was a
kid it had been just the other way around. He and the rest of them who
didn't get shots in those early days considered themselves to be the
normal ones. And _they_ did the name-calling. Names like "runt" and
"half-pint" and "midgie." But the most common name was the one that
stuck--Yardstick. That used to be the worst insult of all.

But now it wasn't an insult any more. Being taller was the insult.
Being a dirty Naturalist or a son-of-a-Naturalist. Times certainly had
changed.

Eric glanced at the communicator. Almost noon, and it had not flicked
yet. Here he'd been beaming these big offers, you'd think he'd get
some response to an expensive beaming program, but no. Maybe that was
the trouble--nobody liked _big_ things any more. Everything was small.

He shifted uneasily in his chair. That was one consolation, at least;
he still had old-time furniture. Getting to be harder and harder to
find stuff that fitted him these days. Seemed like most of the firms
making furniture and bedding and household appliances were turning out
the small stuff for the younger generation. Cheaper to make, less
material, and more demand for it. Government allocated size priorities
to the manufacturers.

It was even murder to ride public transportation because of the
space-reductions. Eric drove his own jetter. Besides, that way was
safer. Crowded into a liner with a gang of Yardsticks, with only a few
other Naturalists around, there might be trouble.

Oh, it was getting to be a Yardstick world, and no mistake. Smaller
furniture, smaller meals, smaller sizes in clothing, smaller
buildings--

That reminded Eric of something and he frowned again. Dammit, why
didn't the communicator flick? He should be getting some kind of
inquiries. Hell, he was practically _giving_ the space away!

But there was only silence, as there had been all during this past
week. That's why he let Lorette go. Sweet girl, but there was no work
for her here any more. No work, and no pay, either. Besides, the place
spooked her. She'd been the one who suggested leaving, really.

"Eric, I'm sorry, but I just can't take this any more. All alone in
this huge building--it's curling my toes!"

At first he tried to talk her out of it. "Don't be silly, luscious!
There's Bernstein, down on ten, and Saltonstall above us, and Wallaby
and Son on fourteen, I tell you, this place is coming back to life, I
can feel it! I'll beam for tenants next week, you'll see--"

A