He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outer office was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, opening letters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them into the hallway. There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward the lift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeek was organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for the second-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of a single child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was striking as effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had brought about repeal of the entire Equalization Law. Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child, and after that I'll keep within the law. He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. The clinic was on the twentieth floor. "Roy." At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise. He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stood there. "Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham." The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly, his mop of white hair bright and full. "You look preoccupied, boy. Something the matter?" Walton shook his head quickly. "Just a little tired, sir. There's been a lot of work lately." As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeek worked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaugham had striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, at the age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of saving mankind from itself. The director smiled. "You never did learn how to budget your strength, Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm glad you're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning, though. Mind if I join you?" "I'm--not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs." "Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone?" "No, Mr. FitzMaugham." Walton felt as though he'd already been tried, drawn, and quartered. "It requires personal attention." "I see." The deep, warm eyes bored into his. "You ought to slow down a little, I think." "Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little." FitzMaugham chuckled. "In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraid you'll never learn how to relax, my boy." The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Director to enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed _Fourteen_; there was a coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed _twenty_, covering the panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see his destination. As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, "Did Mr. Prior come to see you this morning?" "Yes," Walton said. "He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good?" "That's right, sir," Walton said tightly. "He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What was on his mind?"