I knew the trip to Rochester would be no pleasure excursion, but I maintained high spirits despite the purpose behind the journey. It was a beautiful drive, and I dearly loved to travel; besides, what better reason could one have for dining in restaurants? Because of our late evening arrival into the city and the fact that my appointments were scheduled for the latter portion of the week, nearly all of the motels posted "no vacancy" signs, and we found ourselves humbly situated in one of the older, run-down hotels in which the bathroom was located "down the hall." I was not overjoyed at the prospect of week-ending in the hotel, but I had little choice in the matter. The depressing mood of the place was over-shadowed in part, however, by the many attractions of the surrounding area; we learned of parks, shopping malls, movie houses, etc. from the local residents, and planned to do as much as I wished after and between my various tests. Rochester was a quiet city; it was geared for the convenience of its many guests, of which the majority were patients or the family members of the former. There was an entire network of underground corridors which connected several primary clinical buildings, hotels, hospitals and various businesses. With cleanliness an obvious objective, the maintenance crews made perpetual rounds through the marble columns and artistically tiled floors. Excepting few, the employees and staff were friendly and approachable; even the doctors radiated character rather than the cold indifference sometimes prevalent in large or impersonal institutions. My first appointments were to report to "desk C," which was located underground. The entire lobby was decorated with colorful seats and healthy plants, as well as people whose faces revealed moods of many different hues. At varying intervals, a nurse would step in front of a brightly painted door, grasp a microphone and bid those persons whose names she announced to come to the "blue section" or the "red" or "orange," as the color near which she stood indicated. When my name was called I heaved a nervous sigh, walked to the appropriate door, and was dispatched to a smaller waiting room in which those already seated appeared glum and apprehensive. The place reeked of alcohol. Again I waited until my name was called, watching as each "victim" reappeared from behind the curtain which housed the inevitable needles and syringes, sporting a bandage in the crick of his arm.