It was still raining. It was raining when it started, it was still raining. Hellen hated the rain. James was tired of her hating. She always took it out on him on her own schedule. She had quit caring. Somewhere the caring had gotten whittled away, flushed away by the rain.
      It was raining, and James was unhappy, but he kept with his duties. He took on both of their chores when she decided to quit. James did them to stay alive and have something to fill his time. He wasn't bothered by the rain so much as to not go out in it. He had good foul weather gear that he maintained with care. Hellen never went outside. She hated the rain. She had never been out in it, except to arrive in a dash to the house. It was still raining. Lightning flashed and the drops never ceased, only varied.
      James had been spending more time outside recently. He had started giving up. He had tried. But he was tired of failing. He was tired of not getting through the hatred. As long as it rained, Hellen hated. It was still raining.
      James liked being in the rain. It let him recall a time when they were happy. And he loved the exhilaration of the lightning. It reminded him of the excitement they used to feel between them when they decided to emigrate. So positive, so in love, life was magical and thus a challenge. Happiness was something lost, slipped between his fingers out between the drops. He saw himself going out into the rain to look for it.
      It was still raining. You couldn't escape it except by staying inside the center of the lower housing section and drown out the sound. It was still there, but below audial threshold. But Hellen still heard it. Hellen still hated it, and James was tired of her hatred.
      He knew that if the rain stopped, her hatred would go on. It had lived in her ever since he met her. He never saw it, though, until after they were married. Hellen didn't dare show it until after they were married. James was getting to where he couldn't deal with it on any level. Whatever he could do to avoid being with her, he did. It didn't make her easier to tolerate when he was at the house. And there were no neighbors near the data tracking station where they lived.
      Hellen grew worse, cursing strings every time he came in the door. He sometimes turned back and went back outside where she would just not follow. She was focusing her hatred on him, since he was the only other living thing that entered the house. But he still didn't want to hurt Hellen.
      At least what desire that was there was well under check. He would leave her before he would hurt her. She hurt enough already.
      But she was becoming less and less bearable as time went on. He had rigged a cot in the main equipment building, using a spare canvas and some electrical tubing. It crinkled as he moved in it, and it wasn't very soft, but it was more comfortable than in the house.
      He had put it together after one particularly bad episode when Hellen started screaming at him without pause. He left the house and went and made the cot. He waited until he saw the lights go out inside before going in and retrieving food for his dinner. He stayed out in the shed for three days, the composite roof not nearly as insulated from noise as was the roof of the house. But he would rather have heard the constant drumming than what Hellen was dishing out.
      When he had returned, she was less violent, but no less hateful. The rain continued to faIl.

      It was the following week that he found himself almost cocking his arm to punch her. He gathered his rain gear, a weeks worth of trail rations, and headed out the door. He just started walking away from the house. He headed in the general direction of their nearest neighbors, according to the map, some sixty miles away. He found their house four days later. He knocked on the door and heard no reply. He tried the knob and found it open.
      The stench hit him immediately. Inside he found two bodies, bloated, deteriorating. One, the male, had a pistol in his hand. The woman had had her face blown away. James was not surprised. He wrapped the bodies in blankets and drug them outside, wearing a mask made of part of his shirt. He found disinfectant and started cleaning the house, airing out the smell of rotting flesh. It took nearly an entire day before he had eliminated the odor. It never stopped raining. He had checked the calendar to find out that the monthly delivery was due in four days. He sat and waited inside, staying dry for a change. He finally relaxed.
      The delivery truck arrived while he was asleep, and he barely woke in time to catch them before they left. He called the man inside.
      "Hey, the people who lived here are dead."
      "You don't live here?"
      "No. I was living east of here. My wife drove me out of the house. I think that she is losing it, and she wouldn't accept any help that I tried to give her. I left before what happened here happened at my place."
      "What happened here?"
      "He shot her and then himself."
      "Oh. Murder/suicide. You cleaned the place up?"
      "Yes."
      "You walked all the way here?"
      James nodded.
      "You just walked out on her?"
      James nodded again.
      "So are you staying here?"
      "I want to ride with you back to spaceport. I want off this world."
      "Don't have room for a passenger at the moment. I'll notify Central that you want to transfer. I'll check in on your wife. Anything else I can do?"
      James shrugged. "Make it quick. I really don't want to stay here. And I'm sure that my wife wants to leave as well. I just don't want to leave with her. I've had all of her that I can take. I don't want to end up hurting her."
      "Sure thing." The driver returned to the truck and left in the direction from which he had come. It was still raining.

