"All right, all right," Mr. Ditmars said before Mr. Replogle could stop him, "I'll give you all the facts we have--to wit, none. All we know about Orville we put into the release. McGeachin's been keeping him under wraps. We don't know a thing about him. He's eccentric--McGeachin, I mean." "Could be Orville also," the _World-Post and Journal_ suggested. Mr. Ditmars sighed. "Could be Orville also," he conceded. "It's more of a story if Orville is eccentric. You more or less expect it from management." "Well," Mr. Replogle said, unable to contain himself further--his head was really blasting off--"artists can be pretty peculiar people too." It was Mr. Ditmars' turn to glare at him. "Make way for Hervey McGeachin III and Orville," the robot at the door declaimed. "Make way...." Every head swivelled to catch sight of the well-known but seldom-seen financier, as he came jerkily through the crowd. All the journalists were dressed in the maroon or beige or navy synthetics of almost similar cut that mass production had enforced upon the entire population, save for the very wealthy. Gay knitted mittens, colorful plumed hats, rainbow-hued scarves--all of which were ostentatiously hand-made--showed that the pressmen were professionals and not mere government pensioners who could do nothing that a machine could not do as well or better. However, although there were no sumptuary laws as such, few of the journalists could afford more than one or two of these costly, status-making accessories. McGeachin was completely costumed in rugged individualist style. His scarlet silk hose, emerald satin knee breeches, swallow-tailed plum velvet coat, and starched white ruff made Mr. Replogle, who had been rather proud of his own pale blue brocade waistcoat and seal-skin mukluks almost sick with envy. _He's so hand-made he's practically mechanical_, he said bitterly to himself. McGeachin was followed by a Class Three, All-Purpose Manual Labor Robot, well-burnished but of rather an early pattern. Surely, Mr. Replogle thought, if the financier had to use a mechanical man, and personal attendants were far more hand-made, he could at least have got a more recent model. "Welcome to Cimabue, Mr. McGeachin," Mr. Ditmars and Mr. Replogle said almost simultaneously. "But where is Orville?" the senior partner added. McGeachin pointed with his long green cigar. "This is Orville," he said in a crisp metallic voice. Mr. Replogle could feel himself growing pale all the way down to his mukluks. This was precisely the way his nightmare had always begun. Only now it was reality ... or was it? Perhaps he was back in the dream again. He could close his eyes and, when he opened them, he would be lying in his own standard air-conditioned toti-comfort sleeplounge under his own satin-covered, goose-down filled luxury quilt.