He nodded, then realized he had to answer aloud if there was a microphone around; but the soft voice said: "Follow the open doors down the hall. Mr. Lexington is expecting you." "Thanks," Peter said, and a door at one side of the anteroom swung open for him. He went through it with his composure slipping still further from his grip. This was no way to go into an interview, but doors kept opening before and shutting after him, until only one was left, and the last of his calm was blasted away by a bellow from within. "Don't stand out there like a jackass! Either come in or go away!" Peter found himself leaping obediently toward the doorway. He stopped just short of it, took a deep breath and huffed it out, took another, all the while thinking, Hold on now; you're in no shape for an interview--and it's not your fault--this whole setup is geared to unnerve you: the kindergarten kid called in to see the principal. He let another bellow bounce off him as he blew out the second breath, straightened his jacket and tie, and walked in as an engineer applying for a position should. "Mr. Lexington?" he said. "I'm Peter Manners. The Association--" "Sit down," said the man at the desk. "Let's look you over." He was a huge man behind an even huger desk. Peter took a chair in front of the desk and let himself be inspected. It wasn't comfortable. He did some looking over of his own to ease the tension. The room was more than merely large, carpeted throughout with a high-pile, rich, sound-deadening rug. The oversized desk and massive leather chairs, heavy patterned drapes, ornately framed paintings--by God, even a glass-brick manteled fireplace and bowls with flowers!--made him feel as if he had walked down a hospital corridor into Hollywood's idea of an office. His eyes eventually had to move to Lexington, and they were daunted for another instant. This was a citadel of a man--great girders of frame supporting buttresses of muscle--with a vaulting head and drawbridge chin and a steel gaze that defied any attempt to storm it. But then Peter came out of his momentary flinch, and there was an age to the man, about 65, and he saw the muscles had turned to fat, the complexion ashen, the eyes set deep as though retreating from pain, and this was a citadel of a man, yes, but beginning to crumble. "What can you do?" asked Lexington abruptly. * * * * * Peter started, opened his mouth to answer, closed it again. He'd been jolted too often in too short a time to be stampeded into blurting a reply that would cost him this job. "Good," said Lexington. "Only a fool would try to answer that. Do you have any knowledge of medicine?" "Not enough to matter," Peter said, stung by the compliment. "I don't mean how to bandage a cut or splint a broken arm. I mean things like cell structure, neural communication--the _basics_ of how we live." "I'm applying for a job as engineer."