, rich and full of humour that was neither maniacal or insane.

Bonforman frowned, "You are laughing."

The depth of his laugh increased and Smith had to wipe a tear from his eyes, "Yes I suppose that I am."

"But you just said that… God would be… "Are you saying that you believe you are God?"

Smith began to chortle, breathing harder and harder as he rocked backwards and forwards on his chair, "I, God? What a wit you have doctor, I see that you are a fellow of infinite jest!

"How could I possibly be God?"

Bonforman nodded, and jotted something down on his pad, stopping suddenly as the others laughter ceased abruptly, "Of course I have spoken with him in my time, and am in on the joke!"

His stare was no longer insane, nor was it mad or over focused, instead it was more penetrating and sane than any he had ever known. Without finishing his notes, the eminent doctor gathered his things, stood and walked from the room, bewildered at how he could be so intimidated by a man that needed his help.

Darin Westman watched as the patient currently calling himself John Smith was led into an a large room. The orderly had served at the facility longer than any other member of staff, and felt that above all of the people that had come and gone, he was one of the few, if not the only one that Smith tolerated completely.

He had been working there when Smith had first turned up, seven years earlier, and he had expected a quick turn around, as was the case with most of the disturbed minds that had come there. The director of the time had treated the man no differently than any of the others, subjecting him to many of the different scans and probes that were given to any of the patients who came there, but the newcomer was different, there were no particular symptoms; his displays of madness seemingly random.

Initially he had seemed to be aggressive, none responsive to all members of staff, and it was probably blind luck that Westman did not actually meet him for nearly a month. Of course by that time the newcomer was beginning to get a slight reputation, nothing that had been tried on him was having any effect and there were rumours that he was driving the director to distraction with his ways.

Westman had changed shifts and found much to his surprise that he was to be giving the patient his lunch. Naturally he had been apprehensive, he knew that some of the women had found him to be charming, while others had run crying from his room; the men were either angry at him, or scared shitless, and so he had not really known what to expect when he had opened the door and entered the room for the first time.

The room was as comfortable as any of the facilities in patients quarters, although it was not designed for any long term inmates. There was a bed, a chair and a desk, an enclosed bathroom area and an entertainment section. The man himself was sitting at his desk, back towards the door, seemingly unaware of the intrusion. He was not allowed access to a computer, so he had been writing, and there were pages of paper piled all over the desk, scattered about on the floor.

"Just put it on the table and go, I am busy and do not wish to be disturbed." The voice was recognisably intelligent and cultured, if slightly distracted and seemed to have the air of authority about it.

Westman had shrugged to no-one in particular and had done as he had been asked, knowing that he was not really meant to interact with the patients, but could not resist saying, "Of course, your meal sir," as he tried to place the tray somewhere where it would not cover too much of the paperwork. He had noticed the writing, and was amazed at the neat handwriting the man had, small, precise and in perfectly straight lines. Of course it was completely illegible, written in a language that was alien to Westman.

He had turned and started to walk away when the voice had come again, "One moment." He paused and turned to find the patient staring at him intently. It was the first time he had seen the face, and the gaze sent a shiver right down his spine. He was clean shaven with hair that had not been cut since he arrived, shoulder length and almost entirely grey, flecked here and there with silver. His eyes had been a piercing grey, and for a moment they were the sanest eyes that the young orderly had ever seen. They faced him down, evaluated him, weighing him up with an intensity that was disturbing. It was almost as though they looked right through him, saw all his secrets and insecurities, and the hidden things he did not even know about himself.

"You are new to me," the madman had said.

"Yes sir, roster has just changed, I'll be around lunchtimes and a few hours either side."

He had nodded slowly, "I see, and what is your name?"

"Darin Westman."

The inmate had taken the words and rolled them around his mouth nodding as he repeated them a couple of times, "A good name," he had said at last, "I like the name. Tell me Mr. Westman, what is the menu for today?"

"I believe it is Sarish meat, and mixed vegetables, with a sweetbread for dessert."

"With water to drink?"

"Yes sir."

The patient had nodded, "Tasteless pap, is what it is. Sometimes I would kill for a fine steak, perhaps even venison, and to drink, well Chardonnay or a good Port, to finish with a decent Scottish Whiskey."

