The huge figure’s head rotated on a concealed hinge to look down on the woman. From a squawk-box deep in Smiley’s papier-mâché belly, a weary voice declaimed: “If one more baby is your husband’s dread, Cross him up, lady. Have twins instead!” The audience roared its approval. The announcer asked anxiously, “Ya get it? When ya get inta the hospital, like, ya jus’ tell the nurse ya want to take _two_ kids home with you. See?” The grateful woman staggered away. Ross gave Doc a poisonous look. “What else is there to do?” the doctor hissed. “All right, perhaps this won’t work out—but let’s try!” He half rose, and staggered against the man next to him, who was already starting toward the announcer. “Go on, Ross,” Doc hissed venomously, blocking off the other man. Ross went. What else was there to do? “What’s biting me,” he said belligerently before the announcer could put him through the preliminaries, “is simply this: L-sub-T equals L-sub-zero e to the minus-T-over-two-N.” Dead silence in the studio. The announcer quavered, “Wh-what was that again, buddy?” “I said,” Ross repeated firmly, “L-sub-T equals L-sub-zero e to the——” “Now, wait a minute, buddy,” the announcer ordered. “We never had no stuff like that on _this_ program before. Whaddya, some kind of a wise guy?” There might have been violence; the conditions were right for it. But Uncle Smiley Smog saved the day. The papier-mâché figure puffed a blinding series of smoke rings at Ross. From its molded torso, the weary voice said: “If you’re looking for counsel sagacious and wise, The price is ten cents. It’s right under your eyes.” They left the studio in a storm of animosity. “Maybe we could have collected the forfeit,” Doc said hopefully. “Maybe we could have collected some lumps,” Ross growled. “Got any more ideas?” The doctor sipped his coffee. “No,” he admitted. “I wonder—No, I don’t suppose that means anything.” “That jingle? Sure it means something, Doc. It means I should have had my head examined for letting you talk me into that performance.” The doctor said rebelliously, “Maybe I’m wrong, Ross, but I don’t see that you’ve had any ideas than panned out much better.” Ross got up. “All right,” he admitted. “I’m sorry if I gave you a hard time. It’s all this coffee and all the liquor underneath it; I swear, if I ever get back to a civilized planet I’m going on a solid diet for a month.” They headed for the room marked “Gents,” Ross sullenly quiet, Doc thoughtfully quiet. Doc said reflectively, “‘The price is ten cents.’ Ross, could that mean a paper that we could buy on a newsstand, maybe?” “Yeah,” Ross said in irritation. “Look, Doc, don’t give it another thought. There must be some way to straighten this thing out; I’ll think of it. Let’s just make believe that whole asinine radio program never happened.” The attendant materialized and offered Ross a towel. “Dime?” he said wearily.