Kate pushed away from him, frowning. "Sometimes you're so silly, it scares me. You know perfectly well that if you don't take Mr. Kojac's job, someone else will. He'd rather have it in your hands than in a stranger's, and I'd rather live on his income than on a laborer's. So stop moping and drink your Daystart, while I call a cab." No help in that quarter, Bozzy decided as she left. All Kate could think of was that she'd soon be the wife of a big-shot: the manager--that is, controls setter--of a furniture factory. Bozzy had never told her how simple the job really was, though he supposed she knew. You first ordered designs, and then you ordered a poll taken on the designs. A computer tabulated the poll's results and pointed out the design most likely to sell. You then fed economic data into the same computer, and found out how many units the market could take. You called in the engineers to set up the machines, and the maintenance men to keep them running. In brief, you were errand boy to a bunch of gadgets, with nothing to do but look important. He was practicing his important look when Kate bustled in and spoiled it by sitting on his lap. "You're going to do fine today," she said, "and you're going to get off to a good start. I made them show me your cab. It's one of their brand-new battery-electric ones, a sort of mauve that will go with your purple robe. You'll look swell in it." * * * * * Bozzy was kissing her when the lobby buzzer sounded three long rings. "There's your cab," Kate said, rising. He followed her to the living room. Projected on one wall was a picture of the cabman facing the lobby annunciator, fifty-three stories down. The man was tall, fat, and in need of a shave, yet he wore purple tights with pink and green trim. Bozzy shuddered. "Who in the world concocted that rig?" "Your wife, sir," the cabman answered. "It's beautiful," said Bozzy. "I'll be right down." He wasn't, though. Kate told the kids he was leaving, and they trooped out of the bathroom to say good-by. Bozzy could tell Ralph was the one being bathed only because he was naked--all three were equally wet, and equally anxious to embrace their Daddy. He had to make himself a new robe while the cab meter ticked and Kate jittered. But once started, the drive between balconied buildings and intervening plazas went fast enough. Bozzy wasn't over half an hour late in reaching Mr. Kojac's apartment building. The old man waited in the street, looking spare, spruce, and impatient. "I do wish," he said, easing himself into the cab, "that you had a less anti-social attitude. Now you'll have to claim I delayed you." "I'm sorry, sir," Bozzy mumbled. "It's kind of you to take the blame." He thought it was also typical. He had understudied Mr. Kojac for the preceding two years, and felt there was no one else in the world for whom he could have as much respect. "Actually, sir," he explained, "I was delayed by the children."