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especially noticeable when he looked at human and animal subjects, and he came to realize to what extent that which we see is conditioned by what we expect to see—that is, by a habitual scanning pattern, whereas the artificial eye had no scanning pattern. The lens was fixed and Joe had to direct it by movements of his head. On the other hand, the lens could be adjusted to a wide angle, which greatly extended the range of his peripheral vision. He found that he could read motives and expressions with great precision by comparing the data of the good eye, which was picking up what someone wants to project, and the data of the synthetic eye. Sometimes the difference in expression was so grotesque that he was surprised it was not immediately apparent to anyone.
    He knew now that Doctor Whitehorn, who was looking through his references with an amused smile, doubted their authenticity.
    Doctor Whitehorn had come to research via psychiatry. Many doctors are drawn to this profession because they have an innate deficiency of insight into the motives, feelings and thoughts of others, a deficiency they hope to remedy by ingesting masses of data. Doctor Whitehorn was driven to abandon psychiatry because of his insight, which rendered contact with hopelessly damaged creatures extremely painful, and even more painful the brutish and insensitive treatment such patients often receive, because they are "insane" and therefore no one will believe their complaints.
    It was not that Dr. Whitehorn was overly compassionate. He simply could not help feeling someone else's pain. And the man sitting opposite him radiated pain. Of course . . . the physical injuries . . . the prosthetic limb, the artificial eye, phantom limb pain and phantom eye pain. The doctor became aware of a strange odor, not coming from the man, but something he brought in with him. A reek of rotten citrus and burning plastic, like a burning amusement park.
    "Well, Professor Hellbrandt. You have impressive credentials."
    "I know my subject."
    "Quite a few subjects, I'd say."
    "My code name was Big Picture. You can spend your life fitting one piece in."
    "Most people do less than that."
    "Most people do nothing."
    "Certainly there is work here for a man of your . . . uh . . . capabilities and qualifications, though I suspect some of these references to be forgeries."
    Joe shrugged with his right shoulder, the human shoulder, and smiled with the right side of his face. The result was disconcerting.

    Joe had a number of devices that he could fit into a socket just below the elbow of his severed arm. One was a shock unit, with two long, needle-sharp electrodes that could be jabbed into an opponent to deliver the shock inside. He had a cyanide syringe, for instant death, and an air-powered tranquilizer dart gun. He regarded these artifacts as toys, for which he would have less and less use as he pursued his research projects. Joe never allowed the real purpose of a project to be revealed or even suspected until he was in a position to use it. By then it would be too late for his enemies to profit from his work.
    Having discovered the key to the money of others through research grants and scholarships and foundations, Joe was able to juggle a number of projects at once, all contributing to his overall objective of totally subverting the present natural order. He formed an ecological foundation called the Spreaders, ostensibly to study various useful species of plants and animals and introduce them into areas where they are at present unknown, taking into account the appropriate climatic conditions, disturbance of existing ecological systems, and potential usefulness as food source, control of pests, etc.
    Actually he intended to carry out experiments in punctua-tional evolution by transporting small numbers of fish, animals and reptiles to unfamiliar environments and, also, by bringing into contact species that had never been in contact before, to open potentials for hybridization. It