He awoke to the sound of running feet. He sat up in bed and looked towards the door of the small white room in which he was confined. It was partly open, and the sound of clattering soles and shrill young voices came through clearly. The door slammed open, startling him. A hoydenish youngster gaped at him. There was a flat lock of reddish hair over his forehead, and his face was freckled. "Hoy," he said. "What's the matter with _you_?" Ron stared back wordlessly. "You sick or something?" the boy said, edging into the room. "No." His own voice, strange and reedy, frightened him. "No, I'm all right." "Andy!" A tall man with a frowning face appeared behind the boy. "Come on, fella. Let's not waste any time." He looked at Ron. "You the new chap?" "Yes." "Feel well enough for some breakfast?" "I guess so." "Fine. Then get some clothes on and come along." "Hoy," the freckle-faced boy said curiously. "You play airball?" "That's enough of that." The man paddled the boy's rump. "Get along, Andy. You'll have plenty of time to get acquainted later." The boy giggled and ran down the hall. Ron got out of bed slowly, and walked towards the undersized clothing that was draped on a nearby chair. He slipped into a gray coverall and said: "Listen--can I talk to you?" The man looked at his watch. "Well ... all right, I suppose. But only for a minute. I promised the boys a game this morning; I'm Mr. Larkin, the athletic director." Ron hesitated. "Mr. Larkin, I--where am I?" "Don't you know?" Even the man's smile was half a frown. "You're at Roverwood Home for Boys. Didn't they tell you that?" "No," Ron said carefully. "I--I don't seem to remember very much. How I got here, I mean." "Dr. Minton brought you in last evening. He's one of our directors." "Oh." Ron laced on the tiny scuffed shoes. "And where's Dr. Minton now?" "Gone back to the city. He's a busy man. Hear they've got him working on some big government project. Well, come on, Ronnie. Breakfast's waiting." "Yes, sir," Ron Carver said. He followed the tall man down the hall, having trouble guiding the short stumpy legs that were now his own. They entered a communal dining room, filled with the clatter of dishes and the laughter of boys. He was brought to a long table and seated beside Larkin. The other boys greeted him with only mild interest, but the freckle-faced youth at the other end dropped him a broad wink. He ate sparingly, choking on the food, his mind working. It was the longest nightmare of his life, and the moment of awakening seemed too far off for comfort. Then Larkin was standing up and rattling a spoon against a water glass. "Fellas," he said, "all those interested in this morning's airball game will assemble on the field in half an hour after breakfast. Please don't volunteer unless you're able to handle a PF. Everybody else is invited to see the game." He sat down, amid cheers. He smiled sadly at Ron, and asked: "How about you, Ronnie? Can you operate a PF?"