"Grounded, I'll grant," I said, my voice wheezing from the speaker on the chest of my suit; "but I can't take off the fishbowl, officer."
"Then maybe you'd better climb out of your flying saucer," the policeman suggested. "And if you're toting pearl-handled ray-guns, just leave 'em hang."
I got out of the car, keeping my hands in view, feeling like the fugitive from a space-opera this cop evidently took me for. He examined me the way a zoologist might examine the first live specimen of a new species of carnivore; very interested, very cautious. After observing the cut of my wash-and-wear plastic sterility-suit—known to us who wear them as a chastity-suit—the policeman walked around me to examine my reserve-air tank, which is cunningly curved and cushioned against my spine so that I can lean back without courting lordosis. He inspected the bubble of plastic that fit over my head like the belljar over a museum specimen, and stared at the little valve on the left shoulder of my suit, where used air was wheezing out asthmatically. "I guess fallout has got you bugged," he said.
"Not fallout, bacteria," I explained. "I'm one of the Lapins from Central University."
"That's nice," the policeman said. "And I'm one of the Bjornsons, from Indiana State Police Post 1-A. What were you trying to do just now, break Mach One on wheels? Or do you maybe come from one of these foreign planets that don't know the American rules of the road?"
I breathed deep, trying to find myself some oxygen. "I was born right here in Indiana," I said. "The reason I'm wearing this suit and helmet is that I'm bacteriologically sterile."
"So maybe you could adopt a kid," Officer Bjornson suggested.