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details. His responses are more weighted toward the emotional rather than the intellectual side of his nature—an artistic rather than scientific response. Barring difficulties of adjustment, he is overqualified as a zoologist, although he would probably be more happy and stable in that branch of the plant sciences. In line with his present studies, I have recommended that he apply for a degree in cystology preparatory to a further degree in cell biology. His greatest handicap in this schedule would be his weakness in methodology. He is impatient with a step-by-step analysis of phenomena and reluctant to maintain precise records, but if his training could be extended to eliminate these tendencies, his potential contribution to the plant sciences is immeasurable.’ ”
    “I’m somewhat confused,” Freda admitted. “Is Paul damning him with faint praise, or praising him with faint damns.”
    “Basically, Paul’s saying he’s a brilliant student, if his nose can be kept to the grindstone. That he bears watching.”
    Gaynor turned and strummed his fingers across the polished top of his desk, lost for a moment in speculation. “Keeping his nose to the grindstone, I suspect, would anchor his flights of fancy… Since I’ve taken you this far into my confidence, Doctor Caron, permit me to take you a little farther. You have met with favorable response in many circles because of your precise methodology. Your record-keeping is both precise and comprehensive.”
    Suddenly Freda Caron felt herself beneath an alpine overhang with a thaw setting in. Ominously, Doctor Gaynor continued. “You are concerned about the student, and your concern augments the official record. I commend your perspicacity… Now, I see by your work projection for February that you intend to hand-pollinate the Caron tulips. This is a happy juxtaposition of events. I’m not infringing on your prerogatives as department head, but I couldn’t think of a more painstaking and detailed task than the hand-pollinating of… er… sixty-three tulips, twice to the thirty-second power. Your student-rotation memorandum has been approved by the Suggestion Box Committee, and I’m going to assign Hal Polino to you, not only to maintain a covert psychiatric watch but also to apply the therapy of painstaking work to a student who needs training in methodology.”
    She was crushed by the avalanche triggered by her own memorandum: to save Paul, she had sacrificed herself. Polino was hers. One never objected to assignments given personally by Doctor Gaynor. On the contrary, one was supposed to show restrained enthusiasm.
    “Why, Doctor, I hadn’t thought of that,” she said truthfully. “Hand-pollination will keep him so busy he won’t have time to brood.”
    That, too, was a true statement. Hal Polino would not have time to focus his antagonisms on the planet Flora. They would all be focused on his taskmistress. The prophecy in graffiti had been prematurely fulfilled: they hadn’t started for Washington, and Charlie had already “done it” to Freda.
    Polino’s reaction was precisely as she assumed it would be—chagrin and disappointment; but she had prepared a face to meet the glower that confronted her. “This was an administrative decision, Mr. Polino, and you have no choice but to follow through. I grant you it’s tedious work, but it’s necessary, and you’ll be working alone for the next two weeks. All thirty seeds you picked from the floor, plus the thirty-two which Paul sent, are flourishing. The tulip I removed from the pot seems to accept outside conditions, so I’m confident you can transplant the seedlings outside within the next day or two. If they can adapt to earth conditions and temperature changes, your work within the next two weeks will be vastly increased but likewise more meaningful.”
    “Increased is absolutely correct, Doctor. I’ll be overwhelmed.”
    “Your attitude is wrong!” she snapped. “You will be adding to the