      James waited. He waited a week as the rain fell. He waited a second week as the rain fell. He waited a third week.
      He got tired of waiting and decided to go back to his house to check on Hellen. The trek took another four days.

      He arrived to find the delivery truck parked beside the house. Next to the back door was the corpse of the driver. James judged that he was three weeks dead from the stage of rot.
      He went in the door. "Hellen." he called. He heard a noise in the other part of the house, then footsteps. She immediately started screaming at him for all sorts of reasons, all running together in her verbal assault. He turned to go out the door, and she redoubled her intensity.
      "I'm going to drive the truck to the station and get us transferred off-planet. I also plan on filing a divorce. After this, I don't care to see you again. Had you not killed him, we would have probably been gone from this planet by now."
      He left, not looking back, got in the truck and started up the motor. He drove about a mile away from the house and started to access the navigational log. What he saw puzzled him. All that showed on the map was a twenty two thousand square mile area with a black line around it. Outside was white space. He looked for the return route and found it after about ten minutes of experimentation. He set off along the route.
      It took seven and a half hours of driving, which he split into two parts, taking a much needed nap in the cab. What he found at the end of the treacherous drive was a wall some six hundred feet tall, colored to match the gray sky. He really didn't see it until he was close enough to spot it through the rain. But when he did, he realized the reason for the black line around the map. He wondered what was on the other side before moving on toward the opening in the wall that the map indicated as the warehouse. He drove the truck inside, out of the rain, and parked.
      He was immediately joined by a group of people that were at first jokingly happy to see him, until they realized that he was not the driver. Then they were all business.
      "Where is Frank?"
      "Dead. My wife killed him."
      "Oh. Is your wife still alive?"
      "She was when I left the house."
      "And you need a ride back after returning the vehicle."
      "No. I don't want to see her again. I want off-world. I want a transfer to a different planet."
      "I see. Follow me."
      James turned around to see the rain behind him, still falling beyond the garage entrance door. He went where he was shown. They led him into a mess hall and served him a meal. There were others about, but no one but the man that ushered him through the halls paid any attention to him. He was full of questions, but the manner in which he was treated left him feeling uneasy about asking anything.
      He ate the meal without much interest. The primary thing that kept him quiet was that he was away from the rain. He couldn't hear it falling through the massive structure. As he finished the meal, he felt sleepy. A yawn brought a question to him as to whether he would be wanting a bed. He nodded, feeling his eyes grow heavy. He was led a short distance down the halls, and he fell into the bed that was offered to him. He didn't even bother getting out of his clothes.

      When James woke, he noticed the faint patter of rain on the roof. When he got his eyes open, he realized that he was home. This bothered him that he would be brought here without being notified or even wakened. He rose groggily from the bed and walked through the house. Hellen was nowhere to be found. He checked on the back porch and the corpse of the driver was gone. He sat down and tried to figure out the pieces of the puzzle that his situation presented him.
      What first bothered him was that he was back at the house, obviously not going to be transferred. But slowly, the realization that things were working beyond his knowledge began to seep into his mind. Hellen had killed a man, and she was no longer present. He had arrived in place of a man overdue. He was now home. He went around the house, looking for a vehicle. There was none, though there were signs of there having been one there recently.
      His being returned without his consent or knowledge led him to believe that the authorities didn't want him to transfer off-planet. The presence of the wall and what he saw of the map had changed his concept of reality about the planet. Why he had been returned to his house led him to believe that things were other than stipulated in his contract.
      The driver's reaction to the news that the couple whose house he had first used as sanctuary from Hellen's constant hatred were dead took on new meaning. In hindsight, it was as if he had almost expected them to die.
      And his death at Hellen's hands was the reason for her disappearance. She would have not left the house except by force or deceit. He surmised that they couldn't afford to leave someone that killed drivers on the loose. He figured that if she had killed a neighbor, they wouldn't have bothered. He surmised that they were here for study, as participants in an experiment.
      Everything fell into place at the supposition. He was a test subject to test human reaction to constant rain. It angered him that he was denied his rights and utilized in such a manner. He checked the cabinets and found them to be stocked with food.
      He busied himself with packing food and preparing his foul weather gear. He estimated the trek to take two weeks hiking through the mud. He finished and ate a full meal.
      He rested the rest of the day as far as his emotions would let him. He spent his time looking for clues in the computer that would add to his ideas. He found little, but it kept him busy and resting for the journey.
      He slept uneasily and left the next morning into the rain.

