It was Tuesday morning. Risa entered Francesco Santoliquido’s office and stood just within the door. He was busy, using a data machine with his left hand while tapping out computer instructions with his right.

At length he looked up and said, “There she is. Our little heroine. Come in, come in, sit down.”

“You got a good tan this weekend,” Risa observed. “There’s nothing like the tropical sun. It was a splendid party, Risa. My congratulations to you and your father. Of course, there were some unusual events—”

“They’ve taken Owens to the therapy satellite. He’ll be there a month, floating in nullgrav until he’s healthy.”

Santoliquido scowled. “Sad, very sad. But nullgrav’s not the therapy for him. He’s a candidate for erasure.”

“I didn’t think you used that word here!”

“I’m not speaking in the political sense,” said Santoliquido. “Strictly the medical. That man’s got more than he can handle under his skull.”

“Much more.” Risa was flattered that busy Santoliquido would take the time to discuss Owens’ problems with her. It was a tacit recognition that she was now an adult. She said, “Is there any provision in the law for mandatory erasure?”

“Well, yes, when the presence of the persona threatens the security and integrity of the host.”

“Certainly that’s true here.” Santoliquido’s eyes twinkled. “But Nat Owens has influence. I’d hesitate to ship him off for erasure against his will. We’ll see how he feels when he gets back from his float. Possibly we can get him to give up two or three of the least compatible personae, the ones at war with one another.”

Solemnly Risa said, “That would be best. It was scary, out on the reef. Big strips of skin hanging loose on him, and he didn’t even seem to know what he was doing, just hurling himself against that sharp coral again and again.”

“It was brave of you to rescue him.” She giggled. “I didn’t stop to think. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t have done anything. But it just seemed like the right thing to do. I mean, I knew I could get out there and pull him away from the reef, and so I went and did it, and then there was time to be nervous afterward. Especially when I came ashore and found the other man having a fit too, Charles Noyes—”

“It was a wild moment,” Santoliquido agreed. “Noyes has been in stasis these last two days, hasn’t he?”

“I think they let him out. He’s calm again.”

“Tell me, Risa. Now that you’ve seen two men run wild at once, because they found their transplants too difficult to control, have you changed your mind at all about your own transplant?”

“Of course not,” she said instantly. “Oh, I admit I’ve been a little uneasy, but I wouldn’t be here unless I meant to go through with it. What happened to them isn’t any concern of mine. Owens was asking for trouble when he took on that mob of personae. And Noyes is an unstable character, they tell me. I’m ready.”

“Good girl.” Santoliquido pressed a buzzer. “We’ll get going, then. You’ve chosen the persona you want?”

“Yes.”

“Tandy Cushing?”

“How did you know that?”

“I knew,” said Santoliquido. “Ask your father. I predicted the choice you’d make.” He opened his desk, came through it, took her by the hand, and lifted her to her feet. “I won’t be seeing you again as you are now, Risa. You’ll leave my office as Risa Kaufmann, but the next time we meet, you’ll be Risa plus Tandy. I hope you find it an enriching experience.”

“I know I will,” she said.

Her lips brushed his. She liked him; he was so much like a jolly uncle to her. Though of course she knew it was a mistake to take a patronizing attitude toward a man as powerful as Francesco Santoliquido. He was so kind to her only because she was Mark Kaufmann’s daughter, and it was rash to forget it.

A black-smocked technician appeared at the office door. “This way, please, Miss Kaufmann.”

She waved goodby to Santoliquido. Here we go, she thought. Hello, Tandy Cushing! She followed the technician toward the transplant room. It was a long trip, spanning many levels of the building, and tension grew within her as the moment drew near. She eased her fears by studying the technician. He was young, hardly any older than her cousin Rod, and he seemed plainly in awe of her. It was his job to deal with the rich and mighty, to pump new personae into their receptive brains, but Risa suspected that he himself left this palace of wonders each night to return to some dismal little hovel, full of cockroaches and squalling babies, where he waited tensely for the next day’s excursion into fantasy. How brutal it must be to live in the real world, she thought, earning perhaps a thousand dollars fissionable a month, never able to afford anything, and faced with the terrible knowledge that after death comes …nothing!

“We go in here,” said the technician. “What’s your name?” Risa asked. “Leonards, Miss Kaufmann.”

“Is that a first name or a last?”

“Last.” Last. No doubt he had a first name too, but wasn’t supposed to give it. He was merely a piece of walking equipment. Leonards. He was good-looking, in his own worried way, too pale, pinch lines already forming between his eyebrows, but tall and sturdily built. Are you married yet, Leonards? Where do you live? What are your dreams and ambitions? Isn’t it frustrating for you to work in the soul bank and never have any hope of receiving a transplant yourself, or of being recorded? Wouldn’t you like enough money so you could put your persona on file, Leonards? Suppose I had your account credited with half a million dollars fissionable. Would that be enough? I’d never miss it. I’d tell Mark I gave it to charity. Your life would be altogether different. Or how would you like to meet me when this is over, Leonards, and go to bed with me? Would that please you, sleeping with a Kaufmann? I’m good, too. Ask Rod Loeb. Ask a lot of people. I’m young, but I learn fast.

Together they entered the booth. She kept her face rigid, masklike, hiding her thoughts from the young man. It would never do for him to know what she had been thinking. He might get upset and bungle the transplant somehow. Let him stay calm and cool at least until the work is done. Afterwards, maybe, I’ll have a little fun with him.

The transplant room was a rectangular cubicle, perhaps nine feet by twelve, warm, well lit. It had windows along two walls, one facing the outer corridor, one looking into an inner access room that was part of the spine of the building. Risa saw a couch, a computer terminal, and a cluster of gleaming equipment.

Opaquing the hall window, Leonards said, “Please lie down. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Shall I remove my clothing?” Risa asked. Her hands went to the discard stud. Leonards’ facial muscles rippled in shock at the mere suggestion that she was willing to disrobe before him, and it was a moment before he recovered his poise and said, “That won’t be necessary. Kick off your shoes, if you like.”

She stretched out, shoeless. Leonards grasped a bronze knob and a mass of equipment swung free of the wall. He drew it toward her. “This is a diagnostat,” he told her. “We simply wish to check your physical condition before we proceed with the transplant. It’s important that your health and body tone be at the top of their cycle. This part just takes a minute — there.” The diagnostat hummed and clicked and was silent. Leonards pressed an eject stud. A copper-colored capsule dropped out, and he flipped it into a transfer hatch that would take it to some scanning instrument within the building’s computer bank. He looked more nervous than she was. After a moment a light went on in the access room, and through a slot in the wall came a yellow slip. Risa craned her neck but could not see what it said.

“You’re in fine shape,” Leonards reported. “Where did you get those skin abrasions, though?”