scarcely gotten under way, and there are dozens of people who want to
meet you. And you'll miss the big show if you don't stay."

"I've already seen the big show," Rolf told him. "I want out. Now."

"You can't leave now," Quinton said. Rolf thought he saw tears in the
corners of the little man's eyes. "Please don't leave. I've told
everyone you'd be here--you'll disgrace me."

"What do I care? Let me out of here." Rolf started to move toward the
door. Quinton attempted to push him back.

"Just a minute, Rolf. Please!"

"I have to get out," he said. He knocked Quinton out of his way with a
backhand swipe of his arm and dashed down the hall frantically, looking
for the elevator.

* * * * *

Laney and Kanaday were sitting up waiting for him when he got back,
early in the morning. He slung himself into a pneumochair and unsealed
his boots, releasing his cramped, tired feet.

"Well," Laney asked. "How was the party?"

"You have fun among the Earthers, Rolf?"

He said nothing.

"It couldn't have been that bad," Laney said.

Rolf looked up at her. "I'm leaving space. I'm going to go to a surgeon
and have him turn me into an Earther. I hate this filthy life!"

"He's drunk," Kanaday said.

"No, I'm not drunk," Rolf retorted. "I don't want to be an ape any
more."

"Is that what you are? If you're an ape, what are they to you? Monkeys?"
Kanaday laughed harshly.

"Are they really so wonderful?" Laney asked. "Does the life appeal to
you so much that you'll give up space for it? Do you admire the Earthers
so much?"

* * * * *

_She's got me_, Rolf thought. I hate Spacertown, but will I like Yawk
any better? Do I really want to become one of those little puppets? But
there's nothing left in space for me. At least the Earthers are happy.

_I wish she wouldn't look at me that way._ "Leave me alone," he snarled.
"I'll do whatever I want to do." Laney was staring at him, trying to
poke behind his mask of anger. He looked at her wide shoulders, her
muscular frame, her unbeautiful hair and rugged face, and compared it
with Jonne's clinging grace, her flowing gold hair.

He picked up his boots and stumped up to bed.

* * * * *

The surgeon's name was Goldring, and he was a wiry, intense man who had
prevailed on one of his colleagues to give him a tiny slit of a mouth.
He sat behind a shining plastiline desk, waiting patie