"Then it cost you damn near as much as a new body is going to. What are you complaining about?" Horner clucked an answer and then was told he could go to the locker room and climb into his clothing. He tipped the usual fifty cents, showered, dressed in his street clothing. He did all this, trying not to think about what he had heard--but the more he tried not to think about it, the more he did think about it. Calling himself a fool, he returned to the massaging rooms. He poked his head inside the room in which the new man had given him a rub-down. An attendant with a stocky build and shell-rimmed glasses stared out at him, squinted myopically, and smiled. "Evening, Mr. Horner," he said. It was George, who had given Horner his weekly massage every week for the past five years--except tonight. "Why, you're here!" blurted Horner. "Sure am, sir. Wondered why you were late. Go ahead and undress, now. I'll reserve your usual table...." "But I just had my massage." "Oh?" said George, trying to make his voice sound indifferent. "Trying one of the other masseurs?" "Not at all," snapped Horner. "You weren't here. Well, were you?" "Never even stepped out. Been here all night," George said. "But the other man, the new man--" "No new man, Mr. Horner, sir. Haven't put on a new man in six-seven months. I'd know, wouldn't I?" "You'd know," said Horner slowly, after a silence. * * * * * "Something the matter, sir?" "It's nothing. Nothing." Horner got out of there very quickly. He took a cab home, which was unusual for him. If George and his nameless friend had been playing an elaborate practical joke, they had also been playing hob with Horner's digestion. For now a hot sensation flooded his middle--his damned ulcer acting up. Ulcers, he thought with a sudden wry smile, ulcers and what else? You're forty-seven, Horner. A mildly successful life, a good marriage, a middling business, no children, no outstanding debts--any regrets? Yes, Horner thought. Regrets. His ulcer was a regret. He had to be careful what he ate, couldn't drink much. His rising blood pressure would one day be a regret, even if it wasn't yet. And generally, vaguely, his insignificance was a regret. He was not a meek man, but he was no Tarzan of the Apes. He was not a small man, but he was no Goliath. He was not a low-brow, but he was no Einstein. He was not without an eye and some appeal for women, but he was no Don Juan. He sighed, knowing you could extend the list indefinitely. Hugh Horner, small businessman. Hugh Horner, small man. "Here's your address, Mac," the cab driver said. Horner got up with a start. He realized he had been sitting there for some time with the cab perfectly still. He somehow sensed that time had passed, more time than the thirty-odd minutes it would take a cab to deliver him to his home on the other side of the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel.