Raych came in, blowing on his hands. "I'm all for deliberate variety in the weather. You don't want things under a dome to always be the same.  Today though, they made it just a little too cold and worked up a wind, besides. I think it's about time someone complained to weather control."
    揑 don't know that it's weather control's fault," said Seldon. "It's getting harder to control things in general."
    "I know. Deterioration." Raych brushed his thick black mustache with the back of his hand. He did that often, as though he had never quite managed to get over the few months during which he had been mustacheless in Wye. He had also put on a little weight around the middle and, overall, had come to seem very comfortable and middleclass. Even his Dahl accent had faded somewhat.
    He took off his light coverall and said, "And how's the old birthday boy?"
    "Resenting it. Wait, wait, my son. One of these days, you'll be celebrating your fortieth birthday. We'll see how funny you'll think that is."
    "Not as funny as sixty."
    "Stop joking," said Manella, who had been chafing Raych's hands, trying to warm them.

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