"I know. And what happens when I can't do _that_ any more, either?" Stanton asked. "I can't just go on getting better and better forever. I've got limits, you know." "Sure," said the therapist easily. "So does a golf player. But every golfer goes out and practices by himself to try to beat his own record." "Bunk! The real fun in _any_ game is beating someone else! The big kick in golf is in winning over the other guy in a twosome." "How about crossword puzzles or solitaire?" "Solve a crossword puzzle, and you've beaten the guy who made it up. In solitaire, you're playing against the laws of chance, and even that can become pretty boring. What I'd like to do is get out on the golf course with someone else and do my best and then lose. Honestly." "With a handicap...." the therapist began. Then he grinned weakly and stopped. On the golf course, Stanton was impossibly good. One long drive to the green, one putt to the cup. An easy thirty-six strokes for eighteen holes; an occasional hole-in-one sometimes brought him below that, an occasional worm-cast or stray wind sometimes raised his score. "Sure," Stanton said. "A handicap. What kind of handicap do you want on a handball game with me?" The P.T. man could imagine himself trying to get under one of Stanton's lightning-like returns. The thought of what would happen to his hand if he were to accidentally catch one made him wince. "We wouldn't even be playing the same game," Stanton said. The therapist stepped back and looked at Stanton. "You know," he said puzzledly, "you sound bitter." "Sure I'm bitter," Stanton said. "All I get is exercise. All the fun has gone out of it." He sighed and grinned. There was no point in worrying the P.T. man. "I'll just have to stick to cards and chess if I want competition. Speed and strength don't help anything if I'm holding two pair against three of a kind." Before the therapist could say anything, the door opened and a tall, lean man stepped into the fog-filled room. "You are broiling a lobster?" he asked the P.T. blandly. "Steaming a clam," came the correction. "When he's done, I'll pound him to chowder." "Excellent. I came for a clam-bake," the tall man said. "You're early then, George," Stanton said. He didn't feel in the mood for light humor, and the appearance of Dr. Yoritomo did nothing to improve his humor. George Yoritomo beamed, crinkling up his heavy-lidded eyes. "Ah! A talking clam! Excellent! How much longer does he have to cook?" "Twenty-three minutes, why?" "Would you be so good as to return at the end of that time?" The therapist opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and said: "Sure, Doc. I can get some other stuff done. I'll see you then. I'll be back, Bart." He went out through the far door. * * * * * After the door closed, Dr. Yoritomo pulled up a chair and sat down. "New developments," he said, "as you may have surmised."