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an automobile with her folks. John could tell at a glance that she was real, whereas her parents were painted Standards like his own. There were many telltale traces apart from the skin, once he knew what to look for. The contour of the head was subtly different, the spacing of the features, the shape of the nose, the thickness of lips and brows—the Standards were certainly of a distinct race, regardless of their color.
    "Come, John; mustn't be bashful," Dad said with forced heartiness.
    "I'm not," John said, doing his best to look bashful. Who was fooling whom, after yesterday's episode?
    The older folks got out on either side of the car and came forward to shake hands with Mom and Dad. John hardly looked at them; his attention was on Betsy—as it was supposed to be, but not for the reason the elders thought.
    Betsy bore a certain resemblance to her picture, but the portrait had obviously been retouched, and she was older now, seventeen. He was sure she saw him the same way. For a moment he had a really uncomfortable doubt: Would this carefully nurtured girl actually risk a safe, easy life to become a fugitive with him? Could he trust her?
    "How do you do?" Betsy said, startling him into a foolish smile.
    John held out his hand, changed his mind, then reversed again and shook hands clumsily. "Uh, fine, how are you?" This was unexpectedly awkward, and he was, after all, bashful. He had made plans— they had made plans—with cool assurance. Now it all seemed ridiculous.
    The four parents were beaming. Now John felt guilty, too. It was all so realistic, and he was sure these particular Standards meant well, by their own definitions. What he contemplated was a tremendous betrayal to people who had invested at least fifteen years of their lives in this....
    "Why don't you show me around, John?" Betsy hinted softly.
    He nodded dumbly, furious with her for nudging him like that and with himself for losing his grip. Yesterday he had been in command! (Was it a dream, then?) She took his arm, and he realized he should have proffered it. They walked away from the house. He felt those eight parental eyes on his back. What a freeze artist he turned out to be in the crunch! If Betsy hadn't taken over, they'd still be standing beside the car trying to think of something worth saying.
    He and Betsy were together now. They had been building up to this moment for a year, both openly and in code. The program of the Standards had them visiting together for a week, then separating for a month before meeting again in college: to make sure the specimens were compatible, he thought angrily.
    The code plan was for them to take an innocent preliminary walk, evincing proper adolescent shyness, and vault the Newton township fence in a sudden coordinated action. Properly executed, this would catch the secret observers by surprise and make time to set up the second phase.
    "Down there is Newton," he said.
    "The town," she said solemnly. "How nice."
    He felt the heat in his face. Sarcastic minx!
    Canute pushed against the front door and bounded after them, tail wagging. He caught up to them and frisked about, his paws scattering pebbles in his eagerness.
    "Get away!" Betsy exclaimed as the dog nosed her dress. "Get away from me, you dirty animal!"
    "That's Canute," John said, irritated at her attitude. "He always comes along."
    "He always comes along," she mimicked, brushing a smudge of dirt from her shoe.
    Canute, sensing her hostility, became chastened. He dog-trotted on the side away from her, tail near his legs. John was furious.
    They got away from the adults and passed the copse of spruce trees. "You knew about Canute!" he said in a low, terse voice. "I've trained him—"
    "We can't take a dog!" she whispered back. "You never said he'd—come along." She meant along on the escape but of course could not refer to that openly.
    "Well, he's coming," John said with determination.
    "Well, he's coming!" she mimicked again.
    John was so angry he could