They offered a chair. They were always courteous, always called him Mr. Sheridan and never by his rank----civ habit; or maybe they made the point that here Alliancers were still counted rebels and had no rank. Perhaps they hated him, but they were unfailingly gentle with him and unfailingly kind. It scared him all the same, because he suspected it to be false.
They gave him more papers to fill out. A doctor sat down opposite him at the table and tried to explain the procedures in detail. "I don't want to hear that," he said. "I just want to sign the papers. I've had days of this. Isn't that enough?"
"Your tests weren't honestly taken," the doctor said. "You lied and gave false answers in the interview. Instruments indicated that you were lying. Or under stress. I asked was there constraint on you and the instruments said you lied when you said there wasn't."
"Give me the pen."
"Is someone forcing you? Your answers are being recorded."
"Nobody's forcing me."
"That is also a lie, Mr. Sheridan."
"No." He tried and failed to keep his voice from shaking.
"We normally deal with criminals, who also tend to lie." The doctor held up the pen, out of easy reach. "Sometimes with the self-committed, very rarely. It's a form of suicide. Medically, you've got a right to it, within certain legal restrictions; and so long as you've been counseled and understand what's involved. If you continue your therapy on schedule, you should begin to function again in about, say, one month. Legal independence with six more. Full function----you understand that there may be permanent impairment to your ability to function socially; there could be other psychological or physical impairments....."
He snatched the pen and signed the papers. The doctor took them and looked at them. Finally the doctor drew a paper from his pocket, pushed it across the table, a rumpled and much-folded scrap of paper.
He smoothed it out, saw a note with half a dozen signatures. Your account in station comp has 50 credits. For anything you want on the side. Six of the detention guards had signed it; the men and women he played cards with. Given out of their own pockets. Tears blurred his eyes.
"Sure you won't change your mind?" the doctor asked.
He shook his head, folded the paper. "Can I keep it?"
"It will be kept along with your other effects. You'll get everything back on your release."
"It won't matter then, will it?"
"Not at that point," the doctor said. "Not for some time."
He handed the paper back.
"I'll get you a tranquilizer," the doctor said, and called for an attendant, who brought it in, a cup of blue liquid. He accepted it and drank it and felt no different from it.644Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1VBX0T2klz
The doctor pushed blank paper in front of him, and laid the pen down. "Write down your impressions of Babylon 5. Will you do that?"644Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJvZkbaQTUt
He began. He had stranger requests in the days that they had tested him. He wrote a paragraph, how he had been questioned by the guards and finally how he felt he had been treated. The words began to grow sideways. He wasn't writing on the paper. He had run off the edge onto the table and couldn't find his way back. The letters wrapped around each other, tied in knots.644Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgFI50xdSX8
The doctor reached and lifted the pen from his hand, robbing him of purpose.644Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAHlLovBpZf
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644Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡate1JTdHE7
644Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRudPe3LBPl
644Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkLlN02Toni
644Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5lcIZYcMLB
