The patient sat stiffly in the leather chair on the other side of the
desk. Nervously he pressed a coin into the palm of one hand.
"Just start anywhere," I said, "and tell me all about it."
"As before?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued, the coin
clutched tightly in one hand. "I'm Charles J. Fisher, professor of
Philosophy at Reiser College."
He looked at me quickly. "Or at least I was until recently." For a
second his face was boyish. "Professor of Philosophy, that is."
I smiled and found that I was staring at the coin in his hand. He gave
it to me. On one side I read the words: THE STATEMENT ON THE OTHER SIDE
OF THIS COIN IS FALSE. The patient watched me with an expressionless
face; I turned over the coin. It was engraved with the words: THE
STATEMENT ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS COIN IS FALSE.
"That's not the problem," he said, "not _my_ problem. I had the coin
made when I was an undergraduate. I enjoyed reading one side, turning
it over, reading the other side, and so on. A fiendish enjoyment like
boys planning where to put the tipped-over outhouse."
I looked at the patient. He was thirty-eight, single, medium build, had
an M.A. and Ph.D. from an eastern university. I knew this and more from
the folder on my desk.
"Eight months ago," he continued, "I read about the sphere found on
Paney Island." He stopped, looking at me questioningly.
"Yes, I know," I said. I opened my desk drawer, took out a clipping
from the newspaper, and handed it to him.
"That's it."