      The thirteen days of walking through the rain and mud did little for his disposition. But he arrived within sight of the wall. He was close to where the door had been, but he avoided the direct approach, leaving the sets of mud tire tracks and heading to the wall directly. Thus he approached the door walking along the base of the wall.
      As he neared the opening, he pulled his gun. He waited for several hours in a bush that grew a few yards from the door, since the access was sealed. He waited until a truck approached and the door opened. He stood when the truck passed through, and he was inside in less than a minute.
      He walked casually, trying his best to appear as if he belonged there. He walked to the area where he had seen men changing clothes during his first visit. He found an open locker with clothes that would fit him.
      The jump suit offered little concealment for the weapon, so he picked a travel bag, placed the weapon in it, and slung the strap over his shoulder. He walked out of the room and walked deeper into the facility. He found a lobby that had a map of the complex. There were others about, but he went largely unnoticed. What was mostly noticed was the length of his hair. In his recent solitude, it grown considerably longer than the norm of those that worked there. He figured that it was no big deal and would cause more trouble were he to try to get a haircut.
      He spotted a location on the map that was labeled HQ. He determined how to proceed and headed in that direction. He was allowed to pass with no resistance. He made his way to the door and was met by a guard.
      "Authorized access only. You need a hair cut."
      James pulled the pistol and backed the guard into the door. He turned him around, once past the door, then knocked him out with the butt of the pistol. He quickly grabbed a man in a different colored jumpsuit from what everyone else wore.
      "I want to know what has happened to my wife."
      The man started to struggle, but James crammed the pistol in his face. He subsided, though the act brought plenty of attention. He raised his voice. "Anybody does something stupid and people start dying." He pressed the pistol harder into the face of his hostage and walked him into a private room.
      "Now I want some answers, or you're dead. I don't care what happens to me at this point. So if you want to live more than a few more minutes, give me honest answers. I know enough of the basics to tell if you are lying to me. Lie to me, and I'll kill you."
      "Who are you?"
      "I'm one of your test subjects that got wise. Now tell me the purpose of this place."
      "What do you know?"
      "Doesn't matter. Tell me the truth, or you're a dead man."
      "This is Test Facility 981. Rainy climate test center."
      "Don't stop there unless you want to stop forever. Details."
      "We take test subjects and see how they respond to adverse situations. Here, the factor is an unending rain. Families are set up in homes in isolated locations to see how they respond."
      "And what have you learned, except that man isn't a duck?"
      "Many things. We've learned how best to prepare people for assignment in rainy locations. We have learned where stress starts and how it builds. We have learned where in the brain that adaptations are made to such an environment."
      "How?"
      "Autopsy."
      "Do any of the subjects get transferred off-planet?"
      "Not yet."
      "None survived that long, heh? Where is my wife?"
      "Who is your wife?"
      "The one that shot one of your drivers.
      "In the lab undergoing study."
      "Is she alive?" James pressed the pistol harder against the man's throat. There was a knock at the door. "Answer me."
      "No. She is dead."
      "How did she die?" James called outside the door. "Stay out or the boss man dies." He jabbed the gun again at the man.
      "Lethal injection that wouldn't interfere with the study."
      "Bring the computer up on line. I want information."
      The man complied.
      "A map of the complex. Also a map of the world outside the wall."
      These were provided, and James stored them in quick access. Exterior maps showed that the region was a series of areas contained within walls as was the one he had called home. Each area was labeled with the primary factor of difficulty. There were hundreds of cells on the map, and as he checked further, he realized that it was just a fraction of the total. His ideas of destroying the immediate complex now seemed futile.
      "Why do you use innocent people? Why not use convicts and the like?"
      "We do. They are just not enough."
      "So you use innocent dupes that want to go to start over, that won't arrive until everyone that they knew from the past is long dead."
      He turned to the map of the complex. He was thinking frantically of a way to bring this to an end when he felt a tingle to his nerves. He saw the man crumple before him, and he followed in short order, passing out. His last thought was that he'd never get the chance to stop it.

