Jadiver looked at him, at his handsome, ruddy, respectable face. "You played football?" Burlingame grinned. "Twenty-five years ago." "It's changed. You wouldn't recognize it now." "Perhaps not. But the principle is still the same, and it's the principle that pays off." Jadiver stood up. "I'd better get started. Where do I work?" "Here," said Burlingame. "We have the tools ready for you." "Mind if I look at the setup?" "Go ahead." The gamin bounced up and took charge of Jadiver, leading him to a small workshop screened off in a corner of one of the larger rooms. The layout was authentic enough to justify the equipment--a few robot forms in the rough state, handbooks on design, several robot heads in various stages of completion, and an assortment of the specialized tools of the trade. It was standard for the tinkerer, for the would-be designer of robot bodies. Burlingame always covered himself in every detail. Jadiver inspected it thoroughly, the gamin standing impatiently at his side. "I'm first when you're ready," she said. He eyed her amusedly. "What's the hurry?" "There's more to do on me and you'll do your best work when you're not tired." "I'll start soon. Let me see the plastic." She opened a cabinet and there it was. Jadiver squatted and read the instructions on the containers. He shook his head in despair. Every amateur always did this. He stood up. "You've got the worst kind," he said. She shrugged. "They told me it was the best." "That depends. There are two kinds, and this one does look more real than the other. In fact, for a time this actually becomes a part of your body, a pseudo-flesh. But it's quite dangerous." "The other kind is just a cosmetic, isn't it?" "That's right, but--" "Then I'm not worried," she said, tossing her head. "The way I see it, it's dangerous not to use the best disguise we can get." She might be right. At least he'd warned her, and as long as she had the facts straight, the decision was hers to make. Jadiver peeled off his jacket and slid into a protective smock. "Ask Burlingame to come in. This is going to be delicate, you know." The gamin grinned. "I've never been overly concerned about Vicon, and he knows I can take care of myself." She stepped behind a screen and presently came out again, nude. "Where do you want me to stand?" "On the pedestal, under the light." He looked at her closely. He had thought she was a little girl, a tired little girl who hadn't slept much recently. It was the pert face that had fooled him, with the upturned nose, because she wasn't young. Forty he would say, maybe more, nearly as old as Burlingame.