But Krumbine thundered on at Richard Rowe with, "Good Lord, I can see you've had your troubles, boy. It isn't often we have these shortages of Girls Next Door, so that temporarily a boy can't marry the Girl Next Door, as he always should. But, Judas Priest, why didn't you take your troubles to your psychiatrist, your groupmaster, your socializer, your Queen Mother?" "My psychiatrist is being overhauled, sir, and his replacement short-circuits every time he hears the word 'trouble.' My groupmaster and socializer are on vacation duty in the Adirondacks. My Queen Mother is busy replacing Girls Next Door." "Yes, it all fits," Potshelter proclaimed excitedly. "Don't you see, Krumbine? Except for a set of mischances that would only occur once in a billion billion times, the letter would never have been conceived or sent." "You may have something there," Krumbine concurred. "But in any case, boy, why did you--er--written this letter to this particular girl? What is there about Jane Dough that made you do it?" "Well, you see, sir, she's--" * * * * * Just then, the door re-dilated and a blue matron machine conducted a young woman into the office. She was slim and she had a head of hair that would have graced a museum beauty, while across the back and--well, "chest" is an inadequate word--of her paper chemise, "JANE DOUGH" was silk-screened in the palest pink. Krumbine did not repeat his last question. He had to admit to himself that it had been answered fully. Potshelter whistled respectfully. The blue detective engines gave hard-boiled grunts. Even the blue matron machine seemed awed by the girl's beauty. But she had eyes only for Richard Rowe. "My Grand Central man," she breathed in amazement. "The man I've dreamed of ever since. My man with hair." She noticed the way he was looking at her and she breathed harder. "Oh, darling, what have you done?" "I tried to send you a letter." "A letter? For me? Oh, darling!" * * * * * Krumbine cleared his throat. "Potshelter, I'm going to wind this up fast. Miss Dough, could you transfer to this young man's hive?" "Oh, yes, sir! Mine has an over-plus of Girls Next Door." "Good. Mr. Rowe, there's a sky-pilot two levels up--look for the usual white collar just below the photocells. Marry this girl and take her home to your hive. If your Queen Mother objects refer her to--er--Potshelter here." He cut short the young people's thanks. "Just one thing," he said, wagging a finger at Rowe. "Don't written any more letters." "Why ever would I?" Richard answered. "Already my action is beginning to seem like a mad dream." "Not to me, dear," Jane corrected him. "Oh, sir, could I have the letter he sent me? Not to do anything with. Not to show anyone. Just to keep." "Well, I don't know--" Krumbine began. "Oh, _please_, sir!"