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“ ’Sall right—I managed a trance. Took me a while though—Not very good at these things. Couldn’t die fast enough.” He whispered a chuckle. “Thought they’d kill me before I could die.”

The doctor’s fingertips listened to the thin steady pulse. “You’re all right.”

Dunner made an effort to get up and mumbled apologetically, “Let’s get back to the picnic grounds and tie me up to be dead. My arms, strained hanging from those ropes.”

The doctor rose and gave him a hand up. “Make it to the ’copter?”

“Well enough.” He made an obvious effort and the doctor helped him. Once in, the doctor started the blades with a quick jerky motion.

“You aren’t in fit shape to be dead and have a lot of boobs pawing you over and taking your fingerprints for six hours,” he said irritably. “We’ll chance substituting another corpse and dub it up to look like you. I knew you’d be in trouble. Cox at State University has had one your size and shape in a spare morgue drawer for four months now. He set it aside for me from dissection class.” The ground dropped away. The doctor talked with spasmodic nervous cheerfulness. “Had any fillings lately?”

“No.”

“I have your fingerprint caps. We’ll duplicate the bruises and give it a face make-up, and they won’t know the difference. There’s not much time to get there and get it back before morning.” He talked rapidly. “I’ll have to photograph your damage. I’m going to drop you with Brown.”

Working with nervous speed, he switched on the automatic controls and took out a camera from the glove compartment. “Let’s see what they’ve done to you. Watch that altimeter. The robot’s not working well.”



The ’copter droned on through the sky and Dunner watched the dials while Dr. Rawling opened the slit jacket and shirt and slid them off.

He stopped short and did not move for a moment: “What’s that, burns?”

“Yes.”

The doctor did not speak again until he had finished snapping pictures, slipped the tattered clothing back over Dunner’s shoulders, turned off the light and returned to the controls. “Dig around in my bag and find the morphia ampoules. Give yourself a shot.”

“Thanks.” A tiny automatic light went on in the bag as it was opened and illuminated the neat array of instruments and drugs.

The doctor’s voice was angry. “You know I’d treat you, Bill, if I had time.”

“Sure.” The light went out as the bag was closed.

“I’ve got to get that corpse back to the picnic grounds.” The doctor handled the controls roughly. “People stink! Why bother trying to tell them anything?”

“It’s not them.”

“I know, it’s the conformity circle! But it’s their own circle, not yours. Let them stew in it.” He pounded the wheel. “Forty years trading in my good ’copter every year for the same condemned ’copter with different trimmings. Every year trade in my comfortable suit for some crazy fashion and my good shoes for something that doesn’t fit my feet, so I can look like everyone else.” He pounded on the wheel. “And they don’t even like it. People repeating each other like parrots, like parrots. They can’t keep it up. It’s got to crack. It’s bound to stop.” He turned plaintively. “But you can’t stop a merry-go-round by getting ground up in the gears, Bill. Why not just ride it out?”

“It will end when enough people stand up in the open and try to end it.” Dunner smiled. The ’copter landed with a slight jolt that made him suck in his breath suddenly.

“Don’t preach at me,” the doctor snarled, helping him out with gentle hands. “I’m just saying, quit it, Bill, quit it. Stifle their kids’ minds, if that’s what they want.”

They stood out on the soft grass under the stars. Through the beginning pleasant distortion of the morphine, Dunner saw that the doctor was shouting and waving his arms. “If they want to go back to the middle ages, let ’em go! Let ’em go back to the Amoeba if that’s what they want! You don’t have to help them.”

Dunner smiled.

“Go on, laugh,” the doctor muttered. He climbed back into the ’copter abruptly. “If anyone wants to contact me, my copter phone is ML 5346. Can you make it to the house?”