June was a person with a knack for making you think of something else no matter what crisis you were embroiled in. In the elevator, Archy slipped an arm around her. "I've got an idea," he whispered. "I'll scream," she warned, "and this shaft is like a megaphone." "That's not the idea--anyway, an elevator is too cramped. My idea is; let's get married when this is over." "Hmmm." She twisted back provocatively. "I've got another idea--give me a raise and I might think about it." "That's what you said the last three times, and now you're drawing a thousand a week." "And worth every buck of it." "True, true. If I didn't pay you what you're worth, professionally, some other outfit would steal you." "You think I'd pull out just for a raise?" "You'd be nuts if you didn't. Look, June--if you married me, a thousand a week would be nothing--peanuts." She laughed, throaty but tinkling, a brook flowing through chimes. "And you wonder why I won't marry you. My friend, I won't marry you until you figure out _why_ I won't." The elevator stopped before he could ask for explanations. They found Otto among his machines, seated at a table. There were sheets of paper on it. There was also a small, furry body. "Okay, Otto--when do we get a scrambler on? I've got the great American public snowed, but I can't hold 'em forever." "We just found the trouble," said Otto, brushing the hair off his forehead. "It's crazy." He picked up the furred object. "A mouse got into the auxiliary and shorted it." "Number one," said Archy. "Tomorrow I fire the maintenance staff. Mice--in my studio! Number two--how soon can you have a scrambler going?" "Fifteen minutes," said Otto proudly. "Make it ten. Buzz me in the studio. We'll cut right into the program." Back in the elevator, Archy crowed. "That's it, Baby--Archy House in action, everything taken care of." "No credit for Otto?" "You kidding. Otto's smart enough to work for me, but I'm smart enough to hire him. So who's smartest?" He juggled the mouse in his hand, reflectively. "Without me, Otto'd be nowhere. Somebody else'd have his idea. The smart guys are the promoters, chick. Why not marry one?" She snorted wordlessly. He tossed the mouse in his palm and suddenly swore. "I hurt your feelings, promoter?" "Look at this mouse!" She eyed him quizzically. "This mouse never crawled into any scrambler," said Archy. "It was stuck in there, dead, and I've been sabotaged. It has a broken neck." The elevator stopped, the door slid back, and Archy's mind left the mouse. It was as though a mirror had popped up before him. He was staring at a nattily-dressed, cocky replica of himself. "Don't worry, about anything, Mac," said the projection. "I'll have things tight in a jiffy." "My God," said June. "The monitor sets were on. Projections must be all over the studio." "Hi, chick," said the projection. "Come on up to the office; there's some things to talk about."