He tried to dispose entirely of the idea gnawing him. It was so absurd he should never, he thought, have allowed himself to think the idea through verbally. But he had; and it sure as hell _wasn’t_ absurd from his own point of view. _She_ was a teacher who could be trusted to put her words into practice, to teach by doing. _Okay, so it’s a great notion. Get yourself somebody.... Plenty of dancers and physical therapists would love the chance._ He went to the intercom, dialed, and waited, No answer. He had almost switched off when the screen suddenly lit. “Oh, Phil--Hi!” She was breathless. “I just got in, heard the thing buzzing. What’s up? Have you heard...?” She stopped as he shook his head. “No. I called to see if you had. Got in from _where_?” “Thad Bourgnese took me out to the Shack. Phil, it’s so silly, but you know I’m halfway in love with this place? I feel like a stinker, I mean, I ought to be chewing my fingernails to get home, but I--well, damn it, I’m _glad_ I couldn’t take the last trip down!” Defiant, she was rather more lovely than usual, he decided. “Well, fine,” he smiled. “I was just thinking about a job for you here.” “_Here?_ Dancer-in-residence?” But before she laughed, a look of surprised delight had fled across her face, and an expression of chagrin had followed it so quickly it was unlikely any one but a trained observer would have noticed the change from the first flush of reaction to the laugh. “Why not?” He did not follow it up; he was more than a little annoyed with himself for having said anything to begin with. “Okay, kid,” he said. “I was just checking in on you.” “Right. I’ll see you, Phil, thanks for the call ... hey!” She reached to the side of the screen, toward where the tube slot must be, “There’s a message. I didn’t notice.” She tore open the radioletter, glanced at the bottom, and nodded: “Johnny.” Then her face went white, and her mouth started to open as if she’d been slapped in the face. The screen went dead. “I’m sorry, Phil. ’Scuse me.” The audio clicked off too. _The bastard! The lousy lushin’ whining wailing nasty-minded bastard!_ Phil went to the couch, knelt in front of it, and beat clenched fists against the padding till he felt his rage subside. He got up, went to his desk, pulled out his own old-fashioned typewriter, without which he could not think, and started typing. When he got up, half an hour later, he was Dr. Kutler again--and even Phil, plain Phil, had recognized that whatever Johnny wrote, it was in response to the knowledge that his wife did not want to come home. Because she _was_ his wife--whatever _she_ thought about it. And she did _not_ want to leave, whether _she_ knew it or not. And it was a hundred to one, at least, that Johnny had picked the nastiest, hurtingest, angriest way to respond; but that was just foolish--not vicious. A man has a right to react when his girl--or his wife--stands him up. CHRISTY TOPS McLFTY