as only a partial reason for his reluctance to change.
The worst thing, for Harry, was the thought of all those people; the
forced bodily contact, the awareness of smothered breathing, odors,
and the crushing confinement of flesh against flesh. It was bad enough
in the lines, or on the streets. The commutrain was just too much.

Yet, as a small boy, Harry could remember the day when he'd loved such
trips. Sitting there looking out of the window as the scenery whirled
past--that was always a thrill when you were a little kid. How long
ago had that been? More than twenty years, wasn't it?

Now there weren't any seats, and no windows. Which was just as well,
probably, because the scenery didn't whirl past any more, either.
Instead, there was a stop at every station on the line, and a constant
battle as people jockeyed for position to reach the exit-doors in
time.

No, the car was better.

Harry reached for a container in the cabinet and poured out a couple
of aspirystamines. That ought to help the headache. At least until he
got to the office. Then he could start with the daily quota of
yellowjackets. Meanwhile, getting out on the street might help him,
too. A shame there wasn't a window in this apartment, but then, what
good would it do, really? All he could see through it would be the
next apartment.

He shrugged and picked up his coat. Nine-thirty, time to go
downstairs. Maybe the car would be located sooner than Bill had
promised; after all, he had nine assistants, and not everybody went to
work on this first daylight shift.

Harry walked down the hall and punched the elevator button. He looked
at the indicator, watched the red band move towards the numeral of
this floor, then sweep past it.

"Full up!" he muttered. "Oh, well."

He reached out and touched both sides of the corridor. That was
another thing he disliked; these narrow corridors. Two people could
scarcely squeeze past one another without touching. Of course, it did
save space to build apartments this way, and space was at a premium.
But Harry couldn't get used to it. Now he remembered some of the old
buildings that were still around when he was a little boy--

The headache seemed to be getting worse instead of better. Harry
looked at the indicator above the other elevator entrance. The red
band was crawling upward, passing him to stop on 48. That was the top
floor. Now it was moving down, down; stopping on 47, 46, 45, 44, 43,
and--here it was!