the gyri of its brain, the personality of Bill Walden emerged,
replacing the slackly powerful attitude of Conrad by the
slightly prim preciseness of Bill's bearing.
The face, just now relaxed with readiness for action, was
abruptly pulled into an intellectual mask of tension by habit-
ual patterns of conflict in the muscles. There were also acute
momentary signs of clash between the vegetative nervous ac-
tivity characteristic of Bill Walden and the internal homeostas-
is Conrad Manz had left behind him. The face paled as
hypersensitive vascular beds closed under new vegetative
volleys.
Bill Walden grasped sight and sound, and the sharp odour
of make-up solvent stung his nostrils. He was conscious of
only one clamouring, terrifying thought:
So far, at least, there was no medicop. Still feeling un-
real but anxious not to lose precious moments, Bill took an
individualized kit from the wall dispenser and made himself
up. He was sparing and subtle in his use of the make-up, un-
like the horrible make-up jobs Conrad Manz occasionally left
on. Bill rearranged his hair. Conrad always wore it too short
for his taste, but you couldn't complain about everything.
Bill sat in a chair to await some of the slower aspects of the
shift. He knew that an hour after he left the booth, his basal
metabolic rate would be ten points higher. His blood sugar
would go down steadily. In the next five days he would lose
six to eight pounds, which Conrad would promptly regain.
Just as Bill was about to leave the booth, he remembered
to pick up a news summary. He put his wristband to the
switch on the telephoto and a freshly printed summary of the
last five days in the world fell into the rack. His wristband,
of course, called forth one edited for hyperalters on the D-
shift.
