"Sorry, he says! Do you realize that your insane prank has resulted
in the destruction of perhaps a half-billion pieces of first-class
advertising?--in the strangulation of a postal station and the
paralysis of Lower Manhattan?--in the mobilization of SBI reserves, the
de-mothballing of two divisions of G. I. machines and the redeployment
of the Solar Battle Fleet? Good Lord, boy, why did you do it?"
Richard Rowe continued to shrink but he squared his shoulders. "I'm
sorry, sir, but I just had to. I just had to get in touch with Jane
Dough."
"A girl from another hive? A girl you'd merely gazed at because a guide
happened to blow a fuse?" Krumbine stood up, shaking an angry finger.
"Great Scott, boy, where was Your Girl Next Door?"
Richard Rowe stared bravely at the finger, which made him look a trifle
cross-eyed. "She died, sir, both of them."
"But there should be at least six."
"I know, sir, but of the other four, two have been shipped to the
Adirondacks on vacation and two recently got married and haven't been
replaced."
Potshelter, a faraway look in his eyes, said softly, "I think I'm
beginning to understand--"
But Krumbine thundered on at Richard Rowe with, "Good Lord, I can see
you've had your troubles, boy. It isn't often we have these shortages
of Girls Next Door, so that temporarily a boy can't marry the Girl Next
Door, as he always should. But, Judas Priest, why didn't you take your
troubles to your psychiatrist, your groupmaster, your socializer, your
Queen Mother?"
"My psychiatrist is being overhauled, sir, and his replacement
short-circuits every time he hears the word 'trouble.' My groupmaster
and socializer are on vacation duty in the Adirondacks. My Queen Mother
is busy replacing Girls Next Door."
"Yes, it all fits," Potshelter proclaimed excitedly. "Don't you see,
Krumbine? Except for a set of mischances that would only occur once in
a billion billion times, the letter would never have been conceived or
sent."
"You may have something there," Krumbine concurred. "But in any case,
boy, why did you--er--written this letter to this particular girl? What
is there about Jane Dough that made you do it?"
"Well, you see, sir, she's--"
* * * * *
Just then, the door re-dilated and a blue matron machine conducted
a young woman into the office. She was slim and she had a head of
hair that would have graced a museum beauty, while across the back
and--well, "chest" is an inadequate word--of her paper chemise,
"JANE DOUGH" was silk-screened in the palest pink.
Krumbine did not repeat his last question. He had to admit to himself
that it had been answered fully. Potshelter whistled respectfully. The
blue detective engines gave hard-boiled grunts. Even the blue matron
machine seemed awed by the girl's beauty.
But she had eyes only for Richard Rowe. "My Grand Central man," she
breathed in amazement. "The man I've dreamed of ever since. My man
with hair." She noticed the way he was looking at her and she breathed
harder. "Oh, darling, what have you done?"
"I tried to send you a letter."
"A letter? For me? Oh, darling!"
* * * * *
Krumbine cleared his throat. "Potshelter, I'm going to wind this up
fast. Miss Dough, could you transfer to this young man's hive?"
"Oh, yes, sir! Mine has an over-plus of Girls Next Door."
"Good. Mr. Rowe, there's a sky-pilot two levels up--look for the
usual white collar just below the photocells. Marry this girl and
take her home to your hive. If your Queen Mother objects refer her
to--er--Potshelter here."
He cut short the young people's thanks. "Just one thing," he said,
wagging a finger at Rowe. "Don't written any more letters."
"Why ever would I?" Richard answered. "Already my action is beginning
to seem like a mad dream."
"Not to me, dear," Jane corrected him. "Oh, sir, could I have the
letter he sent me? Not to do anything with. Not to show anyone. Just to
keep."
"Well, I don't know--" Krumbine began.
"Oh, _please_, sir!"
"Well, I don't know why not, I was going to say. Here you are, miss.
Just see that this husband of yours never writtens another."
He turned back as the contracting door shut the young couple from view.
"You were right, Potshelter," he said briskly. "It was one of those
combinations of mischances that come up only once in a billion billion
times. But we're going to have to issue recommendations for new
procedures and safeguards that will reduce the possibilities to one
in a trillion trillion. It will undoubtedly up the Terran income tax
a healthy percentage, but we can't have something like this happening
again. Every boy must marry the Girl Next Door! And the first-class
mails must not be interfered with! The advertising must go through!"
"I'd almost like to see it happen again," Potshelter murmured dreamily,
"if there were another Jane Dough in it."
* * * * *
Outside, Richard and Jane had halted to allow a small cortege of
machines to pass. First came a squad of police machines with Black
Sorter in their midst, unmuzzled and docile enough, though still
gnashing his teeth softly. Then--stretched out horizontally and borne
on the shoulders of Gray Psychiatrist, Black Coroner, White Nursemaid
Seven and Greasy Joe--there passed the slim form of Pink Wastebasket,
snow-white in death. The machines were keening softly, mournfully.
Round about the black pillars, little mecho-mops were scurrying like
mice, cleaning up the last of the first-class-mail bits of confetti.
Richard winced at this evidence of his aberration, but Jane squeezed
his hand comfortingly, which produced in him a truly amazing sensation
that changed his whole appearance.
"I know how you feel, darling," she told him. "But don't worry about
it. Just think, dear, I'll always be able to tell your friends' wives
something no other woman in the world can boast of: that my husband
once wrote me a letter!"