His voice grew strained. "That's not all! When I ran away, and made my pile, and could have any woman I wanted, I found I couldn't endure any woman not from my hometown. Do you want to know why?" He touched his artificial nosetip, his voice soaring in a new scream. "I'll tell you why! From infanthood I was drilled in the idea that only women with truncated noses were pure, glorious and beautiful. Until I ran away, I never saw a woman with a normal nose. Never! And now, even though I've disguised the mark of my native community, and know, rationally, that untruncated women _are_ beautiful, my nerves, my stomach, won't admit it. I think Miss Solar System of 2052 is ugly! "I could have her anytime, anywhere, understand? But I can't endure her, or any of her sisters. They all look misshapen. And you know what, Da Vincelleo? Despite all my money, I can't get a single beautiful woman in the System to cut off the tip of her nose for me. Not one! And I've met plenty who've said they loved me, and would die for me. But they don't love me enough to snip off the tips of their money-sniffing little noses. Oh, no!" For an instant there was mute agony in his stare. "Just why do you think I've fought my way up until I'm sitting on top of Sol? So I can take it easy, and play golf or go staryachting? Not B. T. Revanche! "It's because I hate the guts of every soul in Dafess, every beakcut heaven-elected who won't touch a machine because it might spot him with unholy oil, yet is himself a machine of the lowest type! I'm going to give them the most ironic justification of their creed. "Funny thing, though," Revanche added, as if it were still puzzling him. "A _statue_ of a beautiful woman without a truncated nose does seem to stir me a little. Like that one in the slogan corridor. It shows my basic instincts are still biologically normal." Da Vincelleo sighed in mock sympathy and began running his fingers over the "eyes" that would summon the chiefs of his staffs. He knew that what he had in mind was going to be his masterwork. The secret excavation beneath Dafess would in itself tax his resources. As he blocked in the calls, his gaze fell upon a romantic historical novel on the desk before him, _Renfrew Rides Again For The Mounted_. His rocketing brain must have collided with a humorous thought, for his foxlike lips turned up even more. So Revanche wanted irony, did he? And poetic justice? He looked at the financier but Revanche failed to notice the smile. He was still raving. III A month later, the noonday sun above Dafess City began dimming. In less than five minutes it became a completely black ball, and remained that somber, and terrifying unnatural hue until it sank below the horizon. In due course the stars rose in their appointed courses. Then suddenly, without warning, many fell, hurtling across the sky, and disappearing into the bottomless throat of space.