And Six-six-twenty-five, otherwise known as Clark Stevens (M-3972677-234a-150N-190), shuddered violently, stared at the screen that had just run blank. "What--?" he began, sitting erect. "Damn!" said Stevens, finding himself strangely trammeled by webworks of pure copper. He wrenched his hands free and tore the wires from his ankles and head. "You!" he roared at a couple snuggled in an easy chair.

"Quite recovered?" smiled Dr. Alfreed, unfastening the plastic bands that were restraining Stevens. "A little dizzy?"

Stevens glared at him, and the Doctor backed away. There was a blinding flash about three inches away from the doctor's chin, and he went down and out. The patient, rubbing his fist, squinted through the gloom and perceived Miss Travenor. "Ah," he said gutturally. He stepped out of his improvised shirt and trousers; Markett saw with relief that he was wearing the conventional shorts and bandolier beneath. More unconventional than his former attire, however, was the patient's new behavior. He spurned the doctor's body with one foot and picked up the nurse. "Excuse me--" she began plaintively.

"Shut up!" growled Stevens, slinging her over his shoulder. And that was that.

Dr. Alfreed awoke to realize that he had committed a serious breach of experimental technique. It had been a mistake not to observe the screen during the process of rehabilitation, and it had been a grievous mistake not to check on the patient's reactions. He cursed softly to himself when he saw clearly enough to be sure that neither patient nor nurse were anywhere in the room.

Alfreed was a thoughtful man; he realized that, in the old days, someone would have gotten hell for a blunder of this nature and scope. In the old days technical superiors would have fired the responsible party for the incompetency when revealed, so Alfreed was thankful that these were not the old days. But further than that he did not think. Perhaps, therefore, he was the truly responsible party for what was to happen to his snug little world of file numbers, ventilated houses, air-conditioned clinics, amiable objectives and pneumatically complacent nurses. He wasn't spectacularly worried, having no technical superiors to whom to answer. But he had failed in a social duty. Enough of his careful conditioning had remained to remind him of that. "Oh, Hell!" he swore softly, thinking of the consequences.

He reached over to his hyper-typer, banged out a full report of the affair and shot it into a tube system, one of whose 

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