[Pg 2]

Mary Wayne paused for a second on the threshold as her eyes swiftly reviewed the details of the picture; then she closed the door gently behind her, conscious of a distinct feeling of encouragement. She had been apprehensive; she had faced an expected sense of humiliation. There had been in her mind an idea that she was about to become one of a clamorous crowd. But things were very much otherwise in the Brain Workers' Exchange—gratefully so.

She walked over to a desk, where a small brass sign said "Registry," sensing that this must be her first port of call. A young woman who sat at the desk glanced up, saw a stranger, reached for a form-card that lay on top of a neatly stacked pile and dipped a pen.

"Name, please," she said.

"Mary Wayne."

"Address?"

The address was given; it was that of a boarding-house in the Eighties, but Mary Wayne hoped that it would not be so identified in the mind of the recording angel, if, indeed, she should prove to be such.

"Married?"

"Oh, no," hastily. It seemed an absurd question, but the answer went down in a place left blank by the printer.

"Age?"

[Pg 3]

[Pg 3]

"Twenty-two."

"Occupation?"

"Stenographer." The answer had a faint note of defiance.

"Expert? We handle only experts, you know."

"Expert," said Mary Wayne.

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