* * * * * The first contact at the Office of Psychological Adjustment was, as usual, an information desk. There were people instead of cybs to greet you and I suppose that was because of the special complications of problems brought here. The cybs have their limits, after all. A gray man with a gray eye and a face like a mimeographed bulletin looked at me and said, in approved voice and standard phraseology, "what information is desired?" I told him. His eyebrows rose, as if suddenly buoyant. "_Change your name?_ That's impossible." I quoted, verse and chapter, the regulation covering it. "H'm," he said. His eyebrows came down, cuddling into a scowl. "Well, that's highly unusual procedure. Better let me see your identity tag." I gave that to him and he saw my N/P status, and then my unspeakable name, and his eyebrows went up again. "Perhaps you'd better get this straightened out with General Administration first," he said. He scribbled a slip of paper, showing me how to get there. The rat race was on. I found General Administration. They sent me to Activity Control. Activity Control said they couldn't do a thing until I was registered. I went to Registration. Registration said oh, no, I shouldn't have been sent there--although they'd try to direct me to the proper office if I got an okay from Investigation and Security. I. & S. said the regulation I quoted had been amended and I would have to have the amendment first and I could find that in Records. Records sent me back to the first place to get a Search Permit. And so on. I kept at it doggedly. Toward the end of the day my legs ached and head felt like a ball of granite. I had discovered that Opsych had nearly as many levels and tunnels and bays as Center Four in its entirety, and I had taken the intercom cars when possible, but most of it had been walking. I tightened my jaw and pulled my stomach in. I'd get to see the Chief if it took me a year. That was hyperbole, of course. No man could last a year walking those dim, monotonous, aseptic corridors. How can I describe the feeling? The corridors are the same wherever you go. The glowlight comes steadily, unblinkingly, from the walls. The color is a dead oyster white. There is always the feeling of being lost--even when you know, or think you know, exactly where you are. * * * * * It was near the end of the day and I was back at the information desk. "You again," said the gray man with the gray eye. "Records says I need a Search Permit. I have to find an amendment on the regulation covering my case." "Why don't you just give up? You're causing us a great deal of trouble, you know. We have other work to do. Important work." "So have I. I'm a magnetic mechanics expert. I could be working for the State right now if I could get a post. I can't get a post till my name's changed." "That's ridiculous." "I agree. But it's true just the same."