And she grinned back. "Charley Tencharles," she said gruffly, "can't you stay away from Miss Hippiness? What a boy you are. You should be out playing, maybe in a park, maybe in a boat." "Or on a horse like in the 20th Century?" he asked. She almost laughed. "Yes," she cried, "maybe like on a horse. With a gun on your hip--" "And a lasso to throw at things?" Miss Hippiness got up from the straight chair. It was so sweet, why wait? She took little Charley's hand and they walked toward the disintegrator. There was a dreadful moment of hesitation in front of it. Miss HippIness had heard of that last dreadful moment and she let it wrack her. Maybe this was a last relic of the 20th Century, a last real-for-sure relic. Charley's hand moved in hers and she stooped quickly, enfolding him in her arms. "You know what?" she cried. "There was something else in the 20th Century, Charley. It was kissing." "Kissing?" he said. "Yes, and I'm going to kiss you, Charley Tencharles. Just like back then." He grinned as her lips came at him. "Aw, Miss Hippiness," he said. There is an odd difference in the minute sounds made by matter transmitters and disintegrators. The transmitter goes swup, no matter who steps in. But the disintegrator goes schup, no matter who. Miss Hippiness stood up and took a deep breath, holding Charley tight in her arms, almost like a baby. She didn't have to look. Having sent so many naughty children into the disintegrator years ago, she knew the way. She took the last three steps. Schup. THE END