Broke, hungry, and considerably vexed at being called an unstable personality, especially since everything now combined to make him feel like one, Kevan MacGreene walked through the streets of Greenwich Village. It was in this mood that he arrived on the corner where Fourth Street unaccountably crosses Twelfth Street. Standing there for a minute, he happened to glance up and see the sign over one of the buildings: TROUBLESHOOTERS, INC. Below that, in smaller letters, it said: _Come in._ Kevan MacGreene went in. The girl at the desk was lovely beyond words. Her hair was like black velvet and her eyes were an emerald green. Just looking at her made Kevan MacGreene feel better. "I have some troubles I'd like shot," he said, saying the first thing that came into his aching head. The girl smiled with a distant friendliness. "Do you mean you'd like to employ us?" she asked. "No," said Kevan MacGreene, realizing what it was that he did want. "I'd like you to employ me." "I'm sorry," the girl said, "but I'm afraid there are no positions open--none, at least, that you could fill." "But I need a job," Kevan said. "I--I gave up my last job because I thought I was going to be drafted. Now I have no job and I'm broke. And the draft board rejected me because I hear voices." For the first time, the black-haired girl looked interested. "What kind of voices?" she asked. "Thin little piping voices," Kevan said. He didn't know why but he felt that she would understand. "Most of the time I can't understand what they're saying. Sometimes they sing. Like this." Wincing from the pain in his head, Kevan sang in the highest pitch he could reach. "_Gie brownie coat, gie brownie sark, ye'll get nae mair o' brownie's wark._" He stopped and looked at the girl. Her smile was warmer. "What's your name?" she asked. "Kevan MacGreene." She nodded. "I'll see," she said. She picked up the phone and pressed a button. He could hear the faint buzz in the inner office. "There's a young man here," she said into the phone, "looking for a job. He says his name is Kevan MacGreene and that he hears voices." She listened a minute and then put the phone down. "He'll see you," she said. "Go in." She indicated the door beyond her desk. Kevan stopped beside the desk and glanced down at the hair that was like a raven's wing. "What's your name?" he asked. "Kathleen Culanna." "Ah," he said, "I knew there was a reason for the green in your eyes and the harp's song in your voice. Will you have dinner with me tonight?" "Go along with you," the girl said, but there was no rebuke in her voice. "He's waiting for you." "Will you have dinner with me tonight?" "Ask me when you come back," the girl said. "If I'm still here, I will." "I'll be back," he said. He walked through the door and closed it behind him. He stopped there, gazing at the man who sat at the desk in the small room.