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for me to provide acceptable answers.
    “What is your name?” the man asked. He was moderately heavyset, with musculature remaining in the upper arms; he might have been an athlete in youth but was so no longer. There were old scars on his arms, neck, and face, including one that nicked his left ear; he had fought with blades and had a close call. Maybe he had been a pirate. I did not know his name and did not intend to inquire; I simply thought of him as Scar, for private convenience, and let it go at that.
    “Hope Hubris,” I answered promptly enough.
    “How do you know?”
    “The guard called me Hubris, and then I remembered.”
    Scar nodded. “What else do you remember?”
    I shrugged. “My childhood on Callisto. We fled in a bootleg bubble, but my parents died—” I broke off, the memory hurting again.
    “What do you remember after your arrival at Jupiter?”
    I concentrated, but it wouldn't come. "I... don't think we ever got to Jupiter. They—they turned us away.
    Everyone died—"
    “Where did you go then?”
    Again I concentrated. “I... think to... to Leda. The Naval station. They—they let me stay because I was literate in English. Not all Hispanics are. Then...” I shook my head; it wouldn't come.
    “You are not cooperating,” Scar said. He nodded to the other man in the chamber, who picked up the pain-box.
    “I don't remember!” I cried. “It—I need more time! I didn't remember even this much before!”
    “Where did you work?” Scar demanded.
    Yet again I concentrated. As in a fog, I perceived something. “I—the farm-bubbles—migrant labor!” I exclaimed. “The only work I could get at that age. I was... fifteen.”
    “And after that?”
    “It's blank. I just don't know—”
    The pain came on, deep in my abdomen, making me nauseous. It was as if my gut were rupturing. My hands became damp with cold sweat, and I started to shiver, though I was sweating.
    “How do you feel?” Scar inquired as the agony abated.
    “ Intoxicado! ” I gasped.
    “You're not drunk,” he snapped. “Don't try to play games with me, Hubris!”
    “I—I spoke in Spanish, my mother tongue,” I explained quickly. “It means nauseous. From the pain.”
    “Oh.” Scar half-smiled. “That figures. We gave you a stone.”
    A stone. The effect of a gallstone or kidney stone. Such blockages could generate a certain nausea in addition to the pain at the site, whether the obstruction was real or phantom, as in this case. “But why?” I asked plaintively. “When you know I can't answer your questions?”
    “Do you not remember joining the Jupiter Navy?” he asked.
    “The Navy!” Suddenly I did remember—and, indeed, I had realized before that I must have been in it.
    “Yes, there was trouble among the immigrant workers, and I was drafted....” I shook my head. “Basic training, I think. But it's misty.”
    “Try to clarify it,” he suggested.
    When I hesitated, the pain came on again, worse than before. This time I did retch, regurgitating on my body.
    The pain eased. “Do you remember now?” Scar asked.
    “I wish I could,” I gasped.
    He nodded, satisfied. He walked to a counter and picked up a cup of fluid. He brought it to me. “Drink this. It will make you feel better.”
    I didn't even question its nature. If they wanted to poison me they could do so anytime they chose. I took the cup with a shaking hand and brought it to my mouth and drank. It was some kind of beverage, pleasant enough, with a tangy aftertaste.
    Then I was conducted back to my filthy cell and locked in. I was alone again, my new vomit only adding to the stench.
    I returned to my reflections. Evidently my captors had merely been verifying the effect of the mem-wash.
    I had not been prevaricating; my direct memory beyond the migrant-labor period was hopelessly fogged.
    If they had mem-washed me to prevent me from testifying about some scandal of which I had had knowledge, this had been effective; certainly I could not