"Any color."
"Thanks so much," said Miss Erwin, backing toward the escalator.
Brooks muttered, "The Mushroom doesn't suit her looks."
"She's too young," said Miss Knox. "What's-his-name who designed it—you know, the one who did the museums—was ninety-four."
"He's still designing," said Brooks.
"Can I do anything for you? Preferably against regulations." She watched him lock the door and close the viewplate, and rummage in the manila folder at the foot of the bed.
"I don't know what's wrong with these people," Dr. Brooks muttered.
"What is it?" she asked over his shoulder.
"They've gotten their tapes crossed! That idiot Feld must have had this in his machine when he came. It's some accident victim's tape—one hundred per cent unverbalized pain, and the victim was wide awake when he made it. It might be Boney's tape. This man here has been in coma since this—since yesterday morning, thank heaven."
"Poor Boney," said Miss Knox, adjusting Mr. Barger's covers and her own loose hair. As though in answer, Mr. Barger stirred feebly, raising his arm.