Everything? Or concentrate on the good parts? No, a stew had to have salt or it was too bland. Try to remember all of it. If we have all eternity with nothing to play but this one rerun, we're going to want to have all of it on tap, as even the best parts may get boring after a few thousand times.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to concentrate—just for practice—on some exceptionally pleasant memory. So what'll it be, partner? There are only four top subjects, the rest are sideshows: money, sex, war, and death. So which do we choose? Right! You're correct, Eunice; I'm a dirty old man and my only regret (and a sharp one!) is that I didn't find you forty or fifty years back. When you were not yet a gleam in your father's eye, more's the pity. Tell me, girl, were those sea-shell doodads a brassiere or just paint on your pretty skin? Euchered myself on that one—should have asked and let you sass me. So tell great-grandpappy. Give me a phone call and tell me. Sorry, I can't tell you the wave length, dear; it's unlisted. Golly, you looked cute!

Let's try another one—no chance that I'll forget you, Eunice my dear, but I never laid a finger on you, damn it.

Let's go way, way back to one we did lay a finger on. Our very first piece? No, you mucked that up pretty badly, you clumsy lout. The second one? Ah, yes, she was the cat's pajamas! Mrs. Wicklund. First name? Did I ever know her first name? Certainly I never called her by it, not then or later. Even though she let me come back for more. Let me? Encouraged me, set it up.

Let's see, I was fourteen, fourteen and a half, and she must have been... thirty-five? I remember her mentioning that she had been married fifteen years, so call it thirty-five at a guess. No matter, it was the first time I ever en­countered a female who wanted it, managed to let me know that she wanted it, then without any bobbles could take charge of a lanky, too-eager, almost-virgin boy, steady him, lead him through it, make him enjoy it, let him know she enjoyed it—make him feel good about it afterwards.

God bless your generous soul, Mrs. Wicklund! If you are lost somewhere in this darkness—for you must have died many years sooner than I did—I hope you remember me and are as happy in remembering me as I am in remembering you.

All the details now— Your flat was right under ours. Cold windy afternoon and you gave me ‘a quarter (big money then, a dime was standard) for going to the grocery for you. For what? How good is your memory, you horny old goat? Correction: horny old ‘ghost.' What have I got left to be horny with? Never mind, I am—it's up here, Doc. Half a pound of sliced boiled ham, a sack of russet potatoes, a dozen ranch eggs (seven cents a dozen then—my God!), a ten-cent loaf of Holsum bread and—something else. Oh, yes, a spool of sixty white cotton thread at the notions shop next to Mr. Gilmore's drugstore. Mrs. Baum's shop—two sons, one killed in War One and the other made a name for himself in electronics. But let's get back to you, Mrs. Wicklund.

You heard me bring my bike into the hallway and opened your door, and I carried your groceries on through to your kitchen. You paid me and offered me hot cocoa and—why wasn't I nervous about Mama? Pop at work and Mr. Wicklund, too; that figured—but where was Mama? Oh, yes, her Sewing Circle afternoon.

So while I drank cocoa and was being polite, you cranked your Victrola and put on a record—uh. "Margie," it was, and you asked me if I knew how to dance. You taught me to dance all right—on the sofa.

A life-support technician studied an oscilloscope, noted an increase in brain activity, concluded that the patient might be frightened and decided to tranquilize. Johann Smith slipped gently into sleep without knowing it—to the scratchy strains of a mechanical phonograph. He was "fox-trotting," so she told him. He did not care what it was called; his arm was around her waist, hers was around his neck, her warm clean odor was sweet in his nostrils. Presently she seduced him.

After a long, ecstatic, and utterly satisfying time he said, "Eunice honey, I didn't know you could fox-trot."

She smiled into his eyes. "You never asked me, Boss. Can you reach past me and shut off the Victrola?"

‘"Sure, Mrs. Wicklund."

Johann Smith became aware that this limbo was no longer featureless—head resting on something, mouth un­pleasantly dry and felt crowded, as if with the sort of junk a dental surgeon inflicts on his victims. There was still total blackness but not quite dead silence. A sucking noise— Any sensation was most welcome. Johann shouted, "Hey! I lived through it!"

Two rooms away the monitoring technician on watch jumped up so fast he knocked over his chair. "Patient's trying to articulate! Get Dr. Brenner!"

Brenner answered quietly over the voice monitor. "I'm with the patient, Cliff. Get a team in here. And notify Dr. Hedrick and Dr. Garcia."

"Right away!"

Johann said, "Hey, damn it! Isn't anybody here?" The words came out as incoherent grunts.

The Doctor touched a wand speaker to the patient's teeth, held the microphone hooked to it against his own throat. "Mr. Smith, do you hear me?"

The patient mumbled again, louder and more forcefully. The Doctor answered, "Mr. Smith, I'm sorry but I cannot understand you. If you hear me, make one sound. Any sort but just one."

The patient grunted once.

"Good, wonderful—you can hear me. All right, one sound by itself means Yes; two sounds mean No. If you

understand me, answer with two sounds. Two grunts." Smith grunted twice.

"Good, now we can talk. One sound for Yes, two for No. Do you hurt?"

Two grunts—"Uh... ko!"

"Fine! Now we try something else. Your ears are covered and completely soundproofed; my voice is reaching your inner ears through your teeth and upper jawbone. I'm going to remove part of the covering on your left ear and speak to you that way. The sounds may be painfully loud at first, so I will start with whispers. Understand me?"

One grunt— Smith felt gentle firmness as something pulled loose.

"Do you still hear me?"

"Uh... ko—"

"Now do you hear me?"

"Uh... ko . ah . ee...h...e... oo...w!"

"I think that was a sentence. Don't try to talk yet. Just one grunt, or two."

Johann said, "Of course I can't talk, you damned idiot!

Take this junk out of my mouth!" The vowels came through fairly clearly; consonants were distorted or missing.

"Doctor, how the patient can talk with all that gear in the way?"

Brenner said quietly, "Shut up, Nurse. Mr. Smith, we have an aspirator down your throat to keep you from choking on phlegm, drowning in your own saliva. I can't remove it yet, so try to be patient. Besides that, your eyes are masked. Your eye specialist will decide when that comes off. I can't—I'm the life-support specialist on duty at the moment, not the physician managing your case; that's Dr. Hedrick assisted by Dr. Garcia. I can't do much more than I have till one of them gets here. Are you comfortable? One grunt or two."

One grunt— "Good. I'll stay here with you. And talk to you if you want me to. Do you?"

One grunt—

"Okay, I will. You can talk with more than a Yes or No any time you wish. By spelling. I'll recite the alphabet, slowly, and you stop me with one grunt when I reach a letter you want. And so on for the next letter, until it's spelled out. It's slow... but neither one of us is going anywhere. Want to try it?"

One grunt— "Good. I've had lots of practice at it; I've been on many a life-support watch in which the patient could not talk but was awake and perfectly rational. As you are," the Doctor added, lying hopefully, one eye on the master oscilloscope. "But bored, of course. Very bored—that's the worst part for a patient in life-support; he's bored silly, yet we can't let him sleep all the time; it's not good for him and sometimes we need his cooperation. All right, any time you want to spell anything, give three distinct grunts and I'll prove I know my abc's."