The woman had a lot of facial hair--an unmistakable mustache, in fact. A curious thing about gas-chamber hostesses was that, no matter how lovely and feminine they were when recruited, they all sprouted mustaches within five years or so. "Is this where I'm supposed to come?" she said to the painter. "A lot would depend on what your business was," he said. "You aren't about to have a baby, are you?" "They told me I was supposed to pose for some picture," she said. "My name's Leora Duncan." She waited. "And you dunk people," he said. "What?" she said. "Skip it," he said. "That sure is a beautiful picture," she said. "Looks just like heaven or something." "Or something," said the painter. He took a list of names from his smock pocket. "Duncan, Duncan, Duncan," he said, scanning the list. "Yes--here you are. You're entitled to be immortalized. See any faceless body here you'd like me to stick your head on? We've got a few choice ones left." She studied the mural bleakly. "Gee," she said, "they're all the same to me. I don't know anything about art." "A body's a body, eh?" he said. "All righty. As a master of fine art, I recommend this body here." He indicated a faceless figure of a woman who was carrying dried stalks to a trash-burner. "Well," said Leora Duncan, "that's more the disposal people, isn't it? I mean, I'm in service. I don't do any disposing." The painter clapped his hands in mock delight. "You say you don't know anything about art, and then you prove in the next breath that you know more about it than I do! Of course the sheave-carrier is wrong for a hostess! A snipper, a pruner--that's more your line." He pointed to a figure in purple who was sawing a dead branch from an apple tree. "How about her?" he said. "You like her at all?" "Gosh--" she said, and she blushed and became humble--"that--that puts me right next to Dr. Hitz." "That upsets you?" he said. "Good gravy, no!" she said. "It's--it's just such an honor." "Ah, You... you admire him, eh?" he said. "Who doesn't admire him?" she said, worshiping the portrait of Hitz. It was the portrait of a tanned, white-haired, omnipotent Zeus, two hundred and forty years old. "Who doesn't admire him?" she said again. "He was responsible for setting up the very first gas chamber in Chicago." "Nothing would please me more," said the painter, "than to put you next to him for all time. Sawing off a limb--that strikes you as appropriate?" "That is kind of like what I do," she said. She was demure about what she did. What she did was make people comfortable while she killed them. * * * * * And, while Leora Duncan was posing for her portrait, into the waitingroom bounded Dr. Hitz himself. He was seven feet tall, and he boomed with importance, accomplishments, and the joy of living. "Well, Miss Duncan! Miss Duncan!" he said, and he made a joke. "What are you doing here?" he said. "This isn't where the people leave. This is where they come in!"