Krumbine winced. "I keep trying to forget that aspect of the case." He
dug out the message with shaking fingers, fumbled it open and read:
_Dear Jane_,
_It must surprise you that I know your name, for our hives are
widely separated. Do you recall day before yesterday when your
guided tour of Grand Central Spaceport got stalled because the
aide blew a fuse? I was the young man with hair in the tour behind
yours. You were a little frightened and a groupmistress was
reassuring you. The machine spoke your name._
_Since then I have been unable to forget you. When I go to sleep,
I dream of your face looking up sadly at the mistress's kindly
photocells. I don't know how to get in touch with you, but my
grandfather has told me stories his grandfather told him that
his grandfather told him about young men writing what he calls
love-letters to young ladies. So I am writing you a love-letter._
_I work in a first-class advertising house and I will slip this
love-letter into an outgoing ten-thousand-pack and hope._
_Do not be frightened of me, Jane. I am no caveman except for my
hair. I am not insane. I am emotionally disturbed, but in a way
that no machine has ever described to me. I want only your
happiness._
_Sincerely_,
_Richard Rowe_
Krumbine slumped back in his chair, which braced itself manfully
against him, and looked long and thoughtfully at Potshelter. "Well, if
that's a code, it's certainly a fiendishly subtle one. You'd think he
was talking to his Girl Next Door."
Potshelter nodded wonderingly. "I only read as far as where they were
planning to blow up Grand Central Spaceport and all the guides in it."
"Judas Priest, I think I have it!" Krumbine shot up. "It's a pilot
advertisement--Boy Next Door or--that kind of thing--printed to look
like hand-writtening, which would make all the difference. And the
pilot copy got mailed by accident--which would mean there is no real
Richard Rowe."
At that instant, the door dilated and two blue detective engines
hustled a struggling young man into the office. He was slim, rather
handsome, had a bushy head of hair that had somehow survived evolution
and radioactive fallout, and across the chest and back of his paper
singlet was neatly stamped: "RICHARD ROWE."
When he saw the two men, he stopped struggling and straightened up.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, "but these police machines must have
made a mistake. I've committed no crime."
Then his gaze fell on the hand-addressed envelope on Krumbine's desk
and he turned pale.
* * * * *
Krumbine laughed harshly. "No crime! No, not at all. Merely using the
mails to communicate. Ha!"