Are you an M.D.?

That is none of your business.

Well, I refuse it, for the record. After the cops get hold of you, for a variety of reasons, I'll even see to it that the Medical Association is on your back.

Your sleeve, please.

Under protest, I observed, and I rolled up the left one. If you're to kill me when you've finished playing games, I added, murder is kind of serious. If you are not, I'll be after you. I may find you one day ...

I felt a sting behind my biceps.

Mind telling me what you gave me? I asked.

It's called TC-6, he replied. Perhaps you've read about it. You will retain consciousness, as I might need your full reasoning abilities. But you will answer me honestly.

I chuckled, which they doubtless attributed to the effects of the drug, and I continued practicing my yoga breathing techniques. These could not stop the drug, but they made me feel better. Maybe they gave me a few extra seconds, also, along with the detached feeling I had been building up.

I keep up on things like TC-6. This one, I knew, left you rational, unable to lie, and somewhat literal-minded. I figured on making the most of its weak points by flowing with the current. Also, I had a final trick remaining.

The thing that I disliked most about TC-6 was that it sometimes had a bad side effect, cardiac-wise.

I did not exactly feel myself going under. I was just suddenly there, and it did not feel that different from the way I always feel. I knew that to be an illusion. I wished I had had prior access to the antidote kit I kept within a standard-looking first-aid kit hidden in my dresser.

You hear me, don't you? he asked.

Yes, I heard myself saying.

What is your name?

Albert Schweitzer, I replied.

There were a couple of quick breaths taken behind me, and my questioner silenced the other fellow, who had started to say something.