I kicked him as he staggered back, and he fell. And I was on top of him, with the bottle, and I was careful to stay away from the heart or the throat, because that was too quick, but I worked over the face, and I felt his knife get me a couple times more, and-- And-- * * * * * And I woke up, you know. And there was Dr. Santly over me with a hypodermic needle that he'd just taken out of my arm, and four male nurses in fatigues holding me down. And I was drenched with sweat. For a minute, I didn't know where I was. It was a horrible queasy falling sensation, as though the bar and the fight and the world were all dissolving into smoke around me. Then I knew where I was. It was almost worse. I stopped yelling and just lay there, looking up at them. Dr. Santly said, trying to keep his face friendly and noncommittal, "You're doing much better, Byron, boy. _Much_ better." I didn't say anything. He said, "You worked through the whole thing in two hours and eight minutes. Remember the first time? You were sixteen hours killing him. Captain Van Wyck it was that time, remember? Who was it this time?" "Chowderhead." I looked at the male nurses. Doubtfully, they let go of my arms and legs. "Chowderhead," said Dr. Santly. "Oh--Roebuck. That boy," he said mournfully, his expression saddened, "he's not coming along nearly as well as you. _Nearly._ He can't run through a cycle in less than five hours. And, that's peculiar, it's usually you he-- Well, I better not say that, shall I? No sense setting up a counter-impression when your pores are all open, so to speak?" He smiled at me, but he was a little worried in back of the smile. I sat up. "Anybody got a cigarette?" "Give him a cigarette, Johnson," the doctor ordered the male nurse standing alongside my right foot. Johnson did. I fired up. "You're coming along _splendidly_," Dr. Santly said. He was one of these psych guys that thinks if you say it's so, it makes it so. You know that kind? "We'll have you down under an hour before the end of the week. That's _marvelous_ progress. Then we can work on the conscious level! You're doing extremely well, whether you know it or not. Why, in six months--say in eight months, because I like to be conservative--" he twinkled at me--"we'll have you out of here! You'll be the first of your crew to be discharged, you know that?" "That's nice," I said. "The others aren't doing so well?" "No. Not at all well, most of them. Particularly Dr. Gilvey. The run-throughs leave him in terrible shape. I don't mind admitting I'm worried about him." "That's nice," I said, and this time I meant it. * * * * * He looked at me thoughtfully, but all he did was say to the male nurses, "He's all right now. Help him off the table."