many memories came crowding back, but there was
no trace of his father.

And yet ...

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

_Martinbart!_

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

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

The Stanton Twins.

It was very 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 poor, weak,
radiation-shattered nervous system. The boy who had had to stay in a
therapeutic 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 streetlamp. His memories certainly didn't jibe with _this_!

His eyes ran down the column of type:

Mr. Martin has, in the years since he has been in the Belt, run up
an enviable record, both as an insurance investigator and as a
police detective, although his connection with the Planetoid Police
is, necessarily, an unofficial one. Probably not since Sherlock
Holmes has there been such mutual respect and co-operation between
the official police and a private investigator.

There was only one explanation, Stanton thought. Martin, too, had been
treated by the Institute. His memory was still blurry and incomplete, he
knew, but he did suddenly remember that a decision had been made for
Martin to take the treatment.

He chuckled a little at the irony of it. It looked as though they hadn't
been able to make a superman of Martin, but they _had_ been able to make
a normal and extraordinarily capable human being of him, he thought. Now
it was Bart who was the freak, the odd one.

_Turn about is fair play_, he thought. But somehow it didn't seem quite
fair.

He crumpled the newspaper, dropped it into a nearby waste chute, and
walked on through the night toward the Neurophysical Institute.

_FOURTH INTERLUDE_

"You understand, Mrs. Stanton," said the psychiatrist, "that a great
part of Martin's trou