Westman had frowned not recognising any of the foods that the patient had mentioned, although the man had ignored his confusion, but it had been the start of the relationship. As the months had passed he found himself enjoying the time he got to spend with the strange mad man, appreciating the company. He saw all forms of madness come from him, but it was rarely directed at him. He had watched the seemingly incurable man drive the director to the edge of madness himself, and he could only wonder how calculated it was, and then he had seen the director confront his charge for the last time.

The patient had been calm, slightly distracted, but he had seemed the saner of the two. The director was manic, swearing and yelling as he stomped backwards and forwards in front of the madman at the table. In the end he had asked a question of his patient that no one else had heard, and then stopped. The patient had smiled, indicated that he should move closer, and then had whispered something into his ear, sat back and smiled at him again.

The director had paused, stared wide-eyed at his charge, then his shocked face had fractured like splintering glass and he had crossed the boundary between doctor and patient, fallen headlong into madness.

His successor had cured him, but had been driven to the edge of madness himself, and so it had been for the last seven years. Some directors lasted months, others crumbled in weeks, staff had come and gone, and through it all Westman had remained, building what he could only call a friendship with the patient that could not be cured.

Westman sighed, pulling himself back into the present, discounting the years of his relationship with the patient. He watched as John Smith, one of the many names he had used with various directors, was lain flat on a gurney. He was wearing little more than a flimsy gown, his hair smothered in a dusting of grey stubble as his hair began to grow once more.

The orderly wondered how old the man was. He looked to be middle aged, or thereabouts, but it was so hard to be sure. Little had changed over the seven years, the hair was as thick as it had always been, had not become any lighter. There were no extra wrinkles, nor had the light dimmed in his eyes at any time. He had not been given access to any regenerative treatments, and of course there were no records saying when he had last had any, nor was he inclined to talk about it.

Smith lay still, staring above him without a care in the world, prepared to go through something that he had been through time and time again and probably would again. He hardly even blinked when the trolley moved and slid soundlessly into the hole in the wall before it. Like a perfect mouth the black oval consumed him, before bursting into light which flickered over the shadowed form within. Readings sprayed across countless screens, and Bonforman stood alone, almost aloof as he read bits and pieces of the incoming reports.

Westman smiled to himself, just like Smith he had seen it all before, and he could not help but be amused by it. The faces changed, but very little else did. The specialist doctors came from all over the galaxy each one convinced that they would be the one that could ultimately cure the madman. Some were more superior than others, some were undoubtedly geniuses, but in the end it all ended the same way: driven to distraction or madness themselves, they were carted away as failures.

He had to admit that he enjoyed the job, there was a certain humour he saw in Smith's eyes, and he could not be entirely sure that it was just madness, but shared that humour. How many times had he wondered whether there was a joke going on that he was only partially party to?

He sighed as Smith was removed from the machine and wondered just what was going to happen next.

Hatred builds hatred!

Anger feeds on anger!

Justify all things and I will condemn all of you f---ing bastards! There is nothing good here! There is nothing at all! I tell you all that there is a puerile amount of shit that we desperately try to swim in. All of this is pathetic, a waste of time!

What is the point in living if we are going to end up dead?

Inevitable! Rage against the state! I do not care one jot what you think of the bile that consumes me! I piss on your notions of polite society and sanity!

We are the poison in the veins of the universe!

Flinch! Yes back away, you cannot face the fury from which angels would baulk!

I condemn you all! Betrayal and the black arts! They are all around, lurking like blood in the hearts of all men. There is nothing that can stop profanity, nothing that can stop the truth! I do not care for anything that you may argue for I am in the grip or this righteous wrath!

I see them white in the night, they are more noble than the parasitic filth around me!

F--- off!

Stop looking at me!

I know that you are there studying me as though I was some insect under a microscope, and I do not like it any more than you would! Laugh, cry, scream and vent!

Bonforman stood beside Westman, the two men looking at a screen that clearly showed the patients rooms. Within John Smith was almost unrecognisable as a human being as he tore into the things with a fury that was terrible to behold. He ranted and swore, smashing the room to pieces with his bare hands. His clothing was ripped and ragged, and blood glistened from countless wounds.

