"It's not your fault," he said, after a moment. "I'm not going to get another. You're as ideal, almost, as a human wife can ever be." "I've tried so hard," she said. "Maybe I tried too hard." "No," he said, "it isn't your fault. Any reasonable man would be delighted with you, Vera. You won't be at the Center long." "I don't want a reasonable man," she said quietly. "I want you, Joe. I--I loved you." He had started to get out of the car. He paused to look back. "Loved? Did you use the past tense?" "I used the past tense." She started to get out on her side of the car. "I don't want to talk about it." "But I do," he told her. "Is this love something you can turn on and off like a faucet?" "I don't care to explain it to you," she said. "I've got to pack." She left the car, slammed the door, and moved hurriedly toward the house. Joe watched her. Something was troubling him, something he couldn't analyze, but he felt certain that if he could, it would prove to be absurd. He went thoughtfully into the living room and snapped on the telenews. He saw troops moving by on foot, a file of them dispersed along a Brazilian road. He turned the knob to another station and saw the huge stock market board, a rebroadcast. Another twist and he saw a disheveled, shrieking woman being transported down some tenement steps by a pair of policemen. The small crowd on the sidewalk mugged into the camera. He snapped it off impatiently and went into the kitchen. The dinette was a glass-walled alcove off this, and the table was set. There was food on his plate, none on Vera's. * * * * * He went to the living room and then, with a mutter of impatience, to the door of the back bedroom. She had her grips open on the low bed. "You don't have to leave tonight, you know." "I know." "You're being very unreasonable." "Am I?" "I wasn't trying to be intentionally cruel." "Weren't you?" His voice rose. "Will you stop talking like some damned robot? Are you a human being, or aren't you?" "I'm afraid I am," she said, "and that's why I'm going back to the Center. I've changed my mind. I want to get registered. I want to find a _man_." She started to go past him, her grip in her hand. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Vera, you--" Something flashed toward his face. It was her slim, white hand, but it didn't feel slim and white. She said, "I can see now why you weren't made _Senior_ Assistant to the Adjutant Science Director. You're a stupid, emotionless mechanic. A machine." He was still staring after her when the door slammed. He thought of the huge Domestic Center with its classes in Allure, Boudoir Manners, Diet, Poise, Budgeting. That vast, efficient, beautifully decorated Center which was the brain child of Sam Tullgren, but which still had to deal with imperfect humans. People, people, people ... and particularly women. He rose, after a while, and went into the dinette. He sat down and stared moodily at his food.