"What is it, Doctor?" "It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'll never guess what just happened--" "No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up." "I--well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me this morning. And guess--I mean--well, one of them shouldn't have been sent to me!" "No!" "It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his card right here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern is fine." "Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card?" Walton asked. "No, sir." Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting great anxiety. "Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet. Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out that there's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over us in half an hour." "Yes, sir." Falbrough looked terribly grave. "What should I do, sir?" "Don't say a word about this to _anyone_, not even the men in the examining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents, apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking for any future cases of this sort." "Certainly, sir. Is that all?" "It is," Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deep breath and stared bleakly at the far wall. The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law--the Equalization Law--Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminal as the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators, or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor. He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham and the Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had done it, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position--his life, even--for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby. Well, the thing was done. No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have to finish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distant places and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning's activities. The annunciator chimed again. "Your brother is on the wire, sir." Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, "Put him on." Somehow, Fred never called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. And Walton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by this call. No good at all. III Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out of the swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, built closer to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven, next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to "get even" with his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but to Fred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height.