s money on it.
And, in that case, you're actually trying to beat the guy who's betting
against you. 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. It had taken
him a little while to get the knack of it, but as soon as he got control
of his club and knew the reactions of the ball, his score started
plummeting. Now it was so low as to be almost ridiculous. One long drive
to the green and one putt to the cup. An easy thirty-six strokes for
eighteen holes! An occasional hole-in-one sometimes brought his score
down below that; an occasional wormcast or stray wind sometimes brought
it up.

"Sure," said Stanton. "A handicap. What kind of a handicap do you want
me to give you to induce you to make a fifty-dollar bet on a handball
game with me?"

The physical therapist 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 accidentally to catch one made him wince.

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

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

"Sure I'm bitter," Stanton said. "All I ever get is just exercise. All
the fun has gone out of it." He sighed and grinned. There was no point
in upsetting the P.T. man. "I guess 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 foggy air of the room. "You are broiling a
lobster?" he asked the P.T. man blandly.

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

"Excellent. I came for a clambake."

"You're early, then, George," Stanton said. He didn't feel much in the
mood for lightness, and the appearance of Dr. Yoritomo did nothing to
improve his humor.

George Yoritomo beamed broadly, crinkling up his narrow, heavy-lidded
eyes. "Ah! A talking clam! Excellent! How much longer does this fine
specimen of clamhood have to cook?" he asked the P.T. man.

"About twenty-three more minutes."

"Excellent!" said Dr. Yoritomo. "Would you be so good as to return at
the end of that time?"

The the