"Seen my brother around?" he asked. "Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get him for you, Mr. Walton?" "No--no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later." Inwardly, Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor in the employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, and Roy did not care to have Fred know he was down there. Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump, squalling babies, and said, "Find many sour ones today?" "Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc, two blind, one congenital syph." "That only makes six," Walton said. "Oh, and a spastic," the doctor said. "Biggest haul we've had yet. Seven in one morning." "Have any trouble with the parents?" "What do you think?" the doctor asked. "But some of them seemed to understand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though." Walton shuddered. "You remember his name?" he asked, with feigned calm. Silence for a moment. "No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look it up for you if you like." "Don't bother," Walton said hurriedly. He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the execution chamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names at his desk when Walton appeared. Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. He was short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contact lenses in his weak blue eyes. "Morning, Mr. Walton." "Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you?" "Eleven hundred, as usual." "Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on," Walton said. "To keep public opinion on our side." "Sir?" "Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby that comes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been no mistake. Got that?" "_Mistake?_ But how--" "Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at one of the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news gets out." _How glibly I reel this stuff off_, Walton thought in amazement. Falbrough looked grave. "I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-check everything from now on." "Good. Begin with the 1100 batch." Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He left via a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube. Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of a towering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. He remembered what FitzMaugham had said: _Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles._ Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was little doubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what he had done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow. The annunciator chimed and said, "Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep calling you, sir." "Put him on." The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness had given way to wild-eyed tenseness.