After figuring his commission, the clerk smiled to himself and lighted a cigarette. His enjoyment was spoiled when the manager, a large man impressively equipped with pince-nez, marched out of his office. "Haskins," the manager said, "I thought I asked you to rid yourself of that filthy habit." "Yes, Mr. Follansby, sorry, sir," Haskins apologized, snubbing out the cigarette. "I'll use the display Denicotinizer at once. Made rather a good sale, Mr. Follansby. One of the big Rex Regenerators." "Really?" said the manager, impressed. "It isn't often we--wait a minute! You didn't sell the floor model, did you?" "Why--why, I'm afraid I did, Mr. Follansby. The customer was in such a terrible hurry. Was there any reason--" Mr. Follansby gripped his prominent white forehead in both hands, as though he wished to rip it off. "Haskins, I told you. I must have told you! That display Regenerator was a Martian model. For giving mechanotherapy to Martians." "Oh," Haskins said. He thought for a moment. "Oh." Mr. Follansby stared at his clerk in grim silence. "But does it really matter?" Haskins asked quickly. "Surely the machine won't discriminate. I should think it would treat a homicidal tendency even if the patient were not a Martian." "The Martian race has never had the slightest tendency toward homicide. A Martian Regenerator doesn't even process the concept. Of course the Regenerator will treat him. It has to. But what will it treat?" "Oh," said Haskins. "That poor devil must be stopped before--you say he was homicidal? I don't know what will happen! Quick, what is his address?" "Well, Mr. Follansby, he was in such a terrible hurry--" The manager gave him a long, unbelieving look. "Get the police! Call the General Motors Security Division! Find him!" Haskins raced for the door. "Wait!" yelled the manager, struggling into a raincoat. "I'm coming, too." -- -- -- -- -- Elwood Caswell returned to his apartment by taxicopter. He lugged the Regenerator into his living room, put it down near the couch and studied it thoughtfully. "That clerk was right," he said after a while. "It does go with the room." Esthetically, the Regenerator was a success. Caswell admired it for a few more moments, then went into the kitchen and fixed himself a chicken sandwich. He ate slowly, staring fixedly at a point just above and to the left of his kitchen clock. Damn you, Magnessen! Dirty no-good lying shifty-eyed enemy of all that's decent and clean in the world.... Taking the revolver from his pocket, he laid it on the table. With a stiffened forefinger, he poked it into different positions. It was time to begin therapy. Except that.... Caswell realized worriedly that he didn't want to lose the desire to kill Magnessen. What would become of him if he lost that urge? His life would lose all purpose, all coherence, all flavor and zest. It would be quite dull, really.