siness, really. He had
a good job, security, a nice place just two hours from the Loop. He
even drove his own car. What more could he ask?

And why did he have to start the day like this, with a blinding
headache?

Harry finished his Instantea and considered the matter. Yes, it was
beginning again, just as it had on almost every morning for the past
month. He'd sit down at the table, eat his usual breakfast, and end up
with a headache. Why?

It wasn't the food; for a while he'd deliberately varied his diet, but
that didn't make any difference. And he'd had his usual monthly
checkup not more than ten days ago, only to be assured there was
nothing wrong with him. Still, the headaches persisted. Every morning,
when he'd sit down and jerk his head to the left like this--

That was it. Jerking his head to the left. It always seemed to trigger
the pain. But why? And where had he picked up this habit of jerking
his head to the left?

Harry didn't know.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost nine, now. High time that he
got started. He reached over to the interapartment video and dialled
the garage downstairs.

"Bill," he said. "Can you bring my car around to Number Three?"

The tiny face in the hand-screen grinned sheepishly. "Mr. Collins,
ain't it? Gee, I'm sorry, Mr. Collins. Night crew took on a new man,
he must have futzed around with the lists, and I can't find your
number."

Harry sighed. "It's one-eight-seven-three-dash-five," he said. "Light
blue Pax, two-seater. Do you want the license number, too?"

"No, just your parking number. I'll recognize it when I see it. But
God only knows what level it's on. That night man really--"

"Never mind," Harry interrupted. "How soon?"

"Twenty minutes or so. Maybe half an hour."

"Half an hour? I'll be late. Hurry it up!"

Harry clicked the video and shook his head. Half an hour! Well, you
had to expect these things if you wanted to be independent and do your
own driving today. If he wanted to work his priority through the
office, he could get his application honored on the I.C. Line within a
month. But the I.C. was just another commutrain, and he couldn't take
it. Standing and swaying for almost two hours, fighting the crowds,
battling his way in and out of the sidewalk escalators. Besides, there
was always the danger of being crushed. He'd seen an old man trampled
to death on a Michigan Boulevard escalator-feeder, and he'd never
forgotten it.

Being afraid w