An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, ending with blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern, codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to the notification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at the bottom of the card: _EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332_ _EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED_ He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably still somewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend. Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber delivered Happysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to save Philip Prior. He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slipped the baby's card into his breast pocket. That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of the gene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth, and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish on Phillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: _3f2, tubercular-prone_. He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to the machine. _Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter in all circuits._ He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol _3f2_ and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version. The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good. Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customary pause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it. The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned, Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby. He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before this morning's haul of unfortunates was put away. Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctors without attracting too much attention to himself in the process? * * * * * Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the main section of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there, each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from one to the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above. The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at its local clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and a certificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied a certificate ... and life. "Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here?" Walton smiled affably. "Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try to keep in touch with every department we have, you know." "Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We're really getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton!" "Umm. Yes." Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he could do about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in his protégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose.