The telephone rang.

“I can’t answer,” he called to it. The phone’s relay picked up his anguished message and conveyed it to the calling party. Now Munster had become a single transparent gelatinous mass in the middle of the rug; he undulated toward the phone—it was still ringing, despite his statement to it, and he felt furious resentment; didn’t he have enough troubles already, without having to deal with a ringing phone?

Reaching it, he extended a pseudopodium and snatched the receiver from the hook. With great effort he formed his plastic substance into the semblance of a vocal apparatus, resonating dully. “I’m busy,” he resonated in a low booming fashion into the mouthpiece of the phone. “Call later.” Call, he thought as he hung up, tomorrow morning. When I’ve been able to regain my human form.

The apartment was quiet, now.

Sighing, Munster flowed back across the carpet, to the window, where he rose into a high pillar in order to see the view beyond; there was a light-sensitive spot on his outer surface, and although he did not possess a true lens he was able to appreciate—nostalgically—the sight of San Francisco Bay, the Golden Gate Bridge, the playground for small children which was Alcatraz Island.

Dammit, he thought bitterly. I can’t marry; I can’t live a genuine human existence, reverting this way to the form the War Office bigshots forced me into back in the war times…

He had not known then, when he accepted the mission, that it would leave this permanent effect. They had assured him it was “only temporary, for the duration,” or some such glib phrase. Duration my ass, Munster thought with furious, impotent resentment. It’s been eleven years, now.

The psychological problems created for him, the pressure on his psyche, were immense. Hence his visit to Dr. Jones.

Once more the phone rang.

“Okay,” Munster said aloud, and flowed laboriously back across the room to it. “You want to talk to me?” he said as he came closer and closer; the trip, for someone in Blobel form, was a long one. “I’ll talk to you. You can even turn on the vidscreen and look at me.” At the phone he snapped the switch which would permit visual communication as well as auditory. “Have a good look,” he said, and displayed his amorphous form before the scanning tube of the video.

Dr. Jones’ voice came: “I’m sorry to bother you at your home, Mr. Munster, especially when you’re in this, um, awkward condition…” The homeostatic analyst paused. “But I’ve been devoting time to problem-solving vis-a-vis your condition. I may have at least a partial solution.”

“What?” Munster said, taken by surprise. “You mean to imply that medical science can now—”

“No, no,” Dr. Jones said hurriedly. “The physical aspects lie out of my domain; you must keep that in mind, Munster. When you consulted me about your problems it was the psychological adjustment that—”

“I’ll come right down to your office and talk to you,” Munster said. And then he realized that he could not; in his Blobel form it would take him days to undulate all the way across town to Dr. Jones’ office. “Jones,” he said desperately, “you see the problems I face. I’m stuck here in this apartment every night beginning about eight o’clock and lasting through until almost seven in the morning… I can’t even visit you and consult you and get help—”

“Be quiet, Mr. Munster,” Dr. Jones interrupted. “I’m trying to tell you something. You’re not the only one in this condition. Did you know that?”

Heavily, Munster said, “Sure. In all, eighty-three Terrans were made over into Blobels at one time or another during the war. Of the eighty-three—” He knew the facts by heart. “Sixty-one survived and now there’s an organization called Veterans of Unnatural Wars of which fifty are members. I’m a member. We meet twice a month, revert in unison…” He started to hang up the phone. So this was what he had gotten for his money, this stale news. “Goodbye, Doctor,” he murmured.

Dr. Jones whirred in agitation. “Mr. Munster, I don’t mean other Terrans. I’ve researched this in your behalf, and I discover that according to captured records at the Library of Congress fifteen Blobels were formed into pseudo-Terrans to act as spies for their side. Do you understand?”

After a moment Munster said, “Not exactly.”

“You have a mental block against being helped,” Dr. Jones said. “But here’s what I want, Munster; you be at my office at eleven in the morning tomorrow. We’ll take up the solution to your problem then. Goodnight.”

Wearily, Munster said, “When I’m in my Blobel form my wits aren’t too keen, Doctor. You’ll have to forgive me.” He hung up, still puzzled. So there were fifteen Blobels walking around on Titan this moment, doomed to occupy human forms—so what? How did that help him? Maybe he would find out at eleven tomorrow.

When he strode into Dr. Jones’ waiting room he saw, seated in a deep chair in a corner by a lamp, reading a copy of Fortune, an exceedingly attractive young woman.

Automatically, Munster found a place to sit from which he could eye her. Stylish dyed-white hair braided down the back of her neck… he took in the sight of her with delight, pretending to read his own copy of Fortune. Slender legs, small and delicate elbows. And her sharp, clearly-featured face. The intelligent eyes, the thin, tapered nostrils—a truly lovely girl, he thought. He drank in the sight of her… until all at once she raised her head and stared coolly back at him.

“Dull, having to wait,” Munster mumbled.

The girl said, “Do you come to Dr. Jones often?”

“No,” he admitted. “This is just the second time.”

“I’ve never been here before,” the girl said. “I was going to another electronic fully-homeostatic psychoanalyst in Los Angeles and then late yesterday Dr. Bing, my analyst, called me and told me to fly up here and see Dr. Jones this morning. Is this one good?”

“Um,” Munster said. “I guess so.” We’ll see, he thought. That’s precisely what we don’t know, at this point.

The inner office door opened and there stood Dr. Jones. “Miss Arrasmith,” it said, nodding to the girl. “Mr. Munster.” It nodded to George. “Won’t you both come in?”

Rising to her feet, Miss Arrasmith said, “Who pays the twenty dollars then?”

But the analyst had become silent; it had turned off.

“I’ll pay,” Miss Arrasmith said, reaching into her purse.

“No, no,” Munster said. “Let me.” He got out a twenty-dollar piece and dropped it into the analyst’s slot.

At once, Dr. Jones said, “You’re a gentleman, Mr. Munster.” Smiling, it ushered the two of them into its office. “Be seated, please. Miss Arrasmith, without preamble please allow me to explain your—condition to Mr. Munster.” To Munster it said, “Miss Arrasmith is a Blobel.”

Munster could only stare at the girl.

“Obviously,” Dr. Jones continued, “presently in human form. This, for her, is the state of involuntary reversion. During the war she operated behind Terran lines, acting for the Blobel War League. She was captured and held, but then the war ended and she was neither tried nor sentenced.”

“They released me,” Miss Arrasmith said in a low, carefully-controlled voice. “Still in human form. I stayed here out of shame. I just couldn’t go back to Titan and—” Her voice wavered.

“There is great shame attached to this condition,” Dr. Jones said, “for any high-caste Blobel.”

Nodding, Miss Arrasmith sat, clutching a tiny Irish linen handkerchief and trying to look poised. “Correct, Doctor. I did visit Titan to discuss my condition with medical authorities there. After expensive and prolonged therapy with me they were able to induce a return to my natural form for a period of—” She hesitated. “About one-fourth of the time. But the other three-fourths… I am as you perceive me now.” She ducked her head and touched the handkerchief to her right eye.