“Don’t put on the lights just yet,” Ben Thrusher warned from the darkness. “I don’t want to frighten you off before you know it’s really me. Remember Lavender Hall--the Marshall twins, Nancy and Norma, and that old porch swing? How’s Ruthie? How’s my godson, little Phil? The baby--Judith, wasn’t it? --must be almost ten years old now.” Kerry found that his own voice was husky. “Okay, you’ve convinced me. Now can I put some lights on?” Ben coughed and his voice grew steadier. “Go ahead. Only--I’ve changed a lot, Kerry.” Kerry found the light switch by the door, and managed to flick it upward. A wide swath of light flooded the room. Kerry’s breath caught in his throat and he hardly recognized his own voice whispering hoarsely in the darkness. “For God’s sake, Ben! I--I didn’t know--” The thing on the bed stretched its mouth in a grimace that ought to have been a smile, but wasn’t. The skull was hairless, the face swollen; the lips a festering, toothless sore. The hands were wrapped in bandages that bulged out, awkward and useless, below the split sleeves of flannel pajamas. Ben Thrusher moved his head slowly from side to side. “Radiation burns,” he said, steadily. “It doesn’t hurt much at this stage, Kerry. But now you know why I wanted you to recognize me first in the dark.” “My God,” Kerry murmured, and it was a prayer. “We--we thought you were dead eight years ago. Did the Pharigs--” “Pharigs!” Kerry was horrified to see Ben’s toothless mouth twist into a wide, tormented smile. “I might have known you’d say that--” “But how--how did it happen? Ben, have you seen a doctor?” “No. When I came here I was still recognizably myself in a dim light. A doctor would have reported to the Army, to make sure I’d die in a cell and never get a chance to say what I’ve got to say.” Kerry started, feeling suddenly convinced that Ben’s mind had been unhinged by suffering. But his eyes--mere slits in angry flesh--met Kerry’s with a steady calm. “I’m not insane, Kerry. If you don’t believe me, call an ambulance. Or to save trouble--call the Night Police. The outcome would be the same. You’d never see or hear of me again. They’d hold me incommunicado and my death would not be long delayed. If you’re in mortal terror of the dictatorship, I can die all right without your help! Only I thought you had courage enough from the old days. The courage to be an honest newspaperman and tell the public the truth.” “Sure,” Kerry soothed. “But first we’ve got to get you to a hospital, old fellow. I won’t let them lock you up.” * * * * * Again the slow, tormented smile. “Stop humoring me, Kerry.” One of the bandaged hands moved, clumsily tugging at Kerry’s arm in an absurd but heartbreaking gesture of reassurance. “The doctors couldn’t do much. I’ve had it, Kerry. They’d just make sure I didn’t talk--”