[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Comet March 41.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The nurse at the desk of Floor 24, Ward 5, flexed a smooth, tan armand looked at the hall chronometer. She sighed inaudibly. 20:13:09,said the dial. Two more hours on duty for Miss Markett Travenor,F-2349464-23a-10-256W-26. Which was to say that her file was Femalenumber 2349464 in the Register of Persons, that she lived in apartment23 on floor 10 in building 256 on the West side of parkzone 26.Examination of her face and figure would have convinced you that oneas lovely as she could have existed by accident only in the TwentiethCentury. Happily, however, by the year 2046 (in which she was born),scientific mating was no dream of a few forward-looking visionaries,but a reality: she was the lovely offspring of a couple carefullypaired.
Markett looked down from her chronometer, her green eyes darklythoughtful. Dr. Ward Alfreed (M-2536478-13a-20-358E-22) was late. Shelooked down the white-enameled corridor, then at the indicating fingerof an elevator. It had not moved. Easily she pressed a communicatorattached to a strap of her uniform. Immediately a voice spoke:
"Entrance hall speaking—Central Information Desk."
Markett snapped a button. "Lee?", she asked. "Is the hotter down thereyet?" "Hotter," in the year 2066, meant boy-friend.
"Dr. Alfreed," replied the voice, "is going up now with Patient—just amoment—Patient sixty-six-twenty-five."
"Thanks," replied Markett, snapping off the contact. She picked a cardfrom the full-view files before her. Patient sixty-six-twenty-five,Psycho Clinic. "Marked degeneration," read the card. "Cowardlytendencies—fear of falling, fear of floating, fear of slipping, fearof standing still. Three attempted suicides unsuccessful due to lack ofcreative technique. Prognosis: doubtful. Use of Psychological Regulatorsuggested. E. B." All that, and the date for the operation—today.
She rose and faced the elevator as sharp-tuned ears caught thealmost imperceptible hum of doors opening. Dr. Alfreed noddedcheerfully to her, twitched his head for her benefit toward the manwhose arm he was grasping. Patient sixty-six-twenty-five, no doubt,she thought, glancing again at his card. Name was Clark Stevens(M-3972677-234a-150N-190), she saw. Tall, too, and well-built. But,somehow, his posture and bearing were almost utterly lacking inmasculinity; at the moment he looked the role of a weak, vacillatingsubject of a rehabilitation test, and he shocked Markett's sense ofwhat was right and decent with his overclad body. He wore a shirtand trousers, seemingly improvised from a number of the one-piece,short-sleeved suits worn by the world as fashion and comfort decreed.Yet there was something about him—? She wrenched her eyes back to thefigure of the doctor, small, compact, and natty in leatheret bandolier.Pity, she thought with professional coldness, must not interfere withher operative functions. However, the sight of Stevens could not helpbut make her think of pictures she had seen of nurses in the old days,hideously overclad, their freedom of movement hampered. She, as allnurses of this enlightened era, wore only a bandolier, to which wasattached a harness carrying the various items which must always be onher person, regulation shorts, and shoes.
Dr. Alfreed took the patient's card from her and scribbled notations.She turned to take the patient's arm, but, with a cry of fear, hecowered from her.
"Now," she said soothingly. "Let's come along and not have—" shewas backing him into the arms of the doctor, of