[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Being two men rolled out of one would solve
my problems--but which one would I be?
I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when he
gets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife.
Understand now--I've got nothing against marriage or any thing
like that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded American
Institution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throw
a cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a woman
like Marge--
It's so _permanent_.
Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in the
Blissful 'Fifties--but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,
and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women got
their teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved Spouse
Compensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life if
I'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved.
You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a man
has to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime.
So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keep
Marge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long.
Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyes
and a shape that could set your teeth chattering--but that was where
the dream stopped.
She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances long
enough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she was
crying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chilling
detail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,
which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a "beastly
headache" (for which I was personally responsible) and the other half
she was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time we
got along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case.
* * * * *
Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used to
envy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to live
with either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in a
while with one of the stenographers and get away with it.
I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn't
even smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. Give
Marge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the Rehab
Center in a week.
But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I found
out when Jeree came along.
Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffled
around from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got an
executive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. As
a matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort of
secretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do any
work--just to sit there.
Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without saying
anything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she was
there, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply the
opportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive.
That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something over
during the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to my
mouth, and then she said, "I hear you got a new secretary today."