The door closed softly. I sobbed in angry frustration, in hopeless protest. In murderous hate, for I knew that Dr. Leopold Moriss' every move and every word were coldly calculated, directed toward one goal. To break me down. "What made you afraid, January?" My mind skidded through vast spaces to jar into its cradle of pain. I opened my eyes. There was a glass of red fluid hovering in front of my eyes, the doctor's fingers around it. I brought the back of my hand against where it had been. It had bobbed up so that I missed. The action half turned me on my face. I stayed that way. There was the careful sound of the glass being set on the table, the sound of the door closing. With a deep sigh I turned on my back again. There must be a way out. There had to be a way out. All I had to do was think about it, if I could think through the torture of my body. One thing I knew: I would never tell him what he wanted to know. Not to escape a thousand years of torture. I sat up and drank the glass of tomato juice. The empty glass slipped out of my fingers to the floor, landing with a dull thud on the rug. Getting out of bed, I went into the bathroom and washed my face in cold water. There had to be a way out. Maybe I could tell him a lie that would satisfy him. But what lie would satisfy him? What, other than the truth, could satisfy him? I looked in the bathroom mirror at my unshaven, tortured features, my bloodshot eyes, my rats-nest of uncombed hair. And slowly I saw a smile crease my lips, distorting my face. I knew a lie he would accept as the truth--if I played it right. I had to play it right. Just as there was only one truth, there was only one lie he would accept as the truth. If I failed to make him accept it I was licked. How does an actor play his part? He lives it, believes it. I had to do that. I must keep repeating the lie in my mind, believing it, repeating it. Then I must _break down_ in the way my torturer expected me to. I snapped off the light in the bathroom and struggled back to bed. * * * * * When I awoke, blinding white sunlight was bursting into the room from between half closed slats in the Venetian blinds, sending searing pain through my dehydrated eyes into my aching brain. A window was half open behind the blinds. A bird was singing just outside the window, its song a shrill, jarring discordance to my tortured eardrums. I looked blankly around the room, feeling that something was missing. The sight of the pitcher with its red liquid, and the glass beside it, brought back memory. What was missing was Dr. Leopold Moriss standing over me asking his eternal question. I cursed in a low mumble, hating him for even that. He had kept up his torture until I figured out something, and had ended it before I could put my plan into action. He was a dancing, taunting opponent who struck painful blows with ease, and danced out of reach when I found a way to fight back.