self,
and just managed to get away without losing his body.

Now the thing was all scarred up and practically useless for anything
except manual labor.

Mark shook his head disgustedly. There was nothing to do but send off
the RT to Jennette.

But this was her birthday--

He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection from his transmitter
housing and automatically straightened his shoulders a little, then
laughed at his image.

Then he stopped and contemplated himself further. There was one thing
he could do. Many years before, he had an exact duplicate of himself
produced, when the vogue for copper colored bodies was at its height.
Since then the fashion had changed back to the pink, but that old job
must still be around somewhere.

He hated to do it, though. He had never liked that body. It had been
just too accurate, and every time he wore it, it embarrassed him. It
had been almost as if he were going outside in his protobody. Which,
of course, nobody did. People used their own bodies hundreds of years
ago, but it was most uncivilized. Besides, it was tiring, and
dangerous, too. Yet--was it more fun? He wondered.

He simply had to make Jennette's party. Otherwise he wouldn't see her
for months at least, and the thought of that made him feel funny in
his stomach.

Mark grinned again, admiring her image in his mind, and set about his
catalogue to find the fundamental frequency of that old copy of
himself. Fuse it, he told himself resolutely. Nobody would know it was
an exact duplicate.

He located the data and set it up in the transmitter. He had no idea
where the body was, but that would take care of itself if it were
still in good shape. Placing the helmet on his head, he punched the
controls and relaxed back on the table.

* * * * *

Two levels below, under a pile of dust-covered trash, the body became
suddenly conscious. Mark opened his eyes and looked around,
recognition slowly returning. He had forgotten all about this old
room, but then--one could hardly remember everything about a full
shelter system, what with the hundreds of compartments, endless
automatic equipment and innumerable connecting passages. Whoever it
was who built this one sure had liked complexity.

He bathed and carefully braided the long, blueblack hair, simulating
somewhat the fashion of the day, and spent some time adjusting a
purple scarf over his left shoulder. The purple scarf was sort of