"Outsmart me?"
"Shouldn't I be able? If my dope's any good?"
"It isn't any good, though. Just a flashy bunch of extrapolation and phony biology. You're no real philosopher, Phil."
"Maybe not. Still—it isn't my product. It's Jung's. He's something of a brain."
"Horse manure."
"There is plenty of it down there in the street," I said. "If you want to add yourself—by a method that will make you indistinguishable from the rest of it—"
He doubled up his fist and smacked the concrete. "Can't you see I'm tormented—?"
I shook my head a few times. "Yeah. Everybody can—for blocks."
He began to sob. I inched up from the sill and braced myself. All it would take was about one tear-blinded second—
He must have heard something on the floor below because he stopped gasping, suddenly, and leaned way out. Then he began hitching along the wall. He hitched right past me—his eyes on mine the whole way—and I have never seen any eyes exactly like that, before. They knew what was going on behind them—and didn't know. They weren't maniacal—but they were not sane, either.