"They were Regulated, Alfreed among them, and all came out sane again."
"And Isral—the Hebers?"
"Doing fine; they're going into arts and crafts, something which the Chief Historian says has been a lost function with us. We needed them badly."
He scratched his head. "Somehow," he said, "I feel different. I'm not the old, frightened Clark Stevens that I once was; and I'm not the man I was when I first ran away with you.
"I want to live here, in the city. Yet I'm still not satisfied with it. It has to be changed."
He broke off as the Neuro-specialist came in. "Hello," he said, "what's up?"
"'Lo, Stevens," replied the man. "Feeling all right?"
"Yes."
"We want you on the council. There was a faction that wanted to regulate you again, but most of us agree that we need men of your kind here, so long as they're not extremists. You seem to have levelled off to just the right point to make you valuable."
He nodded. "Strange, Clement, but I feel the same about you fellows. At one time, I thought you were all fit for scrapping, but now I see that the city needs you as much as it does me. I think that's the answer: we need all kinds of people; no one kind can be permitted to dominate, but no one kind can be suppressed, either."