"What kind of treatment? And what does this have to do with me? Are you saying that my genes are mixed up?" "In a way. But not exactly." "You're not making sense!" "Be patient." The doctor began to pace the room. His habitual good humor had given way to an absorbed frown. He stopped suddenly before Hendley. "Why do you suppose that Organization society has remained so stable for so many years? Because the system works best for the most people? That doesn't explain it. Human hereditary factors, left to themselves, are too complex. But once it was proved that the basic molecular pattern which determines the direction life will take--determines form, shape, inherited characteristics, temperament, in short makes _you_ what you are--could be altered, the way was clear. Through early treatment unwanted characteristics, psychological as well as physical, could be eliminated. That's why there is virtually no physical deformity or mental illness within the Organization. A tremendous achievement, my friend, but the treatment goes beyond such genetic errors. It is also designed to eliminate unstable personality traits. That's why the Organization has so few anarchists, so few rebels, so few questioning enough to perceive that they might be unhappy or their lives useless." The doctor paused, then added, "The treatment is not infallible, of course." Hendley stared at him. "It failed with me? I'm one of the--the imperfect ones?" "I wouldn't use that word. I'd use the term--normal. For some reason or other your genetic material remained unaffected by the treatment. You're a natural man." For several minutes there was silence in the room while Hendley pondered the doctor's words. At last he said, "It's too late now, isn't it?" "Yes. I understand late treatment has been tried--even experiments with adults--but without success." Hendley rose and went to the window. It was late afternoon and the sun was low above the horizon. He regarded its fiery beauty with bitterness. "What about you?" he asked the doctor. "You know all this, but you're happy." The doctor smiled. "I couldn't be anything else. I'm ... made that way." "And I'm a misfit!" "There are different ways of looking at that." The doctor crossed the room to stand beside Hendley at the window. The smile was back on his lips, but it remained pensive. "Do you want to know what I think?" "What?" "I envy you." The phrase seemed disturbingly familiar. Hendley tried to remember who else had spoken it to him. The answer popped unexpectedly into his mind. The Morale Investigator had voiced a similar envy on the morning Hendley departed for the Freeman Camp. He did not smile at the irony. * * * * *