was. It was unspeakable. The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore my sleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping to qualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a space drive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room and turned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories. I will never forget the first day I received my new four-letter combination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkably embarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and choked and became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to his secretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits and registered it himself. I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficient organization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My work was important--magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quanta reaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore the answer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars--and there were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very Important Persons. Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassment would become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tactic was just not to answer.

The chief called me in one day. He looked haggard. "Er--old man," he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter my name, "I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How would you like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work." "Nutrition kits? Me? On nutrition kits?" "Well, I--er--know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just had the cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and it justifies." Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly report had to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations...But I didn't know what I was in for. I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department to department--any place where they might use a space drive expert. A pattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned my specialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and they saw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon as they recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up.

A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed. And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might say it's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basic needs provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it sounds attractive. But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You go to the store, your mouth already watering in 

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