Demented he threw himself across the room, rebounding from the wall with a heavy thud, spinning as he did so and kicking the already overturned table. Sheets of paper twisted and spiralled through the air, falling like autumn leaves all around the chamber.

"How often does this happen?"

Westman shrugged, "Not often. But when it does there is very little to be done until he calms down. I once thought that he might do it because he becomes tired of his surroundings and wanted a change, but I cannot be sure on of that."

Bonforman clenched and unclenched his fist, unaware that he was doing it, "Perhaps. Has he ever attacked anyone in this kind of state?"

"Not exactly."

"Go on."

Westman shrugged, "He has always seemed to explode like this when there is no one else around. Almost as though on some level he is aware that he does not want to hurt people. But on one occasion one of your predecessors sent two orderlies into restrain him."

Bonforman nodded slowly, aware of the reports he had read, but he wanted to hear the words spoken by someone who was actually there, it seemed to give it a greater definition, made it that little bit more real. "And?"

The orderly standing next to him shrugged, "They went in, and he ignored them, continued destroying the room until they tried to get hold of him. When that happened he turned on them. He was very precise in his assault, doing damage that would hurt but not permanently injure or kill. He broke bones, and bruised, rendering them both unconscious, but that was all. Once they were no longer a threat he returned his attention to destroying the room."

Bonforman shook his head slowly, glancing suddenly at his hand. He frowned and opened it out, stretching the fingers then sliding it into a pocket in an attempt to control the clenching. "I am concerned about the damage he may do to himself. Sedate him. Now."

Westman glanced at the doctor and then nodded, moving over to the console beneath the monitor and pressing a single button there. With a hiss green clouds began to fill the room, spreading outwards obscuring the scene as they grew. Slowly all the shapes lost definition, becoming shadows, one of which moved slowly.

They could hear his breathing, harsh and ragged from exertion, whooping in gulps of air and gas. The furious movements seemed to slow slowly, as it turned from a terrible assault on his surroundings to a slower fumbling around the shattered room. And then even that seemed to stop, the whole screen nothing more than a blurry green.

"I would imagine he is out," Bonforman began calmly and then leapt out of his skin as a face filled the monitor before him. It was hardly recognisable as anything human, contorted beyond recognition. It was the grimace of a raging beast, eyes bloodshot and fuming, a mouth twisted into a snarl that would have paused a pitbull. Blood poured from ripped lips, from the nose and from gouges and scratches all over the face. And when the mouth opened it was to bellow beastlike, before the features at last relaxed, and the face fell backwards into the green fog, and presumably oblivion.

The director blinked once or twice, recovering from his start, just as the orderly was doing beside him. "Well, I think that we should… get down there and start tidying up."

Westman nodded, and the two men turned to leave the observation room, "I think that he ought to be restrained before he recovers," the doctor began slowly, "Just until we are sure he has calmed down." He seemed to be distracted for a moment and then casually started talking again. "I have been reviewing all records of this place, and I cannot help but notice that you are the longest serving member of staff."

"Yes sir."

"It is also noted that you have a particular relationship with our… special patient."

Westman paused himself and took a deep breath before answering carefully, "You could say that sir."

"That is why you have refused rotation out of here and remained?"

"Something like that."

Bonforman nodded sagely, mulling things over in his mind, "So you would say that you are probably the most consistent thing in his life here?"

"I can't think of anything else offhand."

"Hmmm. And how do you feel about him, would you say that the two of you are friends?"

Feeling slightly more uncomfortable than he had in a long time the orderly answered slowly, "I don't know for certain. I find him good company, and he has never done anything to threaten me, verbally or physically. Yes, I have heard him ramble, seen him in the deepest pits of his madness, but there are occasions when he is incredibly lucid. In those times I have had conversations the like of which you would not believe. In those times, then I do believe that we are friends.

"He has a sense of humour and I believe whoever he was, that he has a rare intellect. He will debate on countless subjects, and always seems to know what he is talking about. Even when he is raving, there are times when what he says appears to make a crazy kind of sense.

