The bearded doctor returned, accompanied by a young woman.

“Is he all right, doctor?” the young woman asked.

“Perfectly sane,” the old doctor said. “I'd call it a good splice.”

“Then I can begin the interview?”

“Certainly. Though I cannot guarantee his behavior. The death trauma, though grossly overrated, is still capable of —”

“Yes, fine.” The girl walked over to Blaine and bent over him. She was a very pretty girl, Blaine noticed. Her features were clean-cut, her skin fresh and glowing. She had long, gleaming brown hair pulled too tightly back over her small ears, and there was a faint hint of perfume about her. She should have been beautiful; but she was marred by the immobility of her features, the controlled tenseness of her slender body. It was hard to imagine her laughing or crying. It was impossible to imagine her in bed. There was something of the fanatic about her, of the dedicated revolutionary; but he suspected that her cause was herself.

“Hello, Mr. Blaine,” she said. “I'm Marie Thorne.”

“Hello,” Blaine said cheerfully.

“Mr. Blaine,” she said, “where do you suppose you are?”

“Looks like a hospital. I suppose —” He stopped. He had just noticed a small microphone in her hand.

“Yes, what do you suppose?”

She made a small gesture. Men came forward and wheeled heavy equipment around his bed.

“Go right ahead,” Marie Thorne said. “Tell us what you suppose.”

“To hell with that,” Blaine said moodily, watching the men set up their machines around him. “What is this? What is going on?”

“We’re trying to help you,” Marie Thorne said. “Won't you cooperate?”

Blaine nodded, wishing she would smile. He suddenly felt very unsure of himself. Had something happened to him?