"Can I do anything for you? Preferably against regulations." She watched him lock the door and close the viewplate, and rummage in the manila folder at the foot of the bed. "I don't know what's wrong with these people," Dr. Brooks muttered. "What is it?" she asked over his shoulder. "They've gotten their tapes crossed! That idiot Feld must have had this in his machine when he came. It's some accident victim's tape--one hundred per cent unverbalized pain, and the victim was _wide awake_ when he made it. It might be Boney's tape. This man here has been in coma since this--since yesterday morning, thank heaven." "Poor Boney," said Miss Knox, adjusting Mr. Barger's covers and her own loose hair. As though in answer, Mr. Barger stirred feebly, raising his arm. "Honey, there isn't much we can do," said Dr. Brooks. "You're right." She glanced down and plucked at the bathrobe around her smooth lace-bordered throat. "Can't save the world in my old nightgown." He took her by the shoulders and bent his head toward the palpitating muscle in her throat. Leaning back against the edge of the bed, she held him at arm's length. She wet her lips and said, "Did I tell you I'm supposed to wear glasses?" He sprawled forward into her embrace. Her dark mane tumbled thickly over Mr. Barger. They twisted and pulled each other down to the floor, freeing loose strands of hair from the blanket's electricity. * * * * * She opened her eyes and saw a flat briefcase with a coil antenna sticking out. "What's the matter?" whispered Dr. Brooks. "On the bottom of the bed!" He pressed his cheek to the floor and examined the under-carriage of Mr. Barger's motorbed. "Projector!" He reached in and tugged at the object, bracing his other hand against the driveshaft. "Help me, quick!" She grasped smooth leather and pulled, her nails making scars, as he slid under the bed and hammered with his fist. "It's hooked on the other way," she said. He pulled, and the briefcase fell heavily to the floor. Dr. Brooks rolled to his feet, kicking the object into the light, and yanked at its buckles and straps. "My bag is somewhere near the chair. Get the mutape on him, fast!" She found his black satchel on the floor, plugged into the computer outlet and spread the apparatus over Mr. Barger's bed. She made a trembling fist around the Broca cup, and watched the dormant pink cheeks and eyelids as she lowered the cup toward his skull. The rubber rim thudded against empty air, pleating like a horse's muzzle as she pushed. The sleeping Barger face remained a picture glowing out of reach inches beneath her straining fist, behind a smell of blood. A hand from under the covers grasped her wrist.... She struggled. Dr. Brooks, at the telephone, contorted his face and heaved the briefcase against the wall. It shattered into coils and smashed tubes and pieces of electronic chassis like a shower of silver Christmas ornaments, and a moan from the bed faded away.