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“There’re some things they’ll never be able to do,” she said. Her hazel eyes lingered on Clarey’s. “Aren’t you glad, Archivist?”

“Sub-Archivist,” he corrected her frostily. “And I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“That’s not what the machines say, Sub-Archivist,” she told him, her voice candy-sweet. “They deep-probed your mind. You don’t do anything, but you’ve thought about it a lot, haven’t you?”

Clarey felt the blood surge up. “My thoughts are my own concern. You haven’t the right to use them to taunt me.”

“But I think you’re attractive,” she protested. “Honestly I do. In a different way. Just go to a good tailor, put on a little weight, dye your hair, and—”

“And I wouldn’t be different any more,” Clarey finished. That wasn’t true; he would always be different. Not that he was deformed, just unappealing. He was below average height and his eyes and hair and skin were too light. In the past, he knew, there had been pale races and dark races on Earth. With the discovery of other intelligent life-forms to discriminate against together, the different races had fused into a swarthy unity. Of course he could hide his etiolation with dye and cosmetics, but those of really good quality cost more than he could afford, and cheap maquillage was worse than none. Besides, why should his appearance mean anything to anybody but himself? He’d had enough beating around the bush! “Would you mind telling me exactly what the job is?”