"Destroy is, I think, an ill-chosen word, Roger—er—" he glanced at the record open on his desk, "Jim Simson, as you renamed yourself. We use a different term—reconverted."
Jim's mouth twisted: "And," he added bitterly, "after you've 'reconverted' me, what will become of Amelia, my wife?"
Again the doctor glanced at his record, "Ah, yes, your wife. You've been married—"
"Twenty years."
"Twenty years," the doctor mused. A flicker of interest came into his eyes, "And in these years did you ever tell her? Or hint?"
"No!" he rose with a shout. The guards leveled their guns. After a moment Jim sank back to his seat. "Amelia doesn't know." His voice was dull. "She thinks I'm just like her. It's better that way."
The doctor's voice softened: "Didn't she ever wonder why you never had children?"
"Wonder? Of course. At first. But I saw to it that she was kept too busy to care." Pride came into his tone. "We built our home ourselves, up from the ground. Made everything in it. Tilled our acres of land."
His eyes gleamed, and it was almost with spite that he said: "Can you do that? Can you go without food? Can you go without sleep? Can you work without tiring? Can you cut yourself and not feel pain? And heal yourself?"
Triumph made Jim's throat swell. He wanted to reach across and lift the other in his arms, just to show what strength he had, how wonderfully powered he was. "Look at me. How old would you say I was?"