The three of us had a pizza at the restaurant, and the crust was burned at the edges. The Edwin M. Stanton made a noisy scene, shaking its fist at the proprietor, and then after finally paying our bill, we left.

By now we were an hour behind schedule, and I was beginning to wonder if we were going to get to the Rosen factory after all. So I asked Maury to step on it, as we got back into the Jaguar.

"This car'll crack two hundred," Maury said, starting up, "with that new dry rocket fuel they have out."

"Don't take unnecessary chances," the Edwin M. Stanton told him in a sullen voice as the car roared out onto the road. "Unless the possible gains heavily outweigh the odds."

"Same to you," Maury told it.

The Rosen Spinet Piano & Electronic Organ Factory at Boise, Idaho, doesn't attract much notice, since the structure itself, technically called the plant, is a flat, one-story building that looks like a single-layer cake, with a parking lot behind it, a sign over the office made of letters cut from heavy plastic, very modern, with recessed red lights behind. The only windows are in the office.

At this late hour the factory was dark and shut, with no one there. We drove on up into the residential section, then.

"What do you think of this neighborhood?" Maury asked the Edwin M. Stanton.

Seated upright in the back of the Jaguar the thing grunted, "Rather unsavory and unworthy."

"Lisfen," I said, "my family lives down here near the industrial part of Boise so as to be in easy walking distance from the factory." It made me angry to hear a mere fake criticizing genuine humans, especially a fine person like my dad. And as to my brother--few radiation-mutants ever made the grade in the spinet and electronic organ industry outside of Chester Rosen. _Special birth_ persons, as they are called. There is so much discrimination and prejudice in so many fields... most professions of high social status are closed to them.