Another voice from the crowd, "Seems to be a lot of questions unanswered here." And another, "Sign the petition, Senator!" All the voices, "Sign it, sign it!" "But why?" Mary began to cry. The voices stilled for a moment. "Because--Because--" "If you'd only tell me that. Tell me!" "Why, it simply isn't being done, that's all. The greatest gift of all, and what if others should get the same idea? What would happen to us then, little girl? We'd be right back to the ugly, thin, fat, unhealthy-looking race we were ages ago! There can't be any exceptions." "Maybe they didn't consider themselves so ugly." The mumbling began anew. "That isn't the point," cried the man. "You _must_ conform!" And the voices cried "Yes" loudly until the man took up a pen and signed the papers on his desk. Cheers, applause, shouts. Mrs. Cuberle patted Mary on the top of her head. "There, now!" she said, happily, "Everything will be all right now. You'll see, Mary." The Transformation Parlor Covered the entire Level, sprawling with its departments. It was always filled and there was nothing to sign and no money to pay and people were always waiting in line. But today the people stood aside. And there were still more, looking in through doors, TV cameras placed throughout the tape machines in every corner. It was filled, but not bustling as usual. Mary walked past the people, Mother and the men in back of her, following. She looked at the people. The people were beautiful, perfect, without a single flaw. All the beautiful people. All the ugly people, staring out from bodies that were not theirs. Walking on legs that had been made for them, laughing with manufactured voices, gesturing with shaped and fashioned arms. Mary walked slowly, despite the prodding. In her eyes, in _her_ eyes, was a mounting confusion; a wide, wide wonderment. The reason was becoming less vague; the fuzzed edges were falling away now. Through all the horrible months and all the horrible moments, the edges fell away. Now it was almost clear. She looked down at her own body, then at the walls which reflected it. Flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone, all hers, made by no one, built by herself or someone she did not know. Uneven kneecaps, making two grinning cherubs when they bent, and the old familiar rubbing together of fat inner thighs. Fat, unshapely, unsystematic Mary. But _Mary_. Of course. Of course! This _was_ what Daddy meant, what Grandpa and the books meant. What _they_ would know if they would read the books or hear the words, the good, reasonable words, the words that signified more, much more, than any of this. The understanding heaped up with each step. "Where _are_ these people?" Mary asked half to herself. "What has happened to _them_ and don't they miss _themselves_, these manufactured things?" She stopped, suddenly. "Yes! That _is_ the reason. They have all forgotten themselves!"