"But as to whether he sees me as a friend, I do not know. After all, he is touched by madness, and who knows how he perceives me."

Bonforman nodded slowly, "I wonder, how would he react if you were not around for a while."

Westman felt a sick feeling crawl wormlike into his stomach, "Are you going to transfer me?"

The director shrugged, "Probably not. I need you here in case he does not take well to it. But if you were to remain apart from him for a while, it might prove to be insightful. The question is, do we just move you and see how he reacts, or should we let him believe that you are going for good?"

Westman shrugged, his face betraying his feelings clearly, "I am not so sure that it is a good idea at all sir. What if he turns violent again, or perhaps gets worse?"

The director shook his head slowly, "I doubt that very much. Do not let your feelings detract from the greater good of the patient. We have to be open to every possibility. Can you be sure that it is not your feelings of friendship for him that make you react in the way that you do and not an objective viewpoint?"

The orderly tried to gather an argument together, but the doctor cut him off before he could even rally his thoughts, "And you may well have genuine belief that he is indeed a 'friend', but are you sure it is not a misguided familiarity on your behalf? Can you be convinced that he sees you as a friend? Has he ever told you any more about himself than anyone else? Have you ever had chance to learn his real name, anything about his past that is any less suspect than what he has told us over the years?"

Westman let out a long breath and reluctantly shook his head, "No," he admitted at last, "I call him by whatever name he chooses at a given time, nothing more nothing less."

Bonforman nodded knowingly, "You see, how can we tell that this is not another affectation, an exaggeration, just another facet of his madness. Perhaps his apparent affection for you has less to do with who you are, and more to do with a particular nuance of his illness.

"It may well be that he confounds us all, I alone have tried test after test, interview after interview with no real results. His insanity may well be a unique kind, but I am convinced that it can be cracked, and that I am the one to do it. Whatever neurosis is at the centre of his condition, all it will take is a little understanding, and then I will be able to crack his psyche open wide, and return him functioning to the world."

What the hell did Lancelot ever know eh?

A pious fool if ever there was one. A knight in shining armour, the greatest of them all, and yet his soul was more tarnished than the lot of them. Stole his best friends wife, then deserted them both in the hour of need. How can that be a paragon of virtue?

How pathetic he was.

And what of Galahad, foolish in the extreme, but at least he deserved the mantle of a true hero. But where did that get him? Nowhere but an early death, unable to survive the touch of god. Poor boy, born of a loving mother and a itinerant father, how damned was he anyway?

What is there to say about these icons? They are put before us as idols, the idyll to reach for. We dress them up in shining lights, cloth them in the fabric of legend and in the end, they were as fallible and as flawed as the worst of us.

It is a waste of time I tell you.

There are countless legends, scattered throughout all the worlds and all the histories, and those tales will be told and told again. We cannot have heard them all, and that does not even include the forgotten ones.

We are all part of stories, all of us. There is nothing more real than a good story on a winter's night. I remember, I remember… Ghosts walk in the early hours, damned souls run home to their mothers. Why am I so very scared? What is there in the light that burns my friends? I mourn those that others fear and I cannot even help myself. We walk beneath the moonlight, we swim naked in the sea, I wonder why the mermaids will not come and take us.

I have worked magic you know.

You do not believe me, I can see that in your eyes. But I have worked it, under the stars of ancient worlds. I have performed what you would call miracles and I have done so many terrible things.

Tell me, doctor Bonforman, do the ends really justify the means? Can it be right for a man to do great evil all for the sake of good? For example, imagine a galaxy at war, divided into thousands of small protectorates and groups, can you manage to do that?

Things are stagnating, trade is breaking down, skirmishes are constantly breaking out. All that the future shows is the inevitable fall of society the enclosing hand of inevitable entropy. If one man could see this, and knew that something had to be done to save them all, but that way would be a dark one, would he be right in taking it?

If by creating himself as an evil avatar, having thousands flock to his twisted cause, making something so terrible that petty differences would have to be put aside, treaties formed, alliances made, new empires formed, then although it means a terrible war, is it not ultimately a good thing? Or is he damned for the sins he has wrought, all in the name of improving the galaxy?

