their meat animals."

"I know. Gosh. They used to kill animals for meat back then. Imagine!"

Cal looked sour-faced, and silence ensued for a moment. Then Tinker's face took on a self-horror.

"Hey. That look isn't natural. What's up?"

"Order me a big, powerful, hardy, pick-me-up," said Tinker. "And I'll tell you—if you really want to know."

"I do and I will," said Cal, wonderingly. He ordered straight palan which Tinker took neat, coughed, and then brightened somewhat.

"Now?" asked Cal.

"Better order another one for you," said Tinker. "Anyway, we had one of those jobs last night."

"What jobs?"

"An almost-incurable."

"Oh," said Cal with a shiver. He ordered two more straight drinks, in preparation. "Go ahead and tell, Tink. You won't be free of it until you spill it."

"It was a last resort case and everybody knew it. Even the patient—that's what made it so tough. It's distasteful enough to consider a duplicate when you're well. But to be lying on the brink and then know that they're going to make a duplicate of you for experimental surgery—I can't begin to tell. The patient took it, though.

"And even that wouldn't be too bad. We made our duplicates and went to work on one immediately. We operated, located the trouble and corrected it. The third duplicate lived. Then we operated on the patient successfully. I didn't mind the first two dupes, Cal. It was the disposing of the cured duplicate that got me. It was like ... no, it was disposing of an identity." Tink shuddered, and then drained her second shot of palan simultaneously with Cal.

"And you wonder why I dislike medicine," he said flatly.

"I know—or try to. But look, Cal. Aside from the distaste, look at what medicine has been able to accomplish."

"Sure," he said without enthusiasm.

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