“Twenty-eight.”
“Go to that desk.” Aside, the man called to a case-worker. “Mr. Stein, here’s another for you.”
Martin went over and stood patiently in front of Mr. Stein who was fumbling with some papers. Stein had short-cropped gray hair which grew halfway down his forehead. It made Martin think of a Polynesian thatched hut. Stein’s chin sloped backward so abruptly that he appeared more like a primitive man than one of the present. Only his fat lips and stomach were mellowed and sweetened by whisky and a rapidly departing youth.
“Sit down,” he said. Then, smiling so that he showed a large area of widely separated teeth, he slowly drew in his smile and ended by regarding Martin almost beseechingly. “Sit down,” he said again, folding his hands over his fat stomach. “We like to understand, to get closer to our more unfortunate brothers. We are here to help you adjust yourself. We hope to provide you with every facility for rehabilitation.”
Martin felt a momentary irritation.
“Rehabilitation from what?” he asked, wondering what this empiric monstrosity was conspiring.
“Rehabilitation from—” Stein hesitated. He looked at Martin’s dungarees. “Are you planning on returning to the sea?”
“No.”
The case-worker took his pencil.
“I’m sure we can help you.” He smiled again and nodded encouragingly. “It will be all right. Just sketch your history briefly.” He slipped back into his chair, setting the flat convolutions of his brain at a receptive curve.