Or is the captain of a starship in war truly evil for following terrible orders? If he were to destroy a world and all that lived there, killing billions, would he be considered a terrible man, knowing that by doing that deed he would end a war and save a trillion more lives?

Is it made worse if he is feted as a hero by his fellows?

Or is it all mythical tales, right and wrong, where the heroes should ride to the rescue of virginal maidens, dressed in shining armour upon the back of a great white steed? Every hero is truly tarnished, one way or another and every villain must therefore carry a spark of light.

Bonforman sat back and looked at the man calling himself John Smith, who seemed to have paused in his latest diatribe. Smith fiddled with the collar of his clothing, seemingly oblivious to the eminent man before him. Beneath the table the doctor clenched and unclenched his hand, while the frustration of seeing no way forward with his patient made him want to curl his toes.

Was the man trying to tell him something with his tale? Did he somehow see himself as a tarnished hero or terrible villain? He cast his mind back, trying to think if there was anyone who might just match the description in living memory, but he drew only a blank. He ignored the needle like pain in his head and turned his attention back to Smith.

"I have had enough," the patient said suddenly, "There is little more to be said now. Return me to my room. I wish to sleep."

Bonforman blinked and nodded slowly, feeling once again that he was being controlled by the other in some way or form. It was four months since Westman had been moved to another area of the station and in the time there had been no change in the patient whatsoever. In fact it was almost as though Smith had not missed the orderly, as though he did not notice that the man had gone. It was incredible really, after all he had seen him almost consistently for the better part of seven years, and then suddenly he was gone, and there had been no reaction at all. One of the nurses had suggested that perhaps he felt that his friend had been a delusion, another aspect of his madness, that when he vanished it was just replaced by another delusion.

Or maybe he never even realised that the other was there at all, Bonforman had mused.

It was with some surprise then, that as he was thinking about the orderly that Smith should suddenly react. As he stood he leaned forwards, and smiled, although there was no humour in his smile, "Darin Westman," he all but hissed.

"What?" the doctor managed.

"You know," Smith growled, "I want him back working with me." The grey eyes seemed to darken becoming slate grey, thunderclouds ready to burst, and he could think only of the destructive rage that he had once before seen the patient lapse into.

"I…" he began, but Smith cut him off with a sharp movement of his arm, "Nothing. I want him back. Full stop."

Without another room he stood up and walked from the room, conducting himself with more authority than the doctor had ever seen in anyone. He watched blankly as the waiting orderlies followed him out of the door, and did not notice when the skin beneath his right eye began to twitch.

Westman stood back after placing the tray of food before Smith and watched as the man stopped writing and looked at his latest meal. Like most of the time he was writing using a pen and ink, although the letters with which he wrote were unrecognisable to the orderly's eye. There did seem to be a pattern to them though, they were not irregular shapes, and although they had been written off as part of the man's illness, he could not help but think that to the patient, at least they made sense.

Carefully Smith placed the pen down, and moved the papers from around him, shuffling them into something that resembled a neat pile, and then he drew the tray before him, staring at the food there, but he did not start to eat.

"Is there a problem?"

Smith pursed his lips and shook his head slowly, looking up at the man before him. His grey eyes were heavy and serious, almost as though there was no madness there at all, and slowly he smiled. "I am glad that they allowed you to come back," he said at last, his tones well moderated. They were balanced too, Westman could recognise that much. It was more than he had seen from the man before, there was normally some strange hint of the madness that consumed him. "Although perhaps it was a good thing that they took you a way for a while, I do not think that I had considered the possibility of you leaving permanently before now."

Westman blinked, unsure what to make of the rational performance from the man in front of him.

"It may seem surprising to you that I have a considered opinion about anything, but it is the truth. I noted you from the moment that I first saw you, and knew that we were more alike than you would imagine. There is something that I would like from you, a favour if you like."

The orderly frowned, "Which is what exactly Mr. Smith?"

The patient smiled again, a genuine, warm smile, the kind a teacher might give to a favoured student, "Please, I am about to tell you something that I would rather was not entered into the official records, a secret perhaps to be kept between the two of us, I do it as a sign of the friendship we have, I suppose."