      He woke in a straight jacket in a padded cell. What woke him was the sound of someone talking. He couldn't make out the words, being muddled. When he came awake, the voice stopped. He sat in the corner as comfortably as he could manage. He stayed there for hours with no one entering the cell. He was sure that he was being watched by cameras, though he could not find any. Miniaturization precluded any certainty that there were no cameras, thus he assumed that there were, just as he assumed that the houses had been monitored on a random basis. Eventually a man came in with a container under his arm.
      "What is that?"
      "Your dinner."
      "I need to take a dump."
      "Be my guest."
      "Where? There's no toilet."
      "Try your pants." He shut the door behind him. "Now don't get stupid and try something."
      "Why should I?"
      "Because I'm going to feed you."
      "I'm not hungry."
      "You're going to eat, like it or not."
      "What's involved?"
      "I put this tube down your throat and flip a switch. The pump fills your stomach with food."
      "No thanks."
      "You don't have a choice in the matter, except whether I rough you up for resisting."
      "May I just swallow it? Do you have to cram it down my throat?"
      "You can't swallow that fast."
      "Okay. But don't tear me up doing it. I'll cooperate."
      The man approached him and placed the tube down his mouth. He was about to kick the man when a voice sounded in his mind. "Don't do it. He'll have your lunch if you try it."
      He stopped, then felt a rush down his throat. The tube came free. The man stood. "That's good. Just keep it up, and we'll get along fine." He tapped on a hand pager, and the door opened. He left, securing the door shut. James sat there, wondering where the warning voice had come from.
      He found no answer. He sat there, working the soreness of his throat in an attempt to ease the discomfort that lingered from the tube. Nothing happened for several hours, and he found himself drifting off to sleep.

      James dreamed as he slept, of a group of telepaths opposed to the rule that governed the planet, working within the system to weaken its efforts. He dreamed that this group wanted to help him escape from his prison, but he was warned that patience was needed. He would have to appear to cooperate at every turn. He woke, remembering the dream fully, something he very seldom did. He sat and waited.
      An hour later, two guards arrived and escorted him to a room. He was seated in the only chair, still wearing the straightjacket, strapped in place so that he could not rise. The guards left him there.
      Ten minutes passed, and he sat patiently until a man entered. He was relatively short, balding, wore wire rim glasses, and had an evil look to his face, as one who enjoyed the art of interrogation.
      "James Lucon. Did you enjoy the rain?"
      "Not particularly, but I persevered."
      "Yes. So it notes on your record. Tell me, why did you use force yesterday?"
      "I no longer wished to be a test subject. My first encounter led me to believe that I had no alternative. When peaceful means fail to gain honesty and fair treatment, then a show of force is sometimes needed."
      "I see. So what you did was precalculated?"
      "To the degree possible, from my limited scope of the situation."
      "You are certainly being cooperative. Has anyone briefed you, advising such a course to you?"
      "I have seen no one that has offered advice."
      "Heard, but not seen, perhaps?"
      "Is that possible without documentation?" replied James.
      "You reply with a question."
      "I do not understand the reference."
      "You've heard no voices speaking to you?"
      "I assure you that I have no schizophrenic tendencies."
      "You evade my question."
      "Since I am unaccustomed in dealing with such fantasies, I tend to elaborate. Should I have heard voices? Are you piping in subliminals?"
      "Why did you attack the compound?"
      "To gain knowledge in a hope to escape the confines of testing."
      "Our records show that you have gained access to information that makes you no longer useful as a test subject."
      "So then kill me, as you did my wife."
      "Did she mean something to you?"
      "In the past, yes. Recently, her hatred blocked out what relationship existed. I was ready to leave her."
      "And you blame us for that?"
      "Naturally."
      "Hmmm. You are amazingly frank for a man in your position.'
      "I have nothing to lose."
      "There is a certain level of comfort that you still possess."
      "It means little to me at this point. I feel that there is no escape possible for myself. My future is forfeit."
      "Do you resent that?"
      "Extremely."
      "Yet you remain calm."
      "Composed, not calm."
      "Ah. The difference. Very well. James Lucon, we are going to use you as bait. We have something of a security problem. If you wish to avoid torture, you will cooperate. Am I clear?"
      "Quite."
      "There is a group of telepaths working within our rank and file. They are very adept at avoiding apprehension. It is our desire to use you to capture them. Would you be willing?"
      "I do not know enough to have an opinion."
      "Do you wish to escape torture?"
      "It would be preferred, yes."
      "Very well. In the meantime, we wish you to let your thoughts remain open. If you are contacted by a voice in your mind, listen to it, ask questions. Ask that you be told of their identity before you will trust them. Tell them that you will not cooperate without their trust in you."
      "Wouldn't that simply lead these telepaths to abandon me?"
      "Perhaps, but they will interested in you. We are willing to be take that chance."
      "As you wish."
      "Such a sensible attitude." The man turned and left. The guards returned and escorted him to his cell.
      As soon as he settled down, the voice returned. "You can help us with this plan. There are those that we would like to see eliminated. It would make our work easier. Are you willing?" James nodded mentally. "Good. We will get back to you."

