, geography, and so on--had been readily available for
the most part. Ask any educated man to give the product of the primes 2,
13, and 41, or ask him to give the date of the Norman Conquest, and he can
give the answer without having to think of where he learned it or who
taught it to him or when he got the information.

But now the picture and the name in the paper had brought forth a reaction
in Stanton's mind, and he was trying desperately to bring the information
out of oblivion.

Did he have a mother? Surely--but could he remember her? _Yes!_ Certainly.
A pretty, gentle, rather sad woman. He could remember when she had died,
although he couldn't remember ever having attended the funeral.

What about his father?

He could find no memory of his father, and, at first, that bothered him.
He could remember his mother--could almost see her moving around in the
apartment where they had lived ... in ... in ... in Denver! Sure! And he
could remember the building itself, and the block, and even Mrs.
Frobisher, who lived upstairs! And the school! A great many memories came
crowding back, but there was no trace of his father.

And yet....

Oh, of _course_! His father had been killed in an accident when Martinbart
were very young.

_Martinbart!_

[Illustration]

The name flitted through his mind like a scrap of paper in a high wind,
but he reached out and grasped it.

Martinbart. Martin-Bart. Mart 'n' Bart. Mart _and_ Bart.

The Stanton Twins.

It was curious, he thought, that he should have forgotten his brother. And
even more curious that the name in the paper had not brought him instantly
to mind.

Martin, the cripple. Martin, the boy with the radiation-shattered nervous
system. The boy who had had to stay in a therapy chair all his life
because his efferent nerves could not control his body. The boy who
couldn't speak. Or, rather, _wouldn't_ speak because he was ashamed of the
gibberish that resulted.

Martin. The nonentity. The nothing. The nobody.

The one who watched and listened and thought, but could do nothing.

Bart Stanton stopped suddenly and unfolded the newspaper again under the
glow of the street lamp. His memories certainly didn't gibe with _this_!

His eyes ran down the column of type.

"... Mr. Martin has, in the eighteen months since he came to
the Belt, run up an enviable record, both as an insurance
investigator and as a police detective, although his
connection with