The story of Murph from birth to death was a fairly long one, but never dull. The Chief had a way with words. Even Joe, one of the world's top-ranking non-sentimentalists, was touched by the tale. When they came to the end, where Murph had lain in his master's arms, whimpering, as though to comfort him, trying to lick his face, Joe's eyes were wet and the drink wobbled in his hand. The Chief finished in a whisper, and looked up from the carpet he'd been staring at through the account. And there was Alice, sitting erect, a smile of perfect joy on her face. "How touching," she said, and grinned. For one horror-stricken second, the Chief glared at her, and then his questioning eyes went to Joe. "She can't frown," Joe explained. "The muscles are there, but they need massage to bring them to life." He paused. "I wanted a smiling wife." The Chief inhaled heavily. "There are times when a smile is out of order, don't you think, Joe?" "It seems that way." It didn't take long. Massage, orientation, practice, concentration. It didn't take long, and she was so willing to cooperate. Golly, she was agreeable. She was more than that; she voiced his thoughts before he did. Because of the mental affinity, you see. He'd made sure of that. She could frown now and she had enough deception to get by in almost any company. These flaws were necessary, but they were still flaws and brought her closer to being--human. * * * * * At the office on Saturday morning, Sam Tullgren dropped in. Sam said, "I've been hearing things, Joseph." "From Vera? At the Center?" Sam shook his head. "Vera's been too busy to have much time for the director. She's our most popular number." Sam paused. "About the new one. Hear she's something to see." "You heard right. She's practically flawless, Sam. She's just what a man needs at home." His voice, for some reason, didn't indicate the enthusiasm he should have felt. Sam chewed one corner of his mouth. "Why not bring her over, say, tonight? We'll play some bridge." That would be something. Two minds, perfectly in harmony, synchronized, working in partnership. Joe's smile was smug. "We'll be there. At eight-thirty." Driving over to Westchester that night, Joe told Alice, "Sam's a timid bidder. His wife's inclined to overbid. Plays a sacrificing game when she knows it will gain points. Our job will be to make her oversacrifice." Sam's eyes opened at sight of her; his wife's narrowed. Joe took pride in their reaction, but it was a strange, impersonal pride. They had a drink and some small talk, and settled around the table. It was more like a seance than a game. They bid and made four clubs, a heart. Sam's wife got that determined look. With the opposition holding down one leg of the rubber, she figured to make the next bid a costly one.