Murt donned rubber-soled gym shoes and sweat clothes and rode
the elevator back down to the gymnasium. Three times a week, he put his
muscles through the whole routine-work on the bars, rings, the leather
horse, the rope climb and a twenty-lap jog around the balcony racetrack.
Afterward, he showered, took a dip in the swimming pool and retired to
the health service department for a rubdown and some sunlamp.

Throughout the whole routine, he encountered not a single other member.
While Charlie, the husky blond masseur, hammered and kneaded his
muscles, Murt reflected on the abating interest in athletics at the
club.

"Are we losing members, Charlie?" he asked.

"You'd think so from how dead it is up here," Charlie replied. "But
Crumbley says we aren't. The guys just aren't exercising. Can't figure
it, Doc. Even with the usual summer slump, it's never been this slow."

When he had absorbed all the punishment he could stand, Murt rolled off,
went into the ultraviolet room, set an alarm clock and lay down by
himself on one of the paper-covered tables. He adjusted the dark goggles
and reflected thankfully that he didn't have to go to the beach for his
sun and have sand kicked in his face by a procession of predatory
females, ogling his long limbs and trying to attract his attention.

The clean smell of ozone was pleasant, the warmth of the lamps relaxed
him, and he dozed off. He dreamed that he heard someone else come in and
lie down on the next table and, when he raised his head to see who it
was, was amazed to discover his assistant, Dr. Phyllis Sutton, stretched
out like himself, wearing only shower-sandals and goggles.

The alarm clock wakened him from the disturbing dream. He was sweating
profusely and took another shower, using the cold water at full needle
force to dispel his shock at his subconscious.

* * * * *

Wrapping the robe around him, Murt returned to his apartment to dress
for dinner. As he snapped the paper laundry band off a clean shirt, he
caught himself wondering how old Phyllis Sutton was. Twenty-eight?
Thirty? She appeared younger, but she was in her last year of residence
to gain her specialty of pathology. That meant over eleven years of
school and practice. She was a lovely creature, but she was no child.

He had half an impulse to phone her for dinner, then became lost in
studying his own reaction to the thought. Pulse over a hundred,
respiration quickening,