on many exploratory trips into the caverns that the lower
levels of Appalachia cut across. And she had enjoyed the experience--he
was sure of that.

Remember! Think back. Back before the cigars and papers. Back to the
days and months after the accident. It hurt to think. His temples, here
on the mentrol-hooded sleeping plate, were pounding irregularly....

Huddling in a bed, knees drawn up and head tucked in, trying to gain
somehow the safety that an infant once knew. Janith's voice, soft and
understanding, and the acid of panic that set his lips to mumbling
meaningless jargon....

Why had Janith not sent him to the medical centers for mental clearing
and re-education as was done with all cases of psychoed abnormals? The
answer was with him. She loved him as he was, Merle Duggan--not as a new
personality in her husband's body.

Artificial amnesia automatically dissolves all marriage partnerships.
She had not wanted that. Instead she had three years of hell....

Striking out at emptiness, his fists contacting soft flesh, and the
pained cry, swiftly suppressed, of Janith. His voice, cursing and
high-pitched, as he fought the straps that now were restraining his
sightless body. The bite of a needle and gradual dissolution of
feeling....

Memory was coming reluctantly back to Duggan. This was not the
self-imagined visionings of an abused helpless man. These memories were
true. He had fought against all mental therapy and turned from those who
loved him.

Now the hospital entrance was before him. He paused for a moment and
then went inside. The automatic hush of the door shutting out the muted
street sounds was all too familiar.

"Mrs. Janith Duggan," he told the crisply white woman at the desk.

"Room 212, second floor."

"Thank you."

* * * * *

He used the steps in preference to the lift. He needed more time to
think--would he ever find enough time?

Undoubtedly, now, Janith's love for him was dead. His desertion of her
must have finished the dissolution of their marriage. It had been
cowardly--he should have faced her and declared what he was going to do
and what she could do.

These past weeks, working with the rock hogs, had been invaluable. They
had restored something of his self-esteem.

The second floor. Pastel bare walls and soft voices. The odors. 208 and
opposite, 209. A wheelchair, propelled by a timidly smiling white-haired
woman. He nodded automatically.

21