The Utter Stranger Alan E. Nourse He was so alone in a strange world, so utterly alone! And yet no one would believe he was one bit different from the other inhabitants of that strange, new world
“JUST suppose,” said Morgan, “that I did believe you. Just for argument.” He glanced up at the man across the table. “Where would we go from here?”
The man shifted uneasily in his seat. He was silent for a long time, staring down at the table, fingering the glass before him. Not at all a strange man, Morgan thought. Rather common, in fact. Ordinary face, nose a little too long, fingers too dainty, suit that makes him look like a Boot on his first liberty—but in spite of that, a very ordinary-looking man.
Too ordinary, thought Morgan.
Finally the man looked up. His eyes were dark, with a hunted look in their depths that chilled Morgan a little. “I wish I knew,” the man said. “I don’t. I’ve thought, and I’ve thought, and nothing leads anywhere. But you’ve got to believe me, Morgan. I’m lost—I mean it. If I can’t get help, I don’t know where it’s going to end.”
“I’ll tell you where it’s going to end,” said Morgan. “It’s going to end in a hospital, A mental hospital. They’ll lock you up in the looney bin, and they won’t let you out again.” He poured himself another glass of beer from the pitcher, took a deep drink. “And that,” he added, “will be that.”
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