Stepping inside the bathroom, he set the shower control to alternate tepid and very warm. Instead it chose irresponsibly to alternate icy and steaming, so that he leaped out with a yell. But the incident didn't even scratch his mood. As he toweled himself (he didn't like the air drier and toweling robots made him uneasy) he sang: We're out in space, they've cut the jet, There isn't any ceiling, floor, or wall. Let's dance on air, or better yet-- Hug me, love me, darling, in free-fall! He came out of the bathroom feeling like an emperor and fully determined to inspect the world he owned, the world that was any man's for the asking and a little courage. As he slipped on singlet, trousers, sockasins and jacket, he explained his feelings to Lucky, who had cleaned up every bit of his colorful meal. "You see, it's this way, fellow: I've always been three-quarters dead. But not any more. I'm through with being scared and stand-offish and bored. No more filing, dial-watching, and tape-cutting jobs, with some about-to-be-invented robot breathing down my neck. I'm just going out and look things over, talk to people, find out what it's all about. I'm going to have adventures, really live. Some program, eh? And you know who's responsible for it, fellow? You are." Lucky seemed fairly to fluoresce in appreciation. He fluffed his gleaming green fur. Phil wondered what time it was. His wrist-watch had gone dead yesterday, the cranky thing, only five months after having the battery replaced. He stuck his head out the window and looked up the dizzy gray crack to where the portholes were tiny dots and the slit ended in a ribbon of blue sky. Only the top floor to the east was yellow with true sunlight, though the false sunlight from the sodium mirror circling the earth to make evening light for this city was beginning to show about eight stories down. He scooped up Lucky without a thought of leaving him behind or a worry as to the attention he might attract. But the verdant cat sprang from his arms and made for the hall door, looking back as if to say, "I'm right there with you and game for any adventure, too, but I don't need a nurse." Side by side they walked to the stairs and down to twenty-eight--the overworked elevator stopped only at even-numbered floors. And there he ran into Phoebe Filmer, play robe swishing and apparently headed for the snack bar on twenty-eight. "Hello, Miss Filmer," he heard himself say. "I've admired you for a long time." "You have?" she said, glancing at him sideways. "How did you know my name?" "Just asked the desk robot who the beautiful girl was in 28-303a." She tittered with a faintly flirtatious contempt. "You don't talk to the desk robot. You just punch buttons and it won't give out names when you punch room numbers, unless you have a government key." "I have a way with robots," Phil explained. "I win their confidence with small talk."