“It would take weeks to train another man,” Morrissey said. “No, I’ll operate. Only—have you thought of the possible effect on your own mind?” “Certainly,” Bruno said. “Why the devil do you suppose I’ve been running exhaustive psychological tests on myself? I’m completely oriented, I’m so normal that my mind must be full of boron dampers.” He paused at the door of his office. “Barbara’s here. I’ll meet you in Surgery.” Morrissey’s shoulders slumped. Bruno smiled slightly and opened the door. His wife was sitting on a leather couch, idly turning the pages of a psychiatric review. “Studying?” Bruno said. “Want a job as a nurse?” “Hello, darling,” she said, tossing the magazine aside. She came toward him quickly. She was small and dark and, Bruno thought academically, extremely pretty. Then his thoughts stopped being academic as he kissed her. “What’s up?” “You’re doing that operation tonight, aren’t you? I wanted to wish you luck.” “How’d you know?” “Bob,” she said, “we’ve been married long enough so I can read your mind a little. I don’t know what the operation is, but I know it’s important. So—for luck!” She kissed him again. Then, with a smile and a nod, she slipped out and was gone. Dr. Robert Bruno sighed, not unhappily, and sat behind his desk. He used the annunciator to check the sanitarium’s routine, made certain everything was running smoothly, and clicked his tongue with satisfaction. Now—the experiment.... * * * * * Surgery Three had some new equipment for the experiment. Bruno’s collaborator, Andrew Parsons, the atomic physicist, was there, small and untidy, with a scowling, wrinkled face that looked incongruous under the surgeon’s cap. There was to be no real surgery; trepanning wasn’t necessary, but aseptic precautions were taken as a matter of course. The anesthetist and two other nurses stood ready, and Morrissey, in his white gown, seemed to have forgotten his worry and had settled down to his usual quiet competence. Gregson was on one of the tables, already prepped and unconscious. Intravenous anesthesia would presently supplement the apomorphine in his system, as it would also be administered to Bruno himself. Ferguson and Dale, two other doctors, were present. At worst quick cerebral surgery might be necessary, if anything went badly amiss. But nothing could, Bruno thought. Nothing could. He glanced at the sleek, shining machines, with their attachments and registering dials. Not medical equipment, of course. They were in Parsons’ line; he had planned and built them. But the idea had been Bruno’s to begin with, and Bruno’s psychiatric knowledge had complemented Parsons’ technology. Two branches of science had met, and the result would be—a specific for insanity. Two spots on Bruno’s head had been shaved clean. Parsons carefully affixed electrodes, which were already in place on Gregson’s skull. “Remember,” Parsons said, “you should be as relaxed as possible.”