Isaac Grogan was slouched on a sofa, hands in his pockets, looking at the floor. I stood for a moment, looking at him. He had changed only a little in five years. He was a big man with a broad, pleasant face and thick black hair. A deep dimple divided his chin. The last time I'd seen him, he had been getting a little paunchy, and there had been wrinkles developing in his neck and bags under his eyes. But that had been from strain and worry, and he looked a lot better now. "You're looking well," I told him. "What the hell do you want?" Grogan said quietly. "Why can't you leave me alone? I don't want any trouble." "Neither do I." And suddenly I felt very awkward. What the hell _did_ I want? Just exactly what had I expected to accomplish with this visit? I didn't really know. I cleared my throat. "I've got one question, Grogan. Maybe two. Then I'll leave." He looked at me. "Do you still blame me for what happened in Memphis?" I asked. Grogan shifted his position and gave a sort of half-laugh. "Langston, I've never liked you, and I don't now. But I can't say that I blame you for the Memphis mess--if I ever did. Now, what's your other question?" "Telenosis," I said. He waited, looking straight at me. "Well? What about it?" "According to your C.I. record," I said, "you had three months of intermittent telenosis therapy." He shrugged. "That's right. Lots of people do. You still haven't asked your question." "Yes, I have," I replied. "I'll leave now. Thanks for your time." * * * * * The gorilla-secretary was opening the front door for me, when Grogan spoke again. "Langston." I turned around. Grogan was standing in the door of the library. "Langston," he repeated. "I don't know what your angle is. I don't know why you came here, or whether you got what you wanted. Furthermore, I don't care much. Five years ago is not today, Langston. I've changed. Just the same, I don't believe I want to see you again. I don't like you. Okay?" I said, "Okay," and left. Back in my hotel room, I first turned down the volume of the defense mech, then sat down at the visiphone and put in a call to New York. The pudgy image of Carson Newell appeared. "I'm stumped," I told him. "What's the matter? Did you see Grogan?" "Yeah. Just now." "Well?" "Nothing. I'm stumped. He's completely changed. If there was ever a case of full and complete correction, I'd say Grogan is it." Newell tapped his fingertips together, then shrugged impatiently. "Well, hell, I don't think we're getting anywhere on this. I'll turn it over to the C.I.D. and let them worry about it." "So what happens now?" I asked. "What am I supposed to do?" "Take a vacation. But hang on to that defense mech. Stay in Palm Beach and contact me pronto if anything happens. Buzz me at least once a day, even if anything doesn't happen." He started to put down the mike, then lifted it again. "How's the SRI?"