The name flitted through his mind like a scrap of paper in a high wind, but he reached out and grasped it. Martinbart. Martin-Bart. Mart 'n' Bart. Mart _and_ Bart. The Stanton Twins. It was 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 radiation-shattered nervous system. The boy who had had to stay in a therapy 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 street lamp. His memories certainly didn't gibe with _this_! His eyes ran down the column of type. "... Mr. Martin has, in the eighteen months since he came to 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." The was only one explanation, Stanton thought. Martin, too, had been treated by the Institute. His memory was still blurry and incomplete, 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. They hadn't been able to make a superman of Martin, but they _had_ been able to make a normal and extraordinarily capable man of him. 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. XII INTERLUDE "You understand, Mrs. Stanton," said the psychiatrist, "that a great part of Martin's trouble is mental as much as physical. Because of the nature of his ailment, he has withdrawn, pulled himself away from communication with others. If these symptoms had been brought to my attention earlier, the mental disturbance might have been more easily analyzed and treated." "I'm sorry, Doctor," said Mrs. Stanton. Her manner betrayed weariness and pain. "It was so--so difficult. Martin could never talk very well, you know, and he just talked less and less as the years went by. It was so gradual that I never really noticed it." _Poor woman_, the doctor thought. _She's not well, herself. She should have married again, rather than carry the whole burden alone. Her role as a doting mother hasn't helped either of the boys to overcome the handicaps that were already present._