covering his small ear.

"Play the game," the doctor whispered. "For your own sake. Play the game, Ron..."

Then he was asleep.

He awoke to the sound of running feet. He sat up in bed and looked towards the door of the small white room in which he was confined. It was partly open, and the sound of clattering soles and shrill young voices came through clearly.

The door slammed open, startling him. A hoydenish youngster gaped at him. There was a flat lock of reddish hair over his forehead, and his face was freckled.

"Hoy," he said. "What's the matter with _you_?"

Ron stared back wordlessly.

"You sick or something?" the boy said, edging into the room.

"No." His own voice, strange and reedy, frightened him. "No, I'm all right."

"Andy!" A tall man with a frowning face appeared behind the boy. "Come on, fella. Let's not waste any time." He looked at Ron. "You the new chap?"

"Yes."

"Feel well enough for some breakfast?"

"I guess so."

"Fine. Then get some clothes on and come along."

"Hoy," the freckle-faced boy said curiously. "You play airball?"

"That's enough of that." The man paddled the boy's rump. "Get along, Andy. You'll have plenty of time to get acquainted later."

The boy giggled and ran down the hall. Ron got out of bed slowly, and walked towards the undersized clothing that was draped on a nearby chair. He slipped into a gray coverall and said: "Listen--can I talk to you?"

The man looked at his watch. "Well ... all right, I suppose. But only for a minute. I promised the boys a game this morning; I'm Mr. Larkin, the 

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