He began to circle the cubicle like a trapped animal. "Level III!" He wailed inwardly. The Level of the Automatons conditioned to slave-labor, dwelling in semi-darkness and squalor, on a diet restricted to barest essentials of energy units, until finally the Blessed Sleep claimed him--whatever that was, he shuddered. He'd had six failures in his section--Plastic No. 15, and six meant the ultimate sentence. There was no trial, no jury, no opportunity even of explaining or seeking in a rational manner the reason for those ghastly explosions. Inexorably, the Law was final. But who was _The Law_? From the high Level of a First Order Scientist engaged in scientific work that had resulted in the miraculous array of plastics that had made their civilization a thing of undreamed-of power and wealth, he was cast without recourse to the Level of Darkness--memory-less, reflex-conditioned, practically mindless except for slavish toil and animal needs. Little had he dreamed, even when a Scientist of the First Order, that there existed such stupendous extremes as the fantastic splendor of the City of the Sphere, and the hellish misery of Level III. The Neuro-graph was speaking again in the sonorous, purple period that made his hackles rise. "Analyst Guerlan," it intoned and paused impressively. "You have failed in your _Allotment_. Six accidents have destroyed enormous wealth and caused inexcusable damage. You had not less than five previous repetitions of the same type of accident to study and find a solution to the problem ... a problem given you because of your blasphemous attitude toward the Inner Circle. The sixth explosion was your epitaph. Retribution _is_ The Law. "You will be immediately conditioned for Level III. Amnesiac Treatment will be administered to save needless suffering--we are merciful--a robot-proctor will guide you henceforth through the various stages. A Protector has spoken." The icy voice was silent. Guerlan wondered which Protector had passed sentence. The hum of the machine told of coordinators falling into place as his mental and psychic state was recorded, the amount of energy of his metabolism checked and the time potential of his servitude unerringly estimated. A livid glow enveloped the strange instrument, and then, silently, a part of the seemingly blank wall behind him slid aside for a robot-proctor's entrance. Guerlan knew that the inexorable sentence had been transmitted by remote control through incredibly delicate processes to the machine before him. But who'd decided on the sentence, or why the reason for its harsh cruelty, he had no way of knowing. He doubted if the elephantine Protector in Chief had bothered to pass it. But Guerlan had no time to dwell on this question, for the bery-plastic robot-proctor, its non-abradable crystallite eyes gleaming, had grasped him firmly by the elbow to lead him away.