From a distance, or to casual observation, illusion was both startling and complete. No functional flaws had shown up under the most exhaustive tests. Eyes looked like eyes, facial planes bore remarkable resemblance to human features, new limbs and extremities looked and worked at least as well as the originals. Design and workmanship was skillful enough to fool a layman, though a specialist might catch minute, observable differences, especially in the smooth flow of motor impulses. Synthetic muscles responded swiftly and in completed curves, rather than in the stiff, jointed, jerky effects of human locomotion. Walking became a sinuous, liquid glide; there was superhuman precision, and a sense of restrained power and agility beyond the human norm. Bell stopped before the doctor's desk. Even the gesture of instantaneous repose jarred slightly, with its hint of high-order efficiency awaiting stimuli. Hastings catalogued Bell's visible features, and memory supplied a working picture of the rest. For an icy moment Hastings was gripped by the craftsman's awareness of his own work as a masterpiece, but in the tragic motif. Bell laughed, the sound flat and metallic, but not unpleasant. "Take a good look, doc. I know how you feel. When I get up in the morning I always wonder if I need a shave. It's still a shock to look in a mirror. It's not shaving I miss, but not having to gripe about it jars me." "Is it as bad as that?" Hastings asked sympathetically. "Bad enough." In a basically imperfect world, there are various kinds and degrees of greatness. Interviewing Bell was not Hastings' job or even moral obligation. Explanation would be difficult, probably impossible. Hastings officiated at his own request. "You know why I'm here," Bell went on. The robot voice held curious overtones, not harshly metallic, but murmurous like an echo of low-tuned bells. "I want to go home. Back to Earth. I have a wife there. While I had a real job here it was all right, but I've been relieved since the accident. My contract is voided, they tell me. I could sign another contract but I didn't like the fine print. It said PERMANENT. No contract, no job, nor reason to stay. Now I'd like some straight answers." Hastings sighed. His alert ears caught belligerence in the tone as well as the words. "They refused your ticket?" Bell nodded quickly. Light glanced from the rounded angles of his face-plate. "Right on the nose. No mistake, either. Orders. From here. Do I get my answers from you or wait until somebody slips? There could be a good reason. If so, I have a right to know about it." "You do, Bell," Hastings admitted. He hesitated. "I had hoped this wouldn't come up just yet. What's deadly important about going back to Earth? Anything immediate? Your contract still had three years to run ... before the accident."