"I kinda think they were among the first," I says. I waves at the starry sky. "There's probably a planet up there some place where there's nothing but hot rods and football stadiums. And I suppose there's one section of the universe fenced off for all the Junior Spacemen that'll be roaming around it." Anybody you could think of mighta had a reason for leaving, I told him. The boys at Schultz's probably took off for a world where Marilyn Monroe has a thousand twin sisters; and Johnny Douglas, the ace at Kelly's Bowling Alley, is probably located on a world where it's impossible to bowl anything but a three hundred game. By then, we were in front of Joe's house. It was as dark and curtained as the others. * * * * * The house was empty. The blinds had been drawn, the dishes neatly stacked and put away, and a note left on the doorstoop telling the milkman not to bring any more milk. The note to Joe was on the kitchen table. It was hard for Joe to read on accounta it was blurred in spots where Marge had been crying and the tears had fallen on the paper. It told Joe--among a whole mess of other things--that she thought she had married a man, not a radio set, and since everybody was using them she was going to visit a _Paradise_ booth that night. "What am I going to do?" Joe asks remorsefully. "That's your problem," I says heartlessly, thinking of all the chili dinners that went with Marge. "You made the booths in the first place." "Yeah, I know." He pulls out a wad of papers from his pocket and thumbs through them. "I got contracts here for a _Paradise_ booth in every town over five thousand population. I could be a millionaire in a month." "Joe," I says, suddenly frightened, "don't do it. Look what happened here in Fremont. Why man, if you put those things all over the country there wouldn't be a soul left in the United States after a month had gone by." "You're right, Harry," he says. "Absolutely right." And he takes a cigarette lighter out of his pocket and sets fire to the papers and lets them burn 'til they're nothing but ashes. "What are you gonna do with the booths in town?" I ask. He goes down to the basement and comes up with a hatchet. "Come on," he says grimly. "I'll show you what I'm going to do with them!" The first two we chop in small pieces until the walk is covered with cogs and wheels and smashed tubes and dials. We stop at the third one. That was the fanciest one of all, with the leather upholstery inside and the big red neon sign on top that you could read halfway across town. Joe stares at it for a long minute, then makes up his mind. He fishes around in his pocket for a coin. "What do you think you're going to do?" I asks, alarmed. "I'm going to look for Marge," he says. "I need a vacation anyways." "How you gonna find her, Joe?" I asks. "You don't even know what kind of a world to look for!"