He heard the man muttering close to his ear. He felt some kind of pressure withdrawn from about his head. There was a sharp, clenching pain, and a flash of agonizing brilliance.
“Well, that’s it, Fran,” the man breathed heavily.
He felt her warm soft hand moist on his forehead. Why did she remove it? But he heard her say, “All right, Superman. Open your eyes and see the light.”
Adam? Superman?
He blinked blindly in the newness of the light until the small naked cubicle and the two people in it clarified. He looked at her first, beauty and warmth. She smiled brightly and winked, a small delicate but full-bodied figure in shorts, bra and sandals, and a lot of olive skin. But their eight-fingered hands! He looked at his own hands. Eight fingers. What—?
He studied the man. He was gaunt and bald, very sad and cynical with his lower lip stuck out. He put out a thin white hand and said sardonically, “I’m Berti. This is Frances. And I suppose you’d like to know who you are?”
He shrugged as he turned his eyes back to the woman and openly appreciated her. She blushed, and he was pleased. Finally he answered the man. “That depends on who I am. An amnesiac is supposed to have good reasons for not remembering.”
The man frowned. “You’ve never had a name. And you’re not an amnesiac—not exactly. We’ve stored your brain with plenty of information. And it will soon become properly integrated as you apply it. But what would you prefer as a label?”
He had never had a name. Somehow, he figured that he should have had one. He shrugged again. “If I’ve never had a name, it must not be very important.”
“Peculiar personality,” muttered Berti. “Not uninteresting.”