Morton Bradwell was just past forty. His hair was faintly streaked with gray strands, but his face and body were as vigorous and unlined as when he was twenty. He was a Genetic Engineer, a Research Professor at the city’s great college. Free had tried to understand what his father did, what his work meant, but he didn’t grasp any more than Morton Bradwell’s simplified explanation: “I just try to make people better and better — children better than their parents, and their children better still.”
theirFree didn’t understand how people could be any better than they were. People who came to the apartment on Friday nights were so beautiful and wonderful — the shining people, Free called them. That’s the way they seemed to him, bright and shining. He supposed that two hundred of them, gathered
