HE WALKED BACK OVER to the window, but this time he looked at the horizon, not at the street.
Farnsworth had called him “Bart”. It’s funny, Stanton thought, how habit can get the best of a man. Farnsworth had known the truth all along, and now he knew that his patient—former patient—was aware of the truth. And still, he had called him “Bart”.
And I still think of myself as Bart, he thought. I probably always will.
And why not? Martin Stanton no longer existed—in fact he had never had much of a real existence. He was only a bad dream; only “Bart” was real.
Take two people, genetically identical. Damage one of them so badly that he is helpless and useless—and always only a step away from death. It is inevitable that the weaker will identify himself with the stronger.
The vague telepathi
