"Pasquamine," I said, returning to my desk and handing him a cheap cigar, "do you by chance own a gun?" He shook his fat head. "No." "Do you have at home, perchance, a rope?" I glanced at his obese body. "A good stout one?" "No." "A knife, perhaps? A good sharp one?" His oily face beamed quickly. "Ah, Mr. Nelson! That I have! Sharp for the salami!" He kissed his thick fingers and made a flipping motion into the air with them. "Sharp for the good big salami!" "Excellent!" I nodded quick approbation. "Go home and cut your throat with it." * * * * * He pushed his hulk up from the chair and walked toward the door. "And don't bother about coming back to the office afterwards," I admonished. He paused, hand on the knob, and turned. Then his round face lighted up. "Ah, Mr. Nelson!" he chuckled. "You make with the joke!" "Sure." I smiled. "And now you go home and make with the knife." That was the last time I saw Pasquamine. Except at the funeral, of course. He made a lovely corpse--considering everything. It was the day following the funeral when there came a gentle tapping at my office door. "Come in," I said, tossing the half-finished bottle of gin back into the lower drawer. They didn't bother about opening the door; they just crawled under it. A moment later, they had slithered across the floor, had wiggled their way up to the top on my desk, and had flattened out upon its polished surface in complete pseudopod relaxation. Gyf and Gyl. My two very good friends. "Sorry, boys," I said, after we had exchanged the usual amenities, "that I had to get rid of your symbiotics in such a messy fashion. But business is business, you know; and I felt that the time was right...." Gyf shrugged gelatinously. "I was getting tired of occupying Fidwell, anyway," he vibrated. "Regular old pussyfoot. Never had no fun." Gyl burped resoundingly in the middle. "I hope the next body I get doesn't turn out to be another wine-guzzling, garlic eater." A tremor ran through him. "It upsets me frightfully." "Time and the rising tide of accidents will tell," I soothed. "I'm cold," trembled Gyf, "since I ain't got no body to keep me warm." "You might try my secretary," I offered, playfully. "There's a body for you!" "You know I can't," he vibrated. "She ain't even dead yet!" "Nearest thing to it," I commented, "this side of the precinct morgue." That brought a shake of mirth from Gyl who really has a truly remarkable sense of humor. Gyf, ignoring the levity, slid over to the little intercom box at one side of the desk, crawled in through one of the slits, curled up, and promptly went to sleep. It seems that Fidwell, along with his other faults, had also been a sufferer of insomnia. "I suppose," I said to Gyl, conversationally, "you'll be wanting a new body now...."