"Remove your shirt."

"No."

This was getting nowhere. There had to be a question that could not be answered with a grunted monosyllable.

"Will you remove your shirt or shall I have it done by force?"

"Neither!"

That was better—technically.

"Why do you deny my right to prove your identity?"

This drew no answer at all.

"You deny my right because you know that you have your name, blood type, birth-date and scientific roster number tattooed on your chest below your armpit."

"No."

"But you have—and I know it because I've seen it."

"No."

"You cannot deny your other identification. The eye-retina pattern, the Bertillion, the fingerprints, the scalp-pattern?"

"No."

"I thought not," said the doctor triumphantly. "Now understand, Carroll. I am trying to help you. You are a brilliant man—"

"No." This was not modesty cropping up, but the same repeating of the basic negative reply.

"You are and have been. You will be once again after you stop fighting me and try to help. Why do you wish to fight me?"

Carroll stirred uneasily in his chair. "Pain," he said with a tremble of fear in his voice.

"Where is this pain?" asked the doctor gently.

"All over."

 Prev. P 3/87 next