"Meaning," smiled Doris, "that the old goat listens to you." "Exactly. But I wish you would not call him an old goat. He's younger than I, a shade taller, and almost as handsome." "Gee, we sure hate ourself." Grinning, Justin stepped to the window, his usual method of closing a conversation. Three panes were cracked and he had patched them with tape. Just outside, the once-private terrace had been converted to a fire escape long ago when the apartments were sub-divided. Somebody had told him that Washington Square Village in the old days was a very nice place to live, with elevators even and private bathrooms. It would be pleasant to have your own bath. Still, they were darn lucky to have this single room to themselves, and that only because of his standing with the Government. * * * * * From his high vantage he could see into Washington Square where, under the autumnal nudity of the ancient trees, the students had their digs--old army tents mostly and packing-crate shanties. A snow threat hung in the bleak sky; a light breeze rippled the tent walls and churned the smoke from the community kitchen's licensed fire. Oblivious of the forming weather, a group of ragged students mustered near the ruined Arch. Some carried signs: "Down with Austin! Vote for Wheeler! "Venus or Bust! "Damn the Budget, Try Again!" In loose, unmilitary formation they filed past the Arch, perhaps to picket some visiting delegation; more likely to stage another hot-headed rally of their own Society for the Settlement of Space. Exasperated at their persistence (and the persistence of all human hope) Justin watched as they lost themselves in the wretched pedestrian hordes of Fifth Avenue. A little uneasily, he wondered how they would take the President's announcement. Or, for that matter, his own. "Hon, I'm gasping. Roll me one, huh?" Justin returned to the table and lifted the porcelain top of the room's only antique, a 19th Century apothecary's jar deceptively labeled "Opium." There was but little tobacco left. Careful to spill not a single grain, he rolled a cigarette, inserted it between Doris' lips and held a match. When she'd inhaled, hungrily, she asked: "Aren't you having one?" "Joe's not sure when he can get some more," he said thoughtlessly, and at once regretted subtracting from her pleasure. "I feel like a heel. Have a drag on this." "No. No, thanks, I'm trying to quit," he lied lamely. Crazy, this young girl latching onto the habit forty-odd years after they'd switched the last Burley field to essential food grains. Only dimly could he himself remember when the Tobacco Prohibition Amendment was enacted. Could there be something in Doris' metabolism to demand nicotine? The thought startled him; would it make a difference in his calculations? * * * * *