The light-blue capsule was the way back to dreamland; the bright yellow one, the first step in withdrawal. The third capsule was the one most frequently chosen. It was a delayer; its effect, neither positive nor negative, was to allow its taker's hormones to remain suspended during the period of choice. "I've got three days, don't I, Dad?" The terms of the situation, implanted in each child's mind long before he could possibly understand the meanings of the words, now stood out sharply in Larry's mind. Larry's father nodded. "You took the green one?" "Yes. Was that wrong?" "It's what I did when I was your age," the older man said. "It's the only sensible thing to do. Yes, you have three days to make up your mind. You can go on taking the unworry capsules for the rest of your life--or you can begin withdrawing. You'll have to decide that for yourself." Something fluttery throbbed in the pit of Larry's stomach. It was the first sign of worry, the first agony of decision-making. He remained calm; despite his lifelong use of Koletsky's drug, its peculiar properties were such that he felt no need of it now. Yet--how did he choose? In three days, how? Uneasily, he wiggled his feet against the cool, yielding surface of the floor for a moment, left the bed, crossed the room, threw open the door. Across the hall, the robonurse was ministering to his younger brother. The sleepy-eyed eight-year-old was sitting up in bed while the pseudomother washed and dressed him. Larry smiled. His brother's face was calm, relaxed, confident-looking. "The lucky devil," he said out loud. "He's got nine years of happiness left." "You can have the rest of your lifetime, son." Larry turned. His father's voice was flat, without any hint of emotion or any trace of value-judgment. "I know," Larry said. "One way--or the other." * * * * * Later that first day, he dressed and left the house. He crossed the pedestrian-walk that led from his block to the next, feeling curiously impermanent in his between-status status. The pedestrian-walk was empty except for a wandering vendor struggling along under a load of bubble-toys. Larry doubled his pace and caught up with the man, a short, long-nosed individual with worry-creases furrowing his thin face. "Hello, son. Got your bubble-ship yet?" He held forth the inflatable vehicle and smiled--a forced, slick smile that faded when the vendor noticed the luminescent armband that told of Larry's status. "Oh--a Changer," the vendor said. "I guess you wouldn't be interested in a bubble-ship, then." "I guess not." Larry took the toy from the vendor's hand anyway, and examined it. "You make these yourself?" "Oh, no, not at all. I get them from the Distributory." The vendor scowled and shook his head. "They keep cutting down my allotment all the time. I don't know how I'll stay in business." "Why? Won't there always be a market?"