      The rain was still falling in James's mind. The same man that had interrogated him before entered the room. "You heard these voices?"
      "Yes, I did. I didn't believe you before. Now I do."
      "How many did you hear?"
      "Three different voices. They sometimes spoke together, in a group. But it was usually one at a time."
      "Did you get any names?"
      "Not at first. They were reluctant. Then I shut them out, claiming that they were using some trick to mislead me. They stopped for a while, but then they returned when I almost kicked a guard for force feeding me too roughly. They warned me not to kick him. The next day, they gave me their names indirectly. Harold, Greg, and Lawrence. Last names, I did not receive. But from what they said, they all seem to hold some position of security clearance. They seemed to know things."
      "Like what?"
      "Schedules, plans, things like that. Nothing that they told me as fact, but it was mixed in the conversation, to be surmised. Corrections, supplements, reminders."
      "Very well. I'll check with records and see what we find. I'll be in touch later."

      James was led to a room with the see-through side of a two-way mirror. He listened to the conversation on the other side of the mirror. With the description in mind, he listened to the voices of the men talk.
      "The one with the beard sounds like one of the voices I heard. Sounds very much like him."
      "Very good. We'll get the next group in."
      The men in the other room were called out and a fresh group were brought in. James sat and listened. He still heard the sound of the rain and wondered if he would ever forget the sound while he still lived.
      "The blond one. He was the first to contact me."
      "Are you sure?"
      "I'm sure that it sounds like him. I'm not sure if it is him."
      They were led out, and James fingered the third man from the third group. After they were led away, the man turned to him. "You picked the only Greg, the only Harold, and the only Lawrence from the groups. We appreciate the assistance. You know that they will be after you. They will try to kill you for this. They will keep you awake at night, hounding you with their voices. They will try to get their revenge."
      "Perhaps. I doubt that they will be as rough as you would have been."
      "You are quite reasonable."
      "How will they try to kill me?"
      "That is our second phase of the trap. It will probably be through your food. Poison. We'll keep a close eye on the food preparation area for signs of someone tampering with your food."
      "I see."
      James was contacted and told that two men were shot trying to add something to his food. They told him of the next part of the plan.
      James was brought to the control station. "Yes. This is the place I saw. I didn't quite expect it, but they messed up during an interruption. Back there. I saw it briefly."
      "Do you see anything?" asked the interrogator of an assistant.
      "There is a box back here."
      "Don't touch it. We'll get the disposal crew out here." He turned back to James. "You seem to be doing rather well for us. Five of their agents and one sabotage attempt. I hope to see more."
      "Then look." James, now trusted enough not to be placed under heavy guard, kicked out his right foot into a panel. Panic swept those around him for the two seconds that they had left.
      High voltage went down the communication lines to the central computer switching frame, and it jumped the leads to the planetary control center lines. This caused the main controlling system used on the planet, which regulated all the cells planet-wide and gathered the data from each cell, to go down, turning all the read/write cycles to spew garbage throughout the storage banks. The room exploded, causing a chain reaction on other levels.
      In return, the remote systems on the network received garbage for commands and everything connected went down in an insane response. James never lived to see his revenge. He died in the explosion, as did his interrogator. But every cell shut down its control systems.
      James never lived to hear it or see it, but outside, the rain let off and finally stopped.