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"Do you realize," Ingram persisted, "that what you are doing now might alter the whole structure of society as we know it. This estro thing you've developed . . ."

"Estrogen derivative."

"That's what I said. Do you realize, Gorste, that . . ."

"I realize it's twenty-five past six," Gorste said shortly, "and that I should have been halfway home by now."

Ingram chuckled synthetically. "Of course. I forgot you were a married man. I'll take it up with you some other time."

Gorste turned to go, but Ingram's voice came provocatively over his shoulder. "Did you hear about the man who liked doing things the hard way? Used to cut the grass with a pair of nail scissors and when he got married insisted on picking up the confetti off the carpet with a pin . . ."

"I'm sorry," said Gorste, glancing at his wrist watch. "I really do have to go."

When Gorste had left, Slade said to Ingram: "You ought to be more careful, Ingram. Never talk about sterility or contraceptives to Gorste."

Ingram's eyes registered genuine surprise. "But that's his job."

"I know, but there's something else that alters the picture. You see, Ingram, Gorste is sterile."

For an instant Ingram's narrow face was solemn and uncomprehending, then abruptly he burst into laughter. He nudged Slade in the ribs. "That's rich! Gosh, I must remember that! The inventor of mass sterility is sterile!"

He kept on laughing in his artificial manner until Slade became embarrassed. He excused himself and left the room.

Home was a house, Gorste was thinking, but not an empty house. There must be furniture and possessions and some of