Westman blinked and then nodded slowly, trying to decide whether it was a good idea to promise the madman something or not.

"You have known me by many names, but none of them have truly been my own, although they all fit, one as good as another. However I did have a name of my own, once a long time ago, and it is fitting that I tell you what it is, I think. You will find very few records regarding it, but you may find a few, although I would appreciate it if you do not conduct your study here.

"My name was Garan Dupac. Nothing important, no-one special. But once longer than you could probably imagine it was something else. This one you will find no record of, lost long, long ago to the passage of time, but it was the name I was given upon my birth; Auric Jahlenson my father called me, and although I have had many other identities, this was the first, and even now, at the core of my being, it is who I am."

Westman slowly managed to get his mouth working, was able to articulate what he wanted to say, "Why are you telling me this, why are you trusting me?" He did not add, if it is the truth, he wanted to, but there was something in the others demeanour that convinced him at once that he was hearing fact.

"Because we are the same. I noticed it within you, the moment we met. I can see it, feel it and taste it. It is the reason that I have accepted you when I have not had the time for any of the others. You are descended from an ancient lineage, and through chaos and history, you have been delivered here to meet with me.

"The potential you hold needs to be unlocked, and there is only one way to do it. There is a planet, outside all the great empires, on the very edge of the galaxy. It is neglected on many of the star charts, but you will find it on the better ones.

"Depending where the chart was made, the planet has differing names, but it is there, orbiting a single yellow star, third of nine. On the Conglomerate maps it is called Cerulean. I would like you to resign your commission here and go there.

"When you reach it, I will teach you words, sentences that you will need to speak when you get there."

Westman frowned, "Words? To speak to whom?"

"To no one," Smith smiled knowingly, "To the sky and wind, to the air that surrounds you and the ground beneath you.

"Of course, all of this might just be the ramblings of a madman, but trust me. If you do as I say you will learn some of the greatest secrets of the universe, and it is more likely that we will meet again, no matter how many years may pass between now and then."

Westman breathed out, whistling his exhalation, "And when should I go?"

"In a few weeks, when Bonforman folds. I don't think that he is going to last much longer, do you?"

The great and highly esteemed doctor Ristaq Bonforman flinched with a muscle spasm that he could not control. On the desk in front of him his right hand clenched and unclenched with a will of his own, and the tick beneath his right eye caused one side of his face to run like molten plastic. Sweat beaded on his forehead and disbelief sank deep in his eyes as he tried to make sense of all he had seen and done for the last year.

He stared blindly at countless reports in front of him, all his own work. Scans of the neural pathways that showed that John Smith had no abnormalities within the workings of his brain, no growths or chemical deficiencies, no misfiring synapses, just a functioning brain the same as anyone else's.

The verbal tests came back as inconclusive, enough to say that he was not giving sane answers, but none specific enough as to suggest any form of neurosis or disorder. Medical scans showed a perfectly adequate biology. No physical disease or illness, no sign of injury or pain. In fact there was nothing at all that he would not have expected to find upon any random human, perfectly balanced and sane.

And yet, when it came down to the basic tests, not the ones that determined the cause, but instead decided on whether a person was in fact sane, he failed them.

Science said that the man was mad, but it also said that there was nothing wrong with him, and it was a dichotomy that he found hard to accept.

He knew without a doubt that he was a great psychiatrist, he knew that he had studied in the best schools received the best grades. He had undoubtedly helped countless people over the years. Be they emotionally unbalanced or psychotic killers he had cured them, and each time had been another feather in his cap. Another example of just why he was the greatest proponent of his profession in the galaxy.

So why was it that he was unable to see into the heart of this man, how was it that he could only do a layman's job and be able to tell that he was mad and do no more. There had to be something that he was missing, it was inconceivable that he should be unable to help the man. He must have missed something, and it was bound to be something that was obvious.

His mind propelled itself again and again over all the tests and interviews he had performed, trying to see that one little thing that he had neglected, but there was nothing that came into his mind. He could not give up and fail, it was against his nature, it would mean that he was admitting that he was beaten: That there was a patient that he could not cure.

