The police leaned forward and tapped the small nameplate on his desk, which said: Val Borgenese. "That's my name," he said. "Who are you?"  
The man across the desk shook his head. "I don't know," he said indistinctly.
 
"Sometimes a simple approach works," said the counselor, shoving aside the nameplate. "But not often. We haven't found anything that's effective in more than a small percentage of cases." He blinked thoughtfully. "Names are difficult. A name is like clothing, put on or taken off, recognizable but not part of the person—the first thing forgotten and the last remembered."
 
The man with no name said nothing.
 
"Try pet names," suggested Borgenese. "You don't have to be sure—just say the first thing you think of. It may be something your parents called you when you were a child."
 
The man stared vacantly, closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them and something.
 
"What?" asked Borgenese.
 
"Putsy," said the man more distinctly. "The only thing I can think of is Putsy."
 
The counselor smiled. "That's a pet name, of course, but it doesn't help much. We can't trace it, and I don't think you'd want it as a permanent name." He saw the expression on the man's face and added hastily: "We haven't given up, if that's what you're thinking. But it's not easy to determine your identity. The most important source of information is your mind, and that was at the two year level when we found you. The fact that you recalled the word Putsy is an indication."
 
"," said the man . "Can't you trace me through fingerprints?"
 
"That's another clue," said the counselor. "Not fingerprints, but the fact that you thought of them." He something down. "I'll have to check those re-education tapes. They may be by now, we've run them so many times. Again, it may be merely that your mind refused to accept the proper information."
 
The man started to protest, but Borgenese cut him off. "Fingerprints were a fair means of identification in the Twentieth Century, but this is the Twenty-second Century."