He was sitting on the side of the cot, and the attendant was offering him a small plastic cup. He took it, tasted the sweet liquid, handed it back.
"You should drink this," the attendant said. "It's very good for you."
Mart ignored him. He was still alive; and the attendant appeared to have noticed nothing unusual. So far, so good. He glanced at his hand. One, two, three, four, five. . . . He could still count. My name is Mart Maldon, age twenty-eight, place of residence, Welfare Dorm 69, Wing Two, nineteenth floor, room 1906. . . .
His memory seemed to be OK. Twenty-seven times eighteen is. . . . four hundred and eighty-six. . . .
He could still do simple arithmetic.
"Come on, fellow, drink the nice cup, then put your clothes on."
He shook his head, reached for his shirt, then remembered to move slowly, uncertainly, like a moron ought to. He fumbled clumsily with his shirt. . . .
The attendant muttered, put the cup down, snatched the shirt, helped Mart into it, buttoned it for him.
"Put your stuff in your pockets, come on, that's a good fellow. . . ."
He allowed himself to be led along the corridor, smiling vaguely at people hurrying past. In the processing room, a starched woman back of a small desk stamped papers, took his hand and impressed his thumbprint on them, slid them across the desk.
"Sign your name here. . . ." she pointed. Maldon stood gaping at the paper.
"Write your name here!" She tapped the paper impatiently. Maldon reached up and wiped his nose with a forefinger, letting his mouth hang open.
The woman looked past him. "A Nine-oh-one," she snapped. "Take him back—"
Maldon grabbed the pen and wrote his name in large, scrawling letters. The woman snapped the form apart, thrust one sheet at him.
"Uh, I was thinking," he explained, folding the paper clumsily.
"Next!" the woman snapped, waving him on. He nodded submissively and shuffled slowly to the door.