PRIME DIFFERENCE By ALAN E. NOURSE Illustrated by SCHOENHEER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems--but which one would I be? I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when he gets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife. Understand now--I've got nothing against marriage or any thing like that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded American Institution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throw a cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a woman like Marge-- It's so _permanent_. Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in the Blissful 'Fifties--but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968, and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women got their teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved Spouse Compensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life if I'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved. You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a man has to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime. So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keep Marge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long. Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyes and a shape that could set your teeth chattering--but that was where the dream stopped. She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances long enough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she was crying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chilling detail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband, which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a "beastly headache" (for which I was personally responsible) and the other half she was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time we got along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case. * * * * * Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used to envy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to live with either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in a while with one of the stenographers and get away with it. I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn't even smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. Give Marge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the Rehab Center in a week. But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I found out when Jeree came along.