here. I can go until I drop from exhaustion. Then they'll take me back ... ask me if I want therapy.

He would refuse, then try it again later. He would try it day after day, probably, maybe getting a little further each time, and each time the mechanoids would patiently bring him back. On and on ... until he requested therapy....

"You are now one mile from zone," said his clocker. "The time is eleven-twenty-eight p.m."

The lights burned on into the distance. His legs were beginning to ache, but still the urge to cross the city was intense.

Maybe I'll go till I come to the ocean, he thought, sucking his breath. He had seen pictures of the ocean, that featureless blue with its concrete wall stretching away for thousands of miles.

A mechanoid stood on a corner, pointing back. So that was the next trick! Helpful, hinting.... He saw another, showing the way home.

He grew angry. It'll be a battle of nerves. They'll get nicer and nicer to me, until I can't stand it any more.

He concentrated on the lights, watching them pass one by one. That helped.

"Please note your return route."

He wondered if they had missed him at the party.

"There is an autocar at your service."

They would be preparing to eat the midnight meal, now, he remembered. The foodmakers would emerge from the kitchens and steal the show in their performance of taste appeal, warm odors, rare dishes....

"You are heading due west, on Street 751 West, at a speed of three and six tenths miles per hour."

It seemed cold. The mechanoids did not have thermostat stations, for they did not need them. He shivered slightly.

"You are now two miles from zone. The time is eleven-forty-five p.m."

The lights. Watch the lights.

"Please submit any request for information here."

He was panting, and his legs felt weak.

"There is an autocar...."

It was useless. Shutting his eyes tight, he stopped.

"All right. Let's go."

"Good evening," said Mr. Third.

Sethos seated himself in a contour chair in the center of the softly lighted office. From behind a curving desk, the brain of a slender metal cylinder observed the young man before it, checked by radio with five Mr. Tenths in the space of three and one fifth seconds as to the incident's details. Then Mr. Third folded his plastic arms and studied the short brown hair and dark eyes, the lean face and straight nose. Human features always fascinated him.

"I'm the human coordinator, Sethos. You know why you're here, don't you?"

Sethos nodded.

"Everyone learns that sometime," Mr. Third remarked. "In a certain number of births there is a percentage who are of higher intelligence. These are the restless ones whom we cannot discourage developmentally as easily as the others. They usually have to request therapy to adjust. So your case is not new."

Sethos lit a cigarette. He knew the story, but coming from a third level prime mechanoid it was all the more impressive.

"All right, I'm inquisitive. Why must we have therapy? Why do we have to stay in our zone?"

Mr. Third paused. He recognized challenge in the young man before him, and tried to estimate his will power.

"Did you know that there was on the earth, long ago, lower forms of life called animals? And that man once specified these and contained them in cages, from which they were denied exit?"

"I have read of their place in our biological evolution, but of course they are before the time of records."

"Well, we know very little about this practice or its use, but it's similar to what we have here, I believe. We mechanoids are not concerned with history, having only one structural law which was built into us by your ancestors, and it cannot be superseded. We must preserve man in the state he existed when we were created. We cannot impede his activities—unless they peril his stability, which we maintain precisely, as you know. It is