impulses—the sub-vocalization—feed the signal into a computer-translator sort of thing that changes it into words. Your voice is purely mechanical. It comes through earphones from the translator. Of course, everything we say is automatically recorded."

Is what I think—to myself, that is—is that recorded, too?

"No." Her voice had that same gentle, understanding quality. "We respect your privacy."

Thanks. I don't guess there would be much I could do about it if you didn't, though.

"I'm proud of you, George. You're taking all this quite calmly."

What have I got to gain by getting excited?

He could almost hear her smile. "Nothing."

Karen.

"What?"

You said something the other day that made me wonder. You said, "Please get well." What did you mean by that?

She hesitated for perhaps a fraction of a second. "Professional pride, I guess. And maybe it was just the thing to say."

Oh. He was silent for a while. Then these experiments haven't worked out too well in the past. It was more of a statement than a question.

He thought he detected a tightness in her voice. "George, you might as well know. You're the first man to have ever progressed this far without going hopelessly insane."

It's nice to know I'm not hopeless.

Silence.

I'm sorry, Karen. Maybe I talk too much.

"Would you like to hear some music?" Her voice was normal again, soothing.

That would be nice. As long as it's relaxing. Something by Debussy, or Beethoven, maybe. And please, Karen, accept my apologies for mouthing off like that.

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