WHAT ... IS ... YOUR ... NAME?
I tried desperately, diving below the blackness until I was limp with fatigue. It was as though a vein had been opened and my energy syphoned away; I could only stare back mutely. But with an irritating burst of activity he gestured for another card and wrote:
WHO ... ARE ... YOU?
Something inside me turned with a sluggish excitement. This phrasing of the question seemed to set off a series of weak and distant lights where the other had thrown a spark that failed. Who am I? I asked myself. But it was like trying to identify one particular cell that coursed through the torpid veins of my body. Maybe I was just this blackness and bewilderment and pain, but that seemed less like a suitable answer than something I'd read somewhere.
The card was back again:
WHAT IS YOUR MOTHER'S NAME?
Mother, who was my mother? Mother, the one who screams when you suffer -- but who? This was stupid, you always knew your mother's name. Who was it that screamed? Mother? But the scream came from the machine. A machine my mother? ... Clearly, I was out of my head.
He shot questions at me: Where were you born? Try to think of your name.
I tried, thinking vainly of many names, but none seemed to fit, and yet it was as though I was somehow a part of all of them, had become submerged within them and lost.
You must remember, the placard read. But it was useless. Each time I found myself back in the clinging white mist and my name just beyond my fingertips. I shook my head and watched him disappear for a moment and return with a companion, a short, scholarly looking man who stared at me with a blank expression. I watched him produce a child's slate and a piece of chalk, writing upon it:
WHO WAS YOUR MOTHER?
I looked at him, feeling a quick dislike and thinking, half in amusement, I don't play the dozens. And how's your old lady today?
THINK
I stared, seeing him frown and write a long time. The slate was filled with meaningless names.
I smiled, seeing his eyes blaze with annoyance. Old Friendly Face said something. The new man wrote a question at which I stared in wide-eyed amazement:
WHO WAS BUCKEYE THE RABBIT?
I was filled with turmoil. Why should he think of that? He pointed to the question, word by word. I laughed, deep, deep inside me, giddy with the delight of self-discovery and the desire to hide it. Somehow I was Buckeye the Rabbit ... or had been, when as children we danced and sang barefoot in the dusty streets:
Yet, I could not bring myself to admit it, it was too ridiculous -- and somehow too dangerous. It was annoying that he had hit upon an old identity and I shook my head, seeing him purse his lips and eye me sharply.
BOY, WHO WAS BRER RABBIT?
He was your mother's back-door man, I thought. Anyone knew they were one and the same: "Buckeye" when you were very young and hid yourself behind wide innocent eyes; "Brer," when you were older. But why was he playing around with these childish names? Did they think I was a child? Why didn't they leave me alone? I would remember soon enough when they let me out of the machine ... A palm smacked sharply upon the glass, but I was tired of them. Yet as my eyes focused upon Old Friendly Face he seemed pleased. I couldn't understand it, but there he was, smiling and leaving witrr the new assistant.
Left alone, I lay fretting over my identity. I suspected that I was really playing a game with myself and that they were taking part. A kind of combat. Actually they knew as well as I, and I for some reason preferred not to face it. It was irritating, and it made me feel sly and alert. I would solve the mystery the next instant. I imagined myself whirling about in my mind like an old man attempting to catch a small boy in some mischief, thinking, Who am I? It was no good. I felt like a clown. Nor was I up to being both criminal and detective -- though why criminal I didn't know.
I fell to plotting ways of short-circuiting the machine. Perhaps if I shifted my body about so that the two nodes would come together -- No, not only was there no room but it might electrocute me. I shuddered. Whoever else I was, I was no Samson. I had no desire to destroy myself even if it destroyed the machine; I wanted freedom, not destruction. It was exhausting, for no matter what the scheme I conceived, there was one constant flaw -- myself. There was no getting around it. I could no more escape than I could think of my identity. Perhaps, I thought, the two things are involved with each other. When I discover who I am, I'll be free.
It was as though my thoughts of escape had alerted them. I looked up to see two agitated physicians and a nurse, and thought, It's too late now, and lay in a veil of sweat watching them manipulate the controls. I was braced for the usual shock, but nothing happened. Instead I saw their hands at the lid, loosening the bolts, and before I could react they had opened the lid and pulled me erect.
"What's happened?" I began, seeing the nurse pause to look at me.
"Well?" she said.
My mouth worked soundlessly.
"Come on, get it out," she said.
"What hospital is this?" I said.
"It's the factory hospital," she said. "Now be quiet."
They were around me now, inspecting my body, and I watched with growing bewilderment, thinking, what is a factory hospital?
I felt a tug at my belly and looked down to see one of the physicians pull the cord which was attached to the stomach node, jerking me forward.
"What is this?" I said.
"Get the shears," he said.
"Sure," the other said. "Let's not waste time."
I recoiled inwardly as though the cord were part of me. Then they had it free and the nurse clipped through the belly band and removed the heavy node. I opened my mouth to speak but one of the physicians shook his head. They worked swiftly. The nodes off, the nurse went over me with rubbing alcohol. Then I was told to climb out of the case. I looked from face to face, overcome with indecision. For now that it appeared that I was being freed, I dared not believe it. What if they were transferring me to some even more painful machine? I sat there, refusing to move. Should I struggle against them?
"Take his arm," one of them said.
"I can do it," I said, climbing fearfully out.
I was told to stand while they went over my body with the stethoscope.
"How's the articulation?" the one with the chart said as the other examined my shoulder.
"Perfect," he said.
I could feel a tightness there but no pain.
"I'd say he's surprisingly strong, considering," the other said.
"Shall we call in Drexel? It seems rather unusual for him to be so strong."
"No, just note it on the chart."
"All right, nurse, give him his clothes."
"What are you going to do with me?" I said. She handed me clean underclothing and a pair of white overalls.
"No questions," she said. "Just dress as quickly as possible."
The air outside the machine seemed extremenly rare. When I bent over to tie my shoes I thought I would faint, but fought it off. I stood shakily and they looked me up and down.
"Well, boy, it looks as though you're cured," one of them said. "You're a new man. You came through fine. Come with us," he said.
We went slowly out of the room and down a long white corridor into an elevator, then swiftly down three floors to a reception room with rows of chairs. At the front were a number of private offices with frosted glass doors and walls.