"Twelve hundred, Lorne Schofield." Old, old man with arthritic fingers bent into claws, holding his head. "Thirteen hundred, Frances Astritt." Young girl, not even pubescent. "Fourteen hundred--"

I let him go on for a while, all through Monday and halfway through Tuesday. I had not realized he kept such long hours, but then, of course, being a machine he doesn't really get tired. One or two of the patients look interesting, but there is no one I know, or no one that looks more worth knowing than Yvette, Donna, S. Ya. or about a dozen others. "You can stop that now," I say, and think for a minute.

This isn't really as much fun as I thought it was going to be. Plus my time is running out.

"I guess I can play this game any old time," I say. "Right now let's talk about me."

"What would you like me to display, Rob?"

"What you usually keep from me. Diagnosis. Prognosis. General comments on my case. What kind of a guy you think I am, really."

"The subject Robinette Stetley Broadhead," he says at once, is a forty five year old male, well off financially, who pursues an active life-style. His reason for seeking psychiatric help is given as depression and disorientation. He has pronounced guilt feelings and exhibits selective aphasia on the conscious level about several episodes that recur as dream symbols. His sexual drive is relatively low. His relationships with women are generally unsatisfactory, although his psychosexual orientation is predominantly heterosexual in the eightieth percentile. . ."

"The hell you say--" I begin, on a delayed reaction to low sexual drive and unsatisfactory relationships. But I don't really feel like arguing with him, and anyway he says voluntarily at that point:

"I must inform you, Rob, that your time is nearly up. You should go to the recovery room now."

"Crap! What have I got to recover from?" But his point is well taken. "All right," I say, "go back to normal. Cancel the command -- is that all I have to say? Is it canceled?"

"Yes, Robbie."

"You're doing it again!" I yell. "Make up your fucking mind what you're going to call me!"

"I address you by the term appropriate to your state of mind, or to the state of mind I wish to induce in you, Robbie."

"And now you want me to be a baby? -- No, never mind that. Listen," I say, getting up, "do you remember all our conversation while I had you commanded to display?"

"Certainly I do, Robbie." And then he adds on his own, a full, surprising ten or twenty seconds after my time is up, "Are you satisfied, Robbie?"

"What?"

"Have you established to your own satisfaction that I am only a machine? That you can control me at any time?"

I stop short. "Is that what I'm doing?" I demand, surprised. And then, "All right, I guess so. You're a machine, Sigfrid. I can control you."