"For a long while the connection—the corpus callosum—had been thought to have no important functions. Itwas years before anyone was even aware of this sideeffect to a commisurotomy. I do not foresee any greatdifficulties for you. We will go into more detail on thislater."

"All right. I feel like—myself—at any rate. Whydid they do this to me?"

"To turn you into the perfect modem assassin," Arthursaid. "Half of the brain can be put to sleep while theother hemisphere remains awake. This is done simply byadministering a drug via the carotid artery on the appropriate side. After the surgery had been performed,you—the left hemisphere—were put to sleep while theright hemisphere was subjected to hypnosis and behaviormodification techniques, was turned into a conditionedassassin—"

"I had always thought a person could not be hypnotized into doing certain things."

He nodded.

"Normally, that seems to be the case. However, it appears that, by itself, the emotional, less rational righthemisphere is more susceptible to suggestion—and it wasnot a simple kill order which it received, it was a cleverlyconstructed and well-rehearsed illusion to which it wastrained to respond."

"Okay," I said. "Buying all that, how did they makewhat happened happen?"

"The mechanics of it? Well, the conditioning, as I said,was done while you were unconscious and, hence, unaware of it. The conditioned hemisphere was then placedin a state of deep sleep, with the suggestion that it wouldawaken and perform its little act on receipt of the appropriate cue. Your hemisphere was then impressed witha post-hypnotic suggestion to provide that cue, in meform of the phrase you spoke, at a particular time whenthe speech would be going on. So they left you out infront and you walked iflto the hall consciously aware ofnone of this. Your mind was perfectly innocent under anytelepathic scrutiny. It was only when you performed yourposthypnotic suggestion and called attention to yourselfmoments later that I suddenly regarded two minds in onebody—an extremely eerie sensation, I might add. It wasfortunate then that you, the more rational individual,quickly saw what was happening and struggled to avertit. This gave us just enough time to move in on you."

I nodded. I thought about it, about two of me, struggling for the control of our one body. Then, "You saidthat they had slipped up—that had they done one additional thing they might have succeeded," I said. "Whatwas that?"

"They should have implanted the suggestion that yougo to sleep immediately after speaking the stimulusphrase," he said. "I believe that would have done it.They just did not foresee the conflict between the two ofyou."

"What about the people behind this?" I finally asked."Your right hemisphere provided us with quite a fewvery good descriptions while you were asleep."

"Descriptions? I thought I was the verbal one."

"True, basically. But the other provided some excellent sketches, the substance of which I was able to verifytelepathically. The Service then matched them with certain individuals on whom they have files, and these persons have already been apprehended.

"But the other hemisphere is not completely nonverbal," he went on. "There is normally a certain smallamount of transference—which may be coining into playnow, as a matter of fact"

"What do you mean?"

"The other you has been awake awhile now. Yourleft hand, which it controls, has been gesturing franticallyfor several minutes. For my pen. I can tell."

He withdrew a pen and a small pad from his pocketand passed them to me. I watched with fascination asthey were seized and positioned. Slowly, carefully, myleft band wrote on the pad, Im sorry.

... And as I wrote, I realized that he -would not understand, could never understand now, exactly what Imeant.

And that was what I meant, exactly.

I stared down at the words and I looked up at thewall. I looked at Arthur and at the doctor.

"I'd appreciate it if you would leave us alone for awhile now," I said.

They did, and even before they left I knew that nomatter where I looked half of the room would have tobe empty.

This story was solicited by Heavy Metal. I was in themood to do a mood piece at that time.

Nightscape of the city in November with fog: intermittentblotches of streetlight; a chilly thing, the wind slitheringacross the weeping faces of buildings; the silence.

Form is dulled and softened. Outlines are lost, silhou-ettes unsealed. Matter bleeds some vital essence upon thestreets. What are the pivot points of time? Was that itsarrow, baffled by coils of mist, or only a lost bird of thenight?

... Walking now, the man, gait slowed to a normalpace now, his exhilaration transmuted to a kind of calm.Middle-aged, middle-statured, side-whiskered, dark, helooks neither to the left nor the right. He has ,lost hisway, but his step is almost buoyant. A great love fills hisbeing, general, objectless, pure as the pearl-soft glow ofthe comer light through the fog.

He reaches that corner and moves to cross the street.An auto is there, then gone, tearing through the intersection, a low rumble within its muffler, lights slashingthe dark. Its red tail lamps swing by, dwindle, are gone; its tires screech as it turns an unseen corner.

The man has drawn back against the building. Hestares in the direction the vehicle has taken. For a longwhile after it has vanished from sight, he continues tostare. Then he withdraws a case from an inside pocket,takes out a small cigar, lights it. His hands shake as hedoes so.

A moment of panic...

He looks all about, sighs, then retrieves the small,newspaper-wrapped parcel he had been carrying, fromwhere it had fallen near the curb.

Carefully, carefully then, he crosses the street. Soonthe love has hold of him again.

Farther along, he comes upon a parked car, pauses amoment beside it, sees a couple embracing within, continues on his way. Another car passes along the street,slowly. There is a glow ahead.

He advances toward the illumination. There are lightswithin a small cafe and several storefront display windows. A theater marquee blazes in the center of theblock. There are people here, moving along the walks,crossing the street. Cars discharge passengers. There is afaint odor of frying fish. The theater, he sees, is calledthe Regent Street.

He pauses beneath the marquee, which advertises: EXOTIC MIDNIGHT SPECIALTHE KISS OF DEATBPuffing his cigar, he regards a series of photos withina glass case. A long-haired, acne-dotted medical studentcomes over to see the still shots, innocuous yet titillativeon the wall. "Thought they'd never get to show it," hemutters.

"Beg pardon?"

"This snuff film. Just won a court decision. Didn't youhear?"

"No. I did not know. This one?"

"That's right. You going to see it?"

"I don't know. What is it about?"

The student turns and stares at the man, cocks hishead to one side, smiles faintly. Seeing the reaction, theman smiles also. The student chuckles and shrugs.

"May be your only chance to see one," he says. "I'mbetting they get closed down again and it goes to a highercourt"

"Perhaps I will."

"Rotten weather, huh? They say so ho was an oldhunting cry. Probably from people trying to find eachother, huh?"

He chuckles. The man returns it and nods. The calmof controlled passion that holds him as in a gentle fistpushes him toward the experience.

"Yes, I believe that I will," he says, and he movestoward the ticket window.

The man behind the glass looks up as he passes himthe money,

"You sure you want to spend that? It's an oldie."