She smiled. "Well, you know it's always fun at first. But I'm having my lawyer come to this meeting. I've got an idea we can change the articles of agreement so that the process can finally become public property at the end of another fifty years instead of only after our deaths. Then if we want to go on and die, nobody" (she waved her hand around the great room at the little group of athletic men and glamorous, expensively gowned women moving in through the arch) "nobody will have any financial interest in rejuvenating us. Then, too, our own fat incomes will lapse; and since that's the reason we set up the articles the way they are--so we'd never be in danger of starving, that is--we'd have the more interesting choice of whether to die off or get young again and go back to work. Would you sign a fifty-year termination, Rod?" "Would you marry me for the fifty years, Babs?" His voice was gentle, pleading. "Honest to goodness, now, aren't you really pretty tired of me?" she asked earnestly, turning to face him. "No, I can't say I am. You're pretty special, doctor, and you're special pretty." It was a ritual. "You know you're the only man. I'll marry you. Will you sign?" "Of course I'll sign. I would have anyhow when I knew you wanted me to. And Babs--maybe we could get some sort of jobs now--sort of to get in practice. I'll bet we could rent a lab somewhere and do commercial analyses for a while until we got hit by another idea for research." "Rod, that's the best idea you've had in the last hundred and fifty years. But we could have a honeymoon first, couldn't we?" "That's your best suggestion in the last seventy years. And maybe we could get Jeery Wade and his wife to rejuvenate and go with us. After the first couple of weeks, that is." * * * * * They left the meeting arm in arm, somewhat ahead of the rather disgruntled group of directors, who stayed behind to lament the end of a good thing. In the garden room, Barbara stopped to choose an orchid. Rod Harris wandered on to the receptionist's desk, where the girl of the black curls waited, smiling. He looked back at Barbara, then smiled down at the girl. "Just like I said ... a short meeting. No need for any dictating. Lucky you." "Oh, I don't know," she countered coyly. "Say, I heard a story the other day you might like. Do you like stories?" "What kind of story?" "You'd have to be the judge of that." Suddenly Barbara was with them, pinning on a bronze and green blossom. "C'mon along, dear. We've got a good many things to do before we leave." He opened the golden wicket for her and followed her out. Turning back toward the desk, he called to the girl, "I may be back in a few weeks to see about a job. Remind me then to tell you the one about the Martian, the Venusian and the robot." --BETSY CURTIS * * * * *