"Excellent. Rocket ships or force-fields?" Melinda blinked. "Does your husband own one?" Melinda shook her blonde head helplessly. "What are your economic circumstances?" Melinda took a deep rasping breath, said, "Listen, mister, is this a demonstration or a quiz program?" "Oh, my excuse. Demonstration, certainly. You will not mind the questions?" "Questions?" There was an ominous glint in Melinda's blue eyes. "Your delightful primitive customs, art-forms, personal habits--" "Look," Melinda said, crimsoning. "This is a respectable neighborhood, and I'm not answering any Kinsey report, understand?" The little man nodded, scribbling. "Personal habits are tabu? I so regret. The demonstration." He waved grandly at the tray. "Anti-grav sandals? A portable solar converter? Apologizing for this miserable selection, but on Capella they told me--" He followed Melinda's entranced gaze, selected a tiny green vial. "This is merely a regenerative solution. You appear to have no cuts or bruises." "Oh," said Melinda nastily. "Cures warts, cancer, grows hair, I suppose." Porteous brightened. "Of course. I see you can scan. Amazing." He scribbled further with his stylus, glanced up, blinked at the obvious scorn on Melinda's face. "Here. Try it." "You try it." Now watch him squirm! Porteous hesitated. "Would you like me to grow an extra finger, hair--" "Grow some hair." Melinda tried not to smile. The little man unstopped the vial, poured a shimmering green drop on his wrist, frowning. "Must concentrate," he said. "Thorium base, suspended solution. Really jolts the endocrines, complete control ... see?" Melinda's jaw dropped. She stared at the tiny tuft of hair which had sprouted on that bare wrist. She was thinking abruptly, unhappily, about that chignon she had bought yesterday. They had let her buy that for eight dollars when with this stuff she could have a natural one. "How much?" she inquired cautiously. "A half hour of your time only," said Porteous. Melinda grasped the vial firmly, settled down on the sofa with one leg tucked carefully under her. "Okay, shoot. But nothing personal." * * * * * Porteous was delighted. He asked a multitude of questions, most of them pointless, some naive, and Melinda dug into her infinitesimal fund of knowledge and gave. The little man scribbled furiously, clucking like a gravid hen. "You mean," he asked in amazement, "that you live in these primitive huts of your own volition?" "It's a G.I. housing project," Melinda said, ashamed. "Astonishing." He wrote: _Feudal anachronisms and atomic power, side by side. Class Fours periodically "rough it" in back-to-nature movements._ Harry Junior chose that moment to begin screaming for his lunch. Porteous sat, trembling. "Is that a Security Alarm?" "My son," said Melinda despondently, and went into the nursery. Porteous followed, and watched the ululating child with some trepidation. "Newborn?"