It was a different room, this time. A comfortable room with carpets on the floor and pictures on the wall and an over-stuffed sofa of some plastic material along one side. The man waiting for him was the same young, saintly faced man who had picked him up on the street. "This is Mr. Ainsworth," Tanner said in a low voice, and nudged him forward. Mr. Ainsworth looked at him, shocked. "My God, son, haven't they taken care of your cuts?" Stan just stared at him. Mr. Ainsworth's shocked look faded into one of grim efficiency. "We'll have to do something about that, son--and right away!" He pressed a button and turned to Tanner. "Take this man to the infirmary immediately, Fred! And don't bring him back here until he's been bathed and issued new clothes!" He looked back at Stan, his face a study in sympathy and pity. "Believe me, I had no idea...." It was a reprieve from hell. He was taken to an infirmary where doctors and nurses, their faces entirely hidden behind gauze masks, bathed him and washed his cuts and covered them with collodion and gave him a hypodermic shot of something that relaxed his muscles and banished his pain completely. They destroyed the rags he had on and in their place he was issued a suit of blue serge, like the one Tanner wore. When he went back to the room with the carpets and the sofa, Mr. Ainsworth had set up a small dinner table. The room was thick with the fragrance of fried eggs and bacon and hot buttered toast and steaming coffee. Stan's stomach knotted and turned and he suddenly was sick. "Take it easy," Mr. Ainsworth said gently. "Go slow at first." Stan pulled a chair over to the table. He felt weak. Eggs and bacon and coffee.... After he had finished, he sat back and took the cigarette that Mr. Ainsworth offered him. "What am I doing here, Mr. Ainsworth? Why can't I get a lawyer?" "I wish I could answer all your questions," the saintly faced man said thoughtfully. "But you have to understand that I'm just a hired hand here. There are some things I'm not at liberty to tell you." "If I'm not in jail, then just where the hell am I?" Stan asked bitterly. Mr. Ainsworth held up his hands. "I'm sorry, Stan." Things weren't adding up, Stan thought, confused. Where was he if he wasn't in jail? The cell and the slightly curving corridor, all of metal. And the doctors and the nurses, their faces almost hidden behind their gauze masks.... "They took me to see a Mr. Malcolm the other day," Stan said in a low voice. "He told me I hated the city and that I even hated my own mother and brother. Can you beat that? Honest, this character...." His voice trailed away. Mr. Ainsworth was staring at the floor, a frown on his face. "Everybody builds up resentments against parents who are overly strict, Stan. And it's not unusual for a mother to favor one of her children over the others." Stan stared at him, open-mouthed.