d the way they
were these days--he sighed, and drew out one of his last credit-coins.
"Beer," he muttered as the barkeep looked up.

The bartender scowled, his heavy-set face a picture of fashionable
distaste. Carefully he filled every other order at the bar. Then he
grudgingly set up a small beer, mostly foam, and flung some small-coin
change down on the bar before Tam. Tam stared at the glass, the little
proud flame of anger flaring slowly.

A fat man, sitting nearby, stared at him for a long moment, then took
a long swill of beer from his glass. "'Smatter, Sharkie? Whyncha drink
y'r beer 'n get t' hell out o' here?"

Tam stared fixedly at his glass, giving no indication of having heard
a word.

The fat man stiffened a trifle, swung around to face him. "God-dam
Sharkie's too good to talk to a guy," he snarled loudly.
"Whassa-matter, Sharkie, ya deaf?"

Tarn's hand trembled as he reached for the beer, took a short swallow.
Shrugging, he set the glass on the bar and got up from his stool. He
walked out, feeling many eyes on his back.

He walked. Time became a blur to a mind beaten down by constant
rebuff. He became conscious of great weariness of both mind and body.
Instinct screamed for rest....

* * * * *

Tam sat up, shaking his head to clear it. He shivered from the chill
of the park--the cruel pressure of the bench. He pulled up his collar
and moved out into the street again.

There was one last chance. Cautiously his mind skirted the idea,
picked it up, regarded it warily, then threw it down again. He had
promised himself never to consider it, years before, in the hot, angry
days of the Revolt. Even then he had had some inkling of the shape of
things, and he had promised himself, bitterly, never to consider that
last possibility. Still--

Another night in the cold out-of-doors could kill him. Suddenly he
didn't care any more, didn't care about promises, or pride, or
anything else. He turned into a public telephone booth, checked an
address in the thick New Denver book--

He knew he looked frightful as he stepped onto the elevator, felt the
cold eyes turn away from him in distaste. Once he might have been
mortified, felt the deep shame creeping up his face, but he didn't
care any longer. He just stared ahead at the moving panel, avoiding
the cold eyes, until the fifth floor was called.

The office was halfway down the dark hallway. He saw the sign on the
door, dimly: