The visifone buzzed and I leaped to it, thinking of Tessie out shopping in her delicate condition-- I felt momentary relief, then startlement. It was Fitzgerald--Fitzgerald with fair features flushed, Fitzgerald the imperturbable one _stammering with excitement_! "Now, wait a second!" I said in amazement. "Calm down, for Heaven's sake! What's this about a census?" "Well, _are_ they taking one now?" "By 'they' I presume you mean the Bureau of the Census of the U. S. Department of Commerce," I said, trying to slow him down, while wondering what in the name of a reversed cyclotron could have jarred him so. He spluttered. "Who else? Well, _are_ they?" "Not to my knowledge. They took it only last year. Won't do it again until 1970. Why?" "As I was trying to tell you, a fellow who said he was a census taker was just here and damn it, Jim, he wanted to know my considered ideas of natural resources, birth control, immigration, racial discrimination, UFO's and half a dozen other things. He threw the questions at me so fast I became thoroughly confused. What with me still thinking about the cosmotron, wondering if Brownie will stop riding me before I do break down, and wondering where Miriam is, I just had to slow him down so that I could piece together the answers. "Just about then he staggered as if a fifth of hundred-proof bourbon had caught up with him and reeled out without a fare-thee-well. I didn't see which way he went because Jim Moran--he's the new fellow in the house just down the hill--Jim called to see if the fellow had been here yet and what I thought of him. If he hit Jim's before me, that means he should be getting to you within the next half-hour or so." My front door chimed. "Sorry, Fitz," I said. "This must be Tessie. She was coming home on the surface bus. Miriam's with her, so that's one worry off your mind. Take it easy. I'll call you back." * * * * * But it wasn't Tessie. It was a man, dressed in a dark brown business suit that was tight on his big frame. His face was a disturbing one, eyes set so wide apart you had trouble meeting them up close and felt embarrassed shifting your gaze from one to the other. "Mr. James Rainford?" he asked rhetorically. "Yes?" "I'm from the Bureau of the Census," he said calmly. This couldn't be the same fellow Fitzgerald had encountered. There must be a group of them covering the neighborhood. In any event, this man was cold sober. Further, the fastest Olympic runner couldn't have made the two long blocks from Fitzgerald's house in the time that had elapsed and this fellow wasn't even breathing hard. "Let's see your credentials," I said. I wasn't sure whether he hesitated because he couldn't remember which pocket they were in or for some other reason; anyway, he did produce credentials and they were headed U. S. Department of Commerce, Bureau of the Census, and looked very proper indeed.