Perhaps that was not so bad in itself, but what if the next director came in and cured the patient! And did it with something that he had missed, was it possible that his reputation could survive that kind of thing. He doubted it very much, and realised that even if it did survive it, there was no way that he would be able to live with it.

"Mad, but not mad!" he muttered manically to himself, standing and pacing around the room, his face twitching, fist clenching, knowing that time was running out.

Imagine time differently.

Imagine the feel of pain, what is insanity except different perceptions of reality, and who knows which one is right and wrong. You can only say that I am wrong if you can understand the universe under my perceptions, and you cannot do that without being me. And then you would see yourself as sane, and therefore I must be sane… and it would be everyone else telling you otherwise.

Everything you know is wrong, all that you believe is insanity to me. Life did not begin as you believe, it is little more than the growth in the ashes. It all died once before and it will again. Everything that was known was forgotten and we all had to start again. And it will happen again.

All lost but for the guiding hands!

Now tell me this is madness.

Is it, or am I party to things that you do not know?

I could tell you that I have been the greatest hero in the galaxy and I have been the most terrible tyrant. Is that a contradiction or am I just both sides of the same coin?

How can I be mad, all I say makes perfect sense, but only if you look deep enough to see the whole picture!

How long can a man live? With injections and additions, perhaps he will make a thousand years, but could he last longer? Am I only forty or am I older again? Five hundred years perhaps, maybe more. Could I last a million years, or am I older already, half way through the second million?

Does that make me a god I wonder? What makes a god, how long do they live? Do they dwell within the hearts of men and die when faith passes, or are they real things, grown in the belly of myth and legend until they become the deities we find.

I tell you this, and swear it is true. A man was once born, a simple man, a good man, and he preached peace and love to those around him. What could be better than that? What more could be asked of him? All that he wanted was for one man to look at another and to love him and would you believe that he was nailed to a tree for it?

Left to die in pain and suffering, this man who preached only for peace and what became of it?

His friends spread his words, and the people that heard them found them to be good, so they became followers, and with a life of it's own his peaceful philosophy grew, until in the end he was elevated to godhood and what happened?

In the name of their god the people went to war, to smite their enemies and teach them the ways of peace and love. And in the name of peace and love they killed. And they killed. And they killed. Until their hands ran red with blood, and when they thought they could bleed no more, they disagreed over their own beliefs and warred upon one another, all in the name of peace and love.

So convinced were they that they were right they never once asked the question, what would their founder do if he stepped back into their lives? How inspired would he be to see how his words had been taken.

He would have wept in shame!

It is all so terrible; a million stories as tragic as the last, all swallowed by this maw of madness, in which we all dwell. Tell me doctor Bonforman, how do you feel?

John Smith leaned forwards as he whispered the last words, and stared straight into the others face. Of the two the patient looked the more relaxed. His face was calm, almost serene, while the doctor's was covered in a sweat, the eye twitching with a life of it's own.

"T-t-t-this is n-not possible!" the director stuttered, "I am not… I do not… I cannot…" He blinked with both eyes, trying to take the measure of the man before him, just as he had tried to understand him for the past year, and failing again.

Outside the small room Darin Westman and Nurse Tireen watched together as the former genius that had been Bonforman struggled to come to terms with something that was beyond his comprehension.

"This is it," Westman said softly, a surety in his voice that said he was seeing something he had seen before, "He lasted longer than most, but it ends the same way."

Tireen glanced at him, "What are you saying?"

Westman smiled, "It is an ending. It'll be all change now."

She looked at the orderly, a fixture in the facility since before she started, "Are you really leaving?"

He nodded, "When Bonforman goes, I will leave too. It is about time I saw the galaxy out there, I've been cooped up here for far too long." He knew, at least that it was true, and he had learned the strange words that Smith had taught him. He did not know whether he would go to Cerulean or not, but he might. It would be seeing something new, and who knows, perhaps the mad man was not as mad as he appeared.

In front of him Bonforman twitched, "Now," the orderly smiled.

The director leaned forwards, closing in on the patient until their foreheads almost touched, and then he gasped hoarsely, "You have to tell me, you have to know, why, why are you mad?"

