were gleaming instruments and jars and plastic tapes.

His face was close above hers and his lips worked nervously. He whispered, "I can see how it will be, my dear. You will feel so real to the touch of a hungry love that I shall be broken-hearted to let you go from my Pygmalion Palace of dreams come true. My dear, believe me. Believe Julian when he tells you this—there is no lonelier being in the world than a man who has not forgotten what beauty is in a world that has turned ugly from having lost its soul."

Then she knew that Julian had turned off her thermostat. Suddenly there was no feeling, no sound, no sight except that of the general blackout rushing in out of the night, down the halls, into the rooms, into her eyes.

How quickly and painlessly a robot could die, she thought. How easy it was to live and die and come back to life. You could be born suddenly full-grown and efficient. You could be blotted out again, just as suddenly. You could be born in any shape or size, born to do any one or combination of so many different things, and when your job was done you could so quickly be put to rest again. You could be born ugly, or round, or square, or like a pyramid, or something almost all arms, or legs, or eyes, or ears.

You could be born beautiful, hardly distinguishable from a beautiful human being who could receive love.

You could be born ugly and then be killed and brought back again as beautiful as a human being.

But you could not live without love.

Could something be returned that no one knew was there?

She stood before the mirror, hardly daring to breathe.

"Oh God," Julian whispered. He stood in a corner of the room, and his eyes were narrowed and his hands were gripped together. "I knew I was a genius. But this—this is something else! What have I done? Statues turned to living beauty. What in the name of God is this?"

"I'm beautiful," she said.

"Yes, yes," he said thickly. "Yes—"

"As beautiful as Gloria."

"Whoever she is, yes, yes—"

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