"We are careers, not men and women!" the lawyer went on vehemently. "We don't enjoy life. We have neither the time nor the courage to enjoy it. Our children are few and we ignore them, for should they inherit this terrible urge, they would be our competitors. No, Mr. Pellinger, there is only one real man among us and that is John Bridge. He alone has enjoyed life and he goes back determined to enjoy it for a second and last time. But we, by dint of work and learning and sharp-practice, may prolong the agony once again. Ours are the wasted lives." "Oh, Mr. Delman! Surely, that's overstating the case?" Gillian Murray had the reedy voice common to so many elderly spinsters. "What about all those difficult problems you've solved? Many of them are of great importance. Everybody says so." "Then I don't agree with everybody, Miss Murray," Delman replied. "Complications are the bread and butter of my trade. We make them for money and we unravel them for more money. One day, you draft a will; the next, you break a Trust deed--the balance remains even. It's true you perform a function, but it's questionable whether that function is of any real value." John Bridge got up from his chair. His rubicund features were creased in bewilderment. "This is beyond me," he said. "I'm sorry if I annoyed Mr. Pellinger. I didn't mean to. I think I'll take a nap." He walked thoughtfully out into the corridor, a book in his left hand, his right arm stretched out to the handrail overhead. "There's something about Mr. Bridge," Gillian Murray said reflectively, "that reminds me of the Statue of Liberty." "Probably the hollow head," said Jason Tarsh. * * * * * It was ninety years since the lawyer had last seen Rejuvenal. And now, after all those decades of unremitting toil, he saw it again--a small purple blob on the vidar screen, a hundred thousand miles away--a blob that would grow and grow until it filled the entire screen. Soon the distant harmony of light and shade would break up, throwing into relief the jagged peaks and plunging crevices that formed the surface of the planet. He watched it, fascinated, wondering whether this approach was to be his last, or whether he would be asking himself the same questions a thousand years to come. Perhaps it was this moment above all others that made the endless months of scraping and self-sacrifice suddenly worthwhile. "It won't run away," said a voice beside him. He turned his head. Gillian Murray stood there, wrinkled and benign, her keen blue eyes regarding him with quizzical humor. "I'm so sorry," he said. "I didn't know you were here." "Oh, don't apologize, Mr. Delman. It's just that you've seen it all before, so I'm the one who should be excited."