unstopped the vial, poured a shimmering green drop on his
wrist, frowning.

"Must concentrate," he said. "Thorium base, suspended solution. Really
jolts the endocrines, complete control ... see?"

Melinda's jaw dropped. She stared at the tiny tuft of hair which had
sprouted on that bare wrist. She was thinking abruptly, unhappily, about
that chignon she had bought yesterday. They had let her buy that for
eight dollars when with this stuff she could have a natural one.

"How much?" she inquired cautiously.

"A half hour of your time only," said Porteous.

Melinda grasped the vial firmly, settled down on the sofa with one leg
tucked carefully under her.

"Okay, shoot. But nothing personal."

* * * * *

Porteous was delighted. He asked a multitude of questions, most of them
pointless, some naive, and Melinda dug into her infinitesimal fund of
knowledge and gave. The little man scribbled furiously, clucking like a
gravid hen.

"You mean," he asked in amazement, "that you live in these primitive
huts of your own volition?"

"It's a G.I. housing project," Melinda said, ashamed.

"Astonishing." He wrote: _Feudal anachronisms and atomic power, side by
side. Class Fours periodically "rough it" in back-to-nature movements._

Harry Junior chose that moment to begin screaming for his lunch.
Porteous sat, trembling. "Is that a Security Alarm?"

"My son," said Melinda despondently, and went into the nursery.

Porteous followed, and watched the ululating child with some
trepidation. "Newborn?"

"Eighteen months," said Melinda stiffly, changing diapers. "He's cutting
teeth."

Porteous shuddered. "What a pity. Obviously atavistic. Wouldn't the
creche accept him? You shouldn't have to keep him here."

"I keep after Harry to get a maid, but he says we can't afford one."

"Manifestly insecure," muttered the little man, studying Harry Junior.
"Definite paranoid tendencies."

"He was two weeks premature," volunteered Melinda. "He's real
sensitive."

"I know just the thing," Porteous said happily. "Here." He dipped into
the glittering litter on the tray and handed Harry Junior a translucent
prism. "A neural distorter. We use it to train regressives on Rigel Two.
It might be of assistance."

Melinda eyed the thing doubtfully. Harry Junior was peering into the
shifting crystal depths with a somewhat strained expression.

"Speeds up the neural flow," explained the little man proudly. "H