Rod stood to his feet. His hands were wet. He touched his face and he realized that he had been weeping with his face cupped in his hands.

Wait.

There was something.

There was one thing he wanted. He wanted Houghton Syme not to hate him. Houghton Syme could hier and spiek, but he was a shortie, living with the sickness of death lying between himself and every girl, every friend, every job he had met. And he, Rod, had mocked that man, calling him Old Hot and Simple. Rod might be worthless but he was not as bad off as Houghton Syme, the Hon. Sec. Houghton Syme was at least trying to be a man, to live his miserable scrap of life, and all Rod had ever done was to flaunt his wealth and near-immortality before the poor cripple who had just one hundred and sixty years to live. Rod wanted only one thing — to get back to North Australia in time to help Houghton Syme, to let Houghton Syme know that the guilt was his, Rod’s, and not Syme’s. The Onseck had a bit of life and he deserved the best of it.

Rod stood there, expecting nothing.

He had forgiven his last enemy.

He had forgiven himself.

The door opened very matter-of-factly and there stood the Catmaster, a quiet wise smile upon his face.

“You can come out now, Mister and Owner McBan; and if there is anything in this outer room which you want, you may certainly have it.”

Rod walked out slowly. He had no idea how long he had been in HATE HALL.

When he emerged, the door closed behind him.

“No, thanks, cobber. It’s mighty friendly of you, but I don’t need anything much, and I’d better be getting back to my own planet”

“Nothing?” said the Catmaster, still smiling very attentively and very quietly.

“I’d like to hier and spiek, but it’s not very important.”

“This is for you,” said the Catmaster. “You put it in your ear and leave it there. If it itches or gets dirty, you take it out, wash it, and put it back in. It’s not a rare device, but apparently you don’t have them on your planet.” He held out an object no larger than the kernel of a groundnut.

Rod took it absently and was ready to put it into his pocket, not into his ear, when he saw that the smiling attentive face was watching, very gently but very alertly. He put the device into his ear. It felt a little cold.

“I will now,” said the Catmaster, “take you to C’mell, who will lead you to your friends in Downdeep-downdeep. You had better take this blue twopenny Cape of Good Hope postage stamp with you. I will report to Jestocost that it was lost while I attempted to copy it. That is slightly true, isn’t it?” Rod started to thank him absent-mindedly and then—

Then, with a thrill which sent gooseflesh all over his neck, back and arms, he realized that the Cat-master had not moved his lips in the slightest, had not pushed air through his throat, had not disturbed the air with the pressure or noise. The Catmaster had spieked to Rod, and Rod had hiered him.

Thinking very carefully and very clearly, but closing his lips and making no sound whatever, Rod thought,

“Worthy and gracious Catmaster, I thank you for the ancient treasure of the old Earth stamp. I thank you even more for the hiering-spieking device which I am now testing. Will you please extend your right hand to shake hands with me, if you can actually hier me now?” The Catmaster stepped forward and extended his hand. Man and underman, they faced each other with a kindness and gratitude which was so poignant as to be very close to grief.

Neither of them wept. Neither.

They shook hands without speaking or spieking.

While Rod McBan was going through his private ordeal at the Department Store of Hearts’ Desires, other people continued to be concerned with him and his fate.

A middle-aged woman, with a dress which did not suit her, sat uninvited at the table of Paul, a real man once acquainted with C’mell.

Paul paid no attention to her. Eccentricities were multiplying among people these days. Being middle-aged was a matter of taste, and many human beings, after the Rediscovery of Man, found that if they let themselves become imperfect, it was a more comfortable way to live than the old way — the old way consisting of aging minds swelling in bodies condemned to the perpetual perfection of youth.

“I had flu,” said the woman. “Have you ever had flu?”

“No,” said Paul, not very much, interested.

“Are you reading a newspaper?” She looked at his newspaper, which had everything except news in it.

Paul, with the paper in front of him, admitted that he was reading it.

“Do you like coffee?” said the woman, looking at Paul’s cup of fresh coffee in front of him.

“Why would I order it if I didn’t?” said Paul brusquely, wondering how the woman had ever managed to find so unattractive a material for her dress. It was yellow sunflowers on an off-red background.

The woman was baffled, but only for a moment.

“I’m wearing a girdle,” she said. “They just came on sale last week. They’re very, very ancient, and very authentic. Now that people can be fat if they want to, girdles are the rage. They have spats for men, too. Have you bought your spats yet?”

“No,” said Paul, flatly wondering if he should leave his coffee and newspaper.

“What are you going to do about that man?”

“What man?” said Paul, politely and wearily.

“The man who’s bought the Earth.”

“Did he?” said Paul.

“Of course,” said the woman. “Now he has more power than the Instrumentality. He could do anything he wants. He can give us anything we want. If he wanted to, he could give me a thousand-year trip around the universe.”

“Are you an official?” said Paul sharply.

“No,” said the woman, taken a little aback.

“Then how do you know these things?”

“Everybody knows them. Everybody.” She spoke firmly and pursed her mouth at the end of the sentence.

“What are you going to do about this man? Rob him? Seduce him?” Paul was sardonic. He had had an unhappy love affair which he still remembered, a climb to the Abbadingo over Alpha Ralpha Boulevard which he would never repeat, and very little patience with fools who had never dared and never suffered anything.

The woman flushed with anger. “We’re all going to his hostel at twelve today. We’re going to shout and shout until he comes out. Then we’re going to form a line and make him listen to what each one of us wants.”

Paul spoke sharply: “Who organized this?”

“I don’t know. Somebody.”

Paul spoke solemnly. “You’re a human being. You have been trained. What is the Twelfth Rule?”

The woman turned a little pale but she chanted, as if by rote: “ ‘Any man or woman who finds that he or she forms and shares an unauthorized opinion with a large number of other people shall report immediately for therapy to the nearest subchief.’ But that doesn’t mean me… ?”

“You’ll be dead or scrubbed by tonight, madam. Now go away and let me read my paper.”

The woman glared at him, between anger and tears. Gradually fear came over her features. “Do you really think what I was saying is unlawful?”

“Completely,” said Paul.

She put her pudgy hands over her face and sobbed. “Sir, sir, can you — can you please help me find a sub-chief? I’m afraid I do need help. But I’ve dreamed so much, I’ve hoped so much. A man from the stars. But you’re right, sir. I don’t want to die or get blanked out. Sir, please help me!”

Moved by both impatience and compassion, Paul left his paper and his coffee. The robot waiter hurried up to remind him that he had not paid. Paul walked over to the sidewalk where there were two barrels full of money for people who wished to play the games of ancient civilization. He selected the biggest bill he could see, gave it to the waiter, waited for his change, gave the waiter a tip, received thanks, and threw the change, which was all coins into the barrel full of metal money. The woman had waited for him patiently, her blotched face sad.