"Sometimes I think you and Clara Manz must be the only people in the world," she said abruptly, "who aren't so silly about shifting right on the dot. Why, I don't _care_ if Susan Shorrs _is_ an hour late for classes!" Those first moments when he seized her in his arms, it seemed her heart would shake loose. It was as though she had uttered some magic formula, one that had abruptly opened the doors to his love. It was only after he had explained to her why he was always late on the first day of the family shift that she knew something was wrong. He _did_ tell her, over and over, that he knew she was unhappy and that it was his fault. But he was at the same time soothing her, petting her, as if _he was afraid of her_. He talked on and on. Gradually, Mary understood in his trembling body, in his perspiring palms, in his pleading eyes, that he was afraid of dying, that he was afraid _she_ would kill him with the merest thing she said, with her very presence. This was not painful to Mary, because, suddenly, something came with ponderous enormity to stand before her: _I would just as soon the child did not realize her relationship to this sordid situation._ Her relationship. It was some kind of relationship to Conrad and Clara Manz, because those were the people they had been talking about. The moment her father left the apartment, she went to his desk and took out the file of family records. After she found the address of Conrad Manz, the idea occurred to her to write it on her body. Mary was certain that Susan Shorrs never bathed and she thought this a clever idea. Sometime on Susan's rest day, five days from now, she would try to force the shift and go to see Conrad and Clara Manz. Her plan was simple in execution, but totally vague as to goal. Mary was already late when she hurried to the children's section of a public shifting station. A Children's Transfer Bus was waiting, and Mary registered on it for Susan Shorrs to be taken to school. After that she found a shifting room and opened it with her wristband. She changed into a shifting costume and sent her own clothes and belongings home. Children her age did not wear makeup, but Mary always stood at the mirror during the shift. She always tried as hard as she could to see what Susan Shorrs looked like. She giggled over a verse that was scrawled beside the mirror ... Rouge your hair and comb your face; Many a third head is lost in this place. ... and then the shift came, doubly frightening because of what she knew she was going to do. * * * * *