"You've seen it all, son."

Larry studied his father's pale, harried face for a moment. "I thought the City was pretty horrible. I decided yesterday I'd become a Permanent."

"I know. Your Watcher told me."

"Watcher?"

"You know—the man who took you in for drinks. You don't think I'd let you go into the City alone, do you?"

Larry smiled. "I thought it was too neat, the way he met me and sent me back. But—but—"

He looked up helplessly at his father. "Today I saw the Playground, Dad. And I don't know what to do." His voice trailed off indistinctly.

"What's the trouble, son?"

"Tomorrow I have to make my choice. Well, the Playground seems to be out—they turn into vegetables there—but am I ready for the City?"

"I don't understand, Larry."

"I was sickened by the place." He leaned forward and said, "Dad, why are children raised on the unworry drug?"

"We try to spare you," his father said. "Seventeen years of tranquility—it's good, isn't it?"

"Not when it ends. It's the worst possible preparation for a life in your world, Dad. I'm not ready for it—and I never will be! My childhood hasn't taught me how to worry!"

Suddenly, his father began to chuckle, first deep in his stomach, then high up in his throat, a ratchety, rasping laugh.

"What's the matter?" Larry asked angrily. "What's so funny?"

"You say you don't know how to worry? Why, you're practically an expert at it!"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Suppose you tell me what you've been thinking of, the past two days. Everything."

Larry stood up, walked to the door. The robonurse was waiting in the next room, patient, unmoving. After a moment, he turned to his father. "Well—I've been thinking that I don't like the City. That I'm afraid I wasn't properly prepared for it. That I think raising 

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