Walton hesitated. "He--he wanted his son spared from Happysleep. Naturally, I had to turn him down." "Naturally," FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. "Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles." "Of course, sir." The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back, revealing a neat, gleaming sign: _FLOOR 20_ _Euthanasia Clinic and Files_ Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoided traveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seem nakedly obvious now. The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. "I guess you get off here," he said. "I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You really should take some time off for relaxation each day." "I'll try, sir." Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as the door closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone. _Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! And damn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know!_ Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deep breath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasia files were kept. * * * * * The room was large, as rooms went nowadays--thirty by twenty, with deck upon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and a bank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeek had piled up an impressive collection of data. While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New facts poured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night. "Can I help--oh, it's you, Mr. Walton," a white-smocked technician said. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one faceless and without personality, but always ready to serve. "Is there anything I can do?" "I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine?" "Not at all, sir. Go right ahead." Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practically backed out of his presence. _No doubt I must radiate charisma_, he thought. Within the building he wore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham's protégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of the crowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly to himself. Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip, wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior. A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotronic circuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnerson tubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and a yellow-brown card dropped out of the slot: _3216847AB1_ _PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, New York. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. at birth 5lb. 3oz._