flying fingers continued to whip out the bits of shaped clay as the
patient ignored the question. He hunched closer to his table as if to
draw away from the woman.

"We mustn't be antisocial, Mr. Funston," Miss Abercrombie said lightly,
but firmly. "You've been coming along famously and you must remember to
answer when someone talks to you. Now what are you making? It looks very
complicated." She stared professionally at the maze of clay parts.

Thaddeus Funston continued to mold the clay bits and put them in place.

Without looking up from his bench he muttered a reply.

"Atom bomb."

A puzzled look crossed the therapist's face. "Pardon me, Mr. Funston. I
thought you said an 'atom bomb.'"

"Did," Funston murmured.

Safely behind the patient's back, Miss Abercrombie smiled ever so
slightly. "Why that's very good, Mr. Funston. That shows real creative
thought. I'm very pleased."

She patted him on the shoulder and moved down the line of patients.

A few minutes later, one of the attendants glanced at his watch, stood
up and stretched.

"All right, fellows," he called out, "time to go back. Put up your
things."

There was a rustle of paint boxes and papers being shuffled and chairs
being moved back. A tall, blond patient with a flowing mustache, put one
more dab of paint on his canvas and stood back to survey the meaningless
smears. He sighed happily and laid down his palette.

At the clay table, Funston feverishly fabricated the last odd-shaped bit
of clay and slapped it into place. With a furtive glance around him, he
clapped the other half of the clay sphere over the filled hemisphere and
then stood up. The patients lined up at the door, waiting for the walk
back across the green hills to the main hospital. The attendants made a
quick count and then unlocked the door. The group shuffled out into the
warm, afternoon sunlight and the door closed behind them.

Miss Abercrombie gazed around the cluttered room and picked up her chart
book of patient progress. Moving slowly down the line of benches, she
made short, precise notes on the day's work accomplished by each
patient.

At the clay table, she carefully lifted the top half of the clay ball
and stared thoughtfully at the jumbled maze of clay strips laced through
the lower hemisphere. She placed the lid back in place and jotted
lengthily in her chart book.

When she had completed her rounds, she slipped out of the smock, tucked
the chart book under her