. The damned thing could beat me easily if you just turned that
knob over a little more."

"You're not competing against the machine, anyway," the therapist said.
"You're competing against yourself, trying to beat your own record."

"I know. And what happens when I can't do _that_ any more, either?"
Stanton asked. "I can't just go on getting better and better forever. I've
got limits, you know."

"Sure," said the therapist easily. "So does a golf player. But every
golfer goes out and practices by himself to try to beat his own record."

"Bunk! The real fun in _any_ game is beating someone else! The big kick in
golf is in winning over the other guy in a twosome."

"How about crossword puzzles or solitaire?"

"Solve a crossword puzzle, and you've beaten the guy who made it up. In
solitaire, you're playing against the laws of chance, and even that can
become pretty boring. What I'd like to do is get out on the golf course
with someone else and do my best and then lose. Honestly."

"With a handicap...." the therapist began. Then he grinned weakly and
stopped. On the golf course, Stanton was impossibly good. One long drive
to the green, one putt to the cup. An easy thirty-six strokes for eighteen
holes; an occasional hole-in-one sometimes brought him below that, an
occasional worm-cast or stray wind sometimes raised his score.

"Sure," Stanton said. "A handicap. What kind of handicap do you want on a
handball game with me?"

The P.T. man could imagine himself trying to get under one of Stanton's
lightning-like returns. The thought of what would happen to his hand if he
were to accidentally catch one made him wince.

"We wouldn't even be playing the same game," Stanton said.

The therapist stepped back and looked at Stanton. "You know," he said
puzzledly, "you sound bitter."

"Sure I'm bitter," Stanton said. "All I get is exercise. All the fun has
gone out of it." He sighed and grinned. There was no point in worrying the
P.T. man. "I'll just have to stick to cards and chess if I want
competition. Speed and strength don't help anything if I'm holding two
pair against three of a kind."

Before the therapist could say anything, the door opened and a tall, lean
man stepped into the fog-filled room. "You are broiling a lobster?" he
asked the P.T. blandly.

"Steaming a clam," came the correction. "When he's done, I'll pound him to
chowder."

"Excellent. I came for a clam-bake," the tall man said.

"You're early t