“Look,” Fergesson called as he walked rapidly toward the entrance of his shop. “You cut it out; someday maybe you’ll be sick, and how’ll you like some goof gawking at you when you try to seek medical help?”

“Hey,” Stuart answered, turning his head, “I just saw some important guy go in there but I can’t recall who.”

“Only a neurotic watches other neurotics,” Fergesson said, and passed on into the store, to the register, which he opened and began to fill with change and bills for the day ahead.

Anyhow, Fergesson thought, wait’ll you see what I hired for a TV repairman; you’ll really have something to stare at.

“Listen, McConchie,” Fergessson said. “You know that kid with no arms and legs that comes by on that cart? That phocomelus with just those dinky flippers whose mother took that drug back in the early ‘60s? The one that always hangs around because he wants to be a TV repairman?”

Stuart, standing with his broom, said, “You hired him.”

“Yeah, yesterday while you were out selling.”

Presently McConchie said, “It’s bad for business.”

“Why? Nobody’ll see him; he’ll be downstairs in the repair department. Anyhow you have to give those people jobs; it isn’t their fault they have no arms or legs, it’s those Germans’ fault.”

Ater a pause Stuart McConchie said, “First you hire me, a Negro, and now a phoce. Well, I have to hand it to you, Fergesson; you’re trying to do right.”

Feeling anger, Fergesson said, “I not only try, I do; I’m not just daydreaming, like you. I’m a man who makes up his mind and acts.” He went to open the store safe. “His name is Hoppy. He’ll be in this morning. You ought to see him move stuff with his electronic hands; it’s a marvel of modern science.”

“I’ve seen,” Stuart said.

“And it pains you.”

Gesturing, Stuart said, “It’s—unnatural.”