The stranger shook his head slowly and dialed another drink. "Anxiety is the feeling that things are too good, that you're riding for a fall," he said carefully. "It's a sense of things about to get worse." Larry remembered the bubble-vendor and nodded. "But they have to be pretty good to start with, don't they?" "Right. You've got to have something pretty good--and be worried that you're going to lose it. Then you fight to keep it. Challenge--response. That's anxiety. Fear's something different. Then you creep into the corner and shake. Or you hang onto the side of a wall." "I think I'll take another drink," Larry said thoughtfully. "You get what I mean? Anxiety pushes and prods you, but it doesn't make you shrivel. You've got to be strong to stand up under it. That's how our world works." "So?" "You haven't experienced any real anxiety yet, boy. Just fear--and you're reacting out of fear. You can't judge your response to something if you're really responding to something else." Larry frowned and gulped his drink. It tasted a little better, this time, though only imperceptibly so. "You mean I'm deciding too quickly, then? That I ought to look around the City a little longer?" "Yes and no," the stranger said. "You're deciding much too quickly--yes. But looking around the City won't do. No; go back home." "Home?" "Home. Go back to your Playground. Look there. Then decide." Larry nodded slowly. "Sure," he said. "Sure--that's it." He felt the tension drain out of him. "I think I'll have one more drink before I go." * * * * * The Playground was crowded on the second day of Larry's three-day period. Small children played happily near the shimmering wading pond, older ones gathered for games in the playing-field farther on, and, far in the distance, a group of permanent unworriers sat complacently in the sun, neither thinking nor moving. Humming robonurses threaded here and there through the Playground, seeing to it that no one got into any trouble. They were necessary, of course--because the unworried children would have no fear of leaping from a tree head-first or walking into the path of a speeding baseball. Larry stood at the edge of the Playground, leaning against the confining fence, watching. His friends were there--the boys he had played with only two days before, still happily occupied with their games and their bubble-toys. Walking carefully, in order not to be seen, he skirted the side of the playing area and headed for the green fields where the Permanents were. There were about a hundred of them, of all ages. Larry recognized a former playmate of his--a boy of about nineteen, now--and there were older men, too, some well along in middle age. They sat quietly, unmoving, most of them, smiling pleasantly. Larry entered the field and walked to the nearest bench. "Mind if I join you?" The man on the bench grinned. "Not at all. Sit right down, friend."