And in for a moment Smith transformed, suddenly he was so much more than sane, a smile filled his face that appeared to light the room and his eyes shone with a knowledge that was terrible to behold. Then he leaned forwards and whispered something into the ear of the other man.

He sank back into his chair, while the doctor threw himself backwards as though he had been struck. His eyes wide, twitching, his mouth dropped and then he began to laugh, not the laugh of understanding but the maniacal high pitched drop into insanity.

"F--- me!" Tireen exclaimed in pure surprise, but the orderly ignored her, moving already towards the door, "Nurse!" he snapped assuming authority, "He needs to be sedated for a while, and when we will have to put a call in for a new director. Again," he added as he led the way into the little room.

"Ahh, Hobbits incredible creatures!" John Smith enthused to anyone who was listening, "It proves just what a sense of humour God has, that he could make such funny, furry toed wonders!"

Westman watched him and smiled, wondering just how much of the stuff he spouted was planned, and where he got it all from, after all, in the seven years that he had been there, he could not recall an occasion of him ever repeating himself. He was dressed in casual clothes, and as such should not really have been allowed into any occupied part of the sanctuary. But for the moment there was no official director, and it was his last few moments, no one had wanted to deny him the chance to say farewell to their celebrity patient.

Smith looked up and smiled a wide smile, recognition igniting in his eyes, "Why Aragorn!" he cried, as though meeting an old friend, "Is it you? My how the years have been kind to you, do you not know me?" He stood up suddenly and before anyone could stop him he shot around the table, and grasped the former orderly in a tight embrace. "It is I, Gandalf!" he breathed for his audience, as Westman waved the staff back.

The patient continued nonplussed, "I take it you are leaving us then, off once more eh, Strider, to cross the world, a ranger born!" He leaned close and whispered into his ear, "Take care Mr. Westman, it is a big universe out there, do all that I told you and you may begin to understand things!

"Fare well." And so saying he stood back, turned to address the room, "Come now you hobbits and elves, dwarves and humans, wave goodbye to our good friend!"

Darin Westman made his way down the corridor that led to the landing bay with some of the other members of staff, but unlike them he would not be coming back with the new director, he would be leaving on the same transport that brought the new man in.

Beside him Nurse Tireen kept pace, "You know, this place is not going to be the same without you."

He nodded, but did not reply. He thought that when it was actually time for him to go that he would have been sad about the prospect of leaving, but instead he felt alive, excited at the thought of being out in the galaxy, completely in control of his own destiny. Ahead of them the door to the landing bay drew closer, and he could make out the lights above it blinking as they indicated the changing atmosphere as the airlock did it's job.

"I have not being paying attention," he said at last, "Who is the replacement for Bonforman?"

"Doctor Shamir Gannon, I believe," she replied without looking at her notes.

"I've heard of him," Westman mused, "He is a great doctor." Then he chuckled, "But then, weren't they all. He will go the way of the others."

The nurse frowned and looked at him, but did not have time to respond as the door opened and the new director strode in. He walked with an air of authority and superiority that was unmistakably that of a great man, the unquenchable knowledge that he was the best in his field, and that all hurdles would be overcome. He would leave within three months a broken man.

He gathered his new staff to him, and made his way off down the corridor, issuing instructions on how things were going to be different this time, and Westman smiled shaking his head, before turning to pass out of the facility that had been his world for the last eight years. He paused at the sound of footsteps, and turning found himself face to face with Tireen, "There is something I have to know," she said quickly, her voice a conspiratorial whisper, "What is it he says, you know at the end, that drives them insane?"

Westman blinked, then shrugged, "You know it took me years to figure that out, and when I did it was so obvious…" He trailed of, causing her to look at him intently, "And?"

"Oh, is it a secret?" he half teased, "Something so profound that it is more than the mind can stand?

"Not really. You know, there is something that happens, sooner or later, no matter how clever or feted that the great minds that come here have to ask him. In the end, they go to him and they all ask him the same question or a variation of it, 'Why are you mad?'

"And always he will lean forward and whisper the answer…"

"Which is?"

The former orderly smiled knowingly, "Because I want to be." And he picked up his bag, walked out through the door towards the shuttle, and without looking back set out to explore the galaxy.