He crossed the room, noiselessly ascended to the roof and leaped outward. Blades unfolded to churn the darkness. It was a Stallman Rotor--their commercials seemed the least offensive--and it deposited him gently beside his house; just as gently as any Ronson would have done. Ahead of him, the stars glittered frostily in the night. He breathed the crystal air in great intakes of breath, trying not to remember it was taxed. Lines from Walter Scott leaped unaccountably to his mind: "Breathes there a man," he thought, "with soul so dead, who never to himself hath said, 'This is my own, my native land.'" He felt the last word could be justly changed to "air" to fit this overtaxed era in which he lived. The moon was out, and he stopped to stare at it. Across its surface, in letters of fire, were the words: "Buy Air Bonds, A Solid Investment." There was little practical need for the ad; pay deductions were arbitrary. Shaking his head sadly, Arthur Dunlop walked into the night. Night beckoned, and Arthur Dunlop followed its call. He went willfully, but he could not have resisted had he wanted to. The streets were dark, lit only by the moon and the stars, and houses were dark phantoms rising in the night, their owners lulled to sleep by the omnipresent television receivers. But he tried not to think of that. He thought of the cool velvet evening which lay before him, and of the girl who waited quietly in the shadows of a deserted park. He thought of that as he walked into the night, and he thought also of things more serious, and suddenly-- --a voice cried: "Stop!" It was a mechanical voice, tinny, without emotion. "It is the time of curfew. You are not allowed out. Your name?" Arthur stood, petrified, and stared at a black robot face before him. He heard a click, loud in the darkness, and knew that his picture had been taken. The sound jarred him from his immobility, and he turned and scampered into the darkness. "Stop," the robot commanded, "Stop!" and a shaft of light darted from its forehead, piercing the darkness, shriveling grass beneath Arthur's feet. But the ray missed him, and he darted down the street, amid the pounding echoes of his flight. After several blocks, he threw himself panting into a doorway and looked back down the street. Nothing. Silence and moonlight and darkness, and only his own labored breathing while his chest rose and fell in unaccustomed gasps. But they had his picture! In seconds, a giant machine could find a similar picture in its files, complete with every detail of information concerning him. They might get him before the work was complete. If he could only evade them until he could turn this to advantage. He felt in his pocket for the radioactive silver disc he knew was there. * * * * *