He didn't berate her until morning. He wanted time to cool off, to look at the whole thing objectively. It just wouldn't get objective, though. At breakfast, he said, "That was tactless last night. Very, very tactless." "Yes, Joe. Tact requires deception. Tact is essentially deception." When had he said that? Oh, yes, at the Hydra Club lecture. And it was true and he hated deception and he'd created a wife without one. He said, "I'll have to devise a character distiller that won't require putting you back in the mold." "Of course, dear. Why?" "You need just a touch of deception, just a wee shade of it." "Of course, Joe." So she had tact. He went to the office with very little of the absurdity mood stirring in him. He'd had a full breakfast, naturally. At the office, there was a note on his desk: _Mr. Behrens wants to see you immediately._ It bore his secretary's initials. Mr. Behrens was the Chief. He was a fairly short man with immense shoulders and what he'd been told was a classical head. So he let his hair grow, and had a habit of thrusting his chin forward when he listened. He listened to Joe's account of the interview with Burke. When Joe had finished, the Chief's smile was tolerant. "Ribbing him, were you? Old Burke hasn't much sense of humor, Joe." Joe said patiently, "I wasn't ribbing him. I took her out of the mold last night. I ate breakfast with her this morning. She's--beautiful, Chief. She's ideal." The Chief looked at him for seconds, his head tilted. Joe said, "Heat, that's what does it. If you'd like to come for dinner with us tonight, Chief, and see for yourself--" The Chief nodded. "I'd like that." * * * * * They left a little early to avoid the crowd in the tube. Burke saw them leaving, and his long face grew even longer. On the trip, Joe told his boss about the cybernetic brain, about his background and his beliefs stored in the memory circuits, and the boss listened quietly, not committing himself with any comments. But he did say, "I certainly thought a lot of Vera. You wouldn't have to warm her in any incubating mold." "Wait'll you see this one," Joe said. And when she walked into the living room at home, when she acknowledged the introduction to the Chief, Joe knew the old boy was sold. The Chief could only stare. Joe took him down to the basement then to show him the molecule agitator, the memory feeder, the instillers. The old boy looked it over and said, quite simply, "I'll be damned!" They went up to a perfect dinner--and incident number two. The Chief was a sentimentalist and he'd just lost a fine friend. This friend was his terrier, Murph, who'd been hit by a speeding car.