Timmy started towards the exit, when suddenly he heard voices coming from the boys' shower room. "Aw, come on, Janie! What's the harm in having a little peek?" "With your big eyes, Danny Grissome, a lot!" Raucous laughter. "I guess she told you that time, Danny boy." "Yeah? Well, I'm gonna see what I came down here to see, whether you like it or not, Janie. Now come on!" "No! Keep your dirty hands off me, Danny Grissome!" Heart pounding in his breast, Timmy edged towards the door of the shower room. From the voices, he knew there were at least half a dozen boys inside. The door was slightly ajar; the school was supposed to be empty, so the boys had been careless. Placing his eye to the crack, Timmy tried to make out what was going on, but his field of vision was too limited. All he could get were vague impressions of bodies moving back and forth. Frustrated, he leaned his weight against the door. Suddenly it swung in, and he fell after it. "Hey, who's that?" Rough hands pulled him to his feet. "Ahh, it's Teacher's Pet Johnson. What are you doing here, stupid?" Timmy panicked. "I saw what you were doing!" he piped. His voice was shrill with fear. "I'm going to--" Something clicked. "Yeah?" demanded Danny. "What are you going to do shrimp?" "I...." Timmy shook his head; his eyes took on a faraway expression. "Hey, what's the matter with you, shrimp? Wake up." Something clicked again, and the adult Id settled into control of the youthful body. T. Arthur Johnson looked out on the situation confronting Timmy Johnson and came to a decision. It was not the decision the boy had--would--make of his own volition. But, then, the adult Johnson had one important advantage over his juvenile counterpart--he knew the certain and distasteful consequences of the boy's activities. "Well?" demanded Danny. "Get with it, kid. What are you going to do?" "I'm going to tell Mr. Arkins--unless you let me watch too!" * * * * * "How's your hand?" asked Cavendish, as he unsnapped the electrodes. "Hand?" Johnson looked at first one then the other. "What about my hand?" Cavendish looked, then shook his head, puzzled. "That's funny. Now where did I get the idea that something was wrong with your hand?" "I'm sure I don't know," said Johnson, getting up and stretching. He felt tired, more tired than he could remember having been in a long time. The feeling had become alien to the desk-bound man, but it was simply physical exhaustion. He yawned. "How about a drink?" "Of course." He retreated to the little bar and came back with a generous slug in the usual water tumbler. Johnson tossed it off, sighed, and wiped his mouth. "Well?" demanded Cavendish. "Well, what?" "Don't keep me in suspense!" begged the little man. "What was it like?"