Lynne sat down abruptly on an empty couch. She felt empty inside, said, "What am I to do?" The tall dark man's smile was a trifle frosty. He said, "We've been watching you, of course. About all I can tell you, Miss Fenlay, is that your--er--aberration is not exactly a surprise." "You mean you've been spying on me?" Even though Lynne was thoroughly conditioned to accept her life as part of a complex mechano-social integration, she found the idea of being spied upon unpleasant. "Not really," he told her. "And don't worry. We have no intention of letting your remarkable gifts go to waste." He paused, added, "I hope your headache is better soon." "Thank you," she said. She was outside before the full implications of his parting shot sank home. How had he or anyone known she was suffering from headache? She had reported it to no one--and the helth-check booth machine was not geared to give confidential evidence or to retain personality keys for checking. It was a puzzle. She worked on it until she was almost back at Mother Weedon's, then realised the Integration Chief had given her no hint of a new assignment--had only suggested she was to be used. She began to wonder if laboratory test-animals suffered from headaches like the one which seemed to have led to her undoing. There was no escaping Mother Weedon, who was enjoying a tri-di vidarcast in full view of the front door as Lynne came in. Well, the girl thought, she was going to have to be told anyway--if she hadn't already got the news from the brain-station. Evidently Mother Weedon had heard. She motioned the girl to sit beside her on her couch and said, "Don't worry, Lynne. You're going to be fine. The trouble with you is you've outgrown your job--yes, and Janet and Ray and me too. You can't help it. You're too good for us and that's that. They'll be moving you on." "But I _like_ it here," cried Lynne. "I like you and Jan and Ray and our work with the group-machine. I don't want it to change." "But it will--everything changes," said Mother Weedon gently. "I'm glad you've been happy here. But your happiness has meant Janet's unhappiness and, more lately, Ray's." "I--see," Lynne said slowly. She hadn't thought of things in that light before. But of course it was true. The first real home she had ever known was about to be taken from her and the experience was too personal to allow much detached thinking. Like most genetically-controlled children whose double-birth had been successful, she had been brought up with functional rather than sentimental care. Not having known her parents, not having known her twin brother on Mars, she had never missed them. The teachers and matrons at the seminary had been carefully selected for their warmth and competence. There had always been plenty of playmates, plenty of interesting things to learn.