athletic director."

Ron hesitated. "Mr. Larkin, I--where am I?"

"Don't you know?" Even the man's smile was half a frown. "You're at Roverwood Home for Boys. Didn't they tell you that?"

"No," Ron said carefully. "I--I don't seem to remember very much. How I got here, I mean."

"Dr. Minton brought you in last evening. He's one of our directors."

"Oh." Ron laced on the tiny scuffed shoes. "And where's Dr. Minton now?"

"Gone back to the city. He's a busy man. Hear they've got him working on some big government project. Well, come on, Ronnie. Breakfast's waiting."

"Yes, sir," Ron Carver said.

He followed the tall man down the hall, having trouble guiding the short stumpy legs that were now his own. They entered a communal dining room, filled with the clatter of dishes and the laughter of boys. He was brought to a long table and seated beside Larkin. The other boys greeted him with only mild interest, but the freckle-faced youth at the other end dropped him a broad wink.

He ate sparingly, choking on the food, his mind working. It was the longest nightmare of his life, and the moment of awakening seemed too far off for comfort.

Then Larkin was standing up and rattling a spoon against a water glass.

"Fellas," he said, "all those interested in this morning's airball game will assemble on the field in half an hour after breakfast. Please don't volunteer unless you're able to handle a PF. Everybody else is invited to see the game."

He sat down, amid cheers. He smiled sadly at Ron, and asked: "How about you, Ronnie? Can you operate a PF?"

"Of course," he answered, without thinking. He'd been using Personal Flyers since he was old enough to dream about flight. On his tenth birthday, his father had bought him one of the earliest models, a cumbersome machine then called a "platform". Since that day, he had become familiar with every man-made thing that flew, from the double-rotored PF's to the sixty-rocket space liners.

"Fine," Larkin said cheerfully. "Then maybe you'd like to play the game."

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