"You tell me. Why shouldn't you?"

"Because it's none of my business."

Then there was another time, during some visit or other, when Von Ulrich pulled another word association test.

"Love."

"It makes the world go round."

"Blackness."

"Sleep."

"Alone."

"Quiet."

It went on for hours. Von Ulrich always seemed to be angrier because Barton didn't crack up, or because he insisted on turning in a perfect service record in the basketball.

"Barton, for God's sake, don't you realize how important this watch is? This valuable information gathered by these recorders. Think what it would mean if that data fell into the hands of the Asians! What if you missed an alarm, or fouled up in some way, and one of these recorders destroyed all the data?"

"Haven't I been alert all the time, sir?"

"Yes! But you've been out here now for three years! Three years. No one can possibly stand it longer than six months. And the fact that you've been here for three years only means some absolutely catastrophic crack-up is being prolonged, built up inside."

"I don't feel a bit different, sir."

"There are subtle ways of cracking up."

"You want me to have some sort of symptom or something?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

It must have been at least another year before Von Ulrich came back to Barton's basketball, triumphantly equipped with new devices, and waving a spacegram in Barton's sleepy face. Barton read it, shrugged, and let it drift to the floor. Von Ulrich tried to control a look almost of fear.

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