From behind her pillow Doris pulled out a fat, once-glossy magazine of a type not published for generations. It was dated January, 1959, and Justin had brought it home from the college library to amuse her. Turning to a splashy, full-page cigarette ad, she asked: "Were they really manufactured a hundred years ago?" "Oh, yes, they called them tailor-mades." He closed an eye to recall a specific fact. "Americans smoked nearly half a trillion a year. It was a tremendous industry." Doris said slowly: "You ought to have something relaxing to do." "I could get drunk on lab alcohol, but that's illegal, too." He sat down beside her and stroked her neck. "Besides, I have you." "You're leering! I'll see you after the baby is born." She turned a page. It was hard to tell whether the slim girl stepping from the orchid-colored Cadillac in front of the theatre marquee was advertising the Cartier emerald necklace or the sable coat. "You never see anything like this," Doris said. "They're still around. In hiding, mostly. Once in a while, after a riot, and if you want to pay an outrageous price, you can get something like it under the counter." "But you couldn't wear it!" "Of course not. You'd be torn to pieces." "And just anybody could fly to Europe or take cruises? And everyone had cars like this? Not just the Government?" "Nearly," said Justin. "You could put all the people in all the autos and all the back seats would still be empty." Doris sighed. "It must have been a fabulous time to live." Perhaps it was. Even history-minded Justin found it hard to believe the cold statistics of that storied era: a life expectancy at birth of sixty-eight years; a daily diet of three thousand calories; meat, eggs, milk whenever you wished (why, he himself could scarcely remember the taste of beef!); bountiful super-markets groaning with viands; choice liqueurs and wines; fresh fruit in winter; mountainous surpluses of wheat and corn; candy shops, jewelry shops, flower shops, book shops; opera, theatre, museums; a telephone for every three persons; half the population in steady jobs, another quarter in school ... and land, land, land for everyone! Where had this great nation failed? To the few who still troubled to study the past, there was no mystery. From the twelve billion a year spent during the infant age of Sputniks and Explorers, America had spilled her treasure like sand into the frantic race to conquer Space. Temporarily braked by the Wars, but with each Peace redoubling the effort, the nation in the decade after the Red collapse had poured half her national income into those innumerable stabs toward the stars. * * * * * Like the Mississippi Bubble, the madness mounted. With the first building of the Moon stations, with a lucky landing on Mars, hope in the great gamble rekindled and the world "ahh'd" like children watching fireworks.