smoke.

"Well, do I get my share of breakfast," she muttered, "or do I have to
scrabble at the trough like the rest of the hogs around here?"

Philon nodded at a third thermocel in the capsule. "That's yours,
Ursula." He fixed her with a cocked eye. "What time did that gigolo
get you home this morning?"

Ursula blew the hair out of her eyes, then took a good look at her
husband. "Why all the sudden concern about my affairs? I feel like
going to the Cairo I call up Francois. He dances divinely. I feel like
making love I call up Jose...." She shrugged. "So, I say, why the
sudden concern? All these years you say nothing. Every minute away
from home you're involved in big deals to make money, steal
money--maybe even eat it."

He looked at her cryptically. "I've got to raise a fifty-grand quota."

Without even looking up from her breakfast Ursula said absently, "Oh,
that. It _is_ election year again, isn't it?"

"And I'll have to ask you to cancel all unnecessary expenditures for
the time being."

She shook her head. "Can't--I've already reserved _Love's Passion_ for
this afternoon and a whole block of titles for three months."

Philon compressed his mouth, then practically blew the words at her.
"Damn it, Ursula, you're spending too much time psycho-dreaming these
cheap plays. You know the psychiatrist has warned you to lay off them.
Stimulates your endocrine system too much. No wonder you live on
sleeping pills."

"Oh, shut up!" She stared at him, the anger in her tugging at her
loose mouth. "If I feel like a psychoplay I'm going to have me a
psychoplay. It's the only stimulation I get any more."

Muttering, "T'hell with it!" Philon got up from the table and walked
into the living room. Slipping into his gray top coat and hat he
ascended to the copter roofport.

Before stepping into the copter seat he paused to study the MacDonald
house on the corner. Odd-looking house at that. Mid-twentieth century,
yet it looked brand new.

Then, putting the house out of mind, Philon shot his copter skyward
and joined Skyway No. 7 traffic into town.

Descending on his office building he left the ship in care of the
parking attendant and by elevator dropped to his floor. At a door
marked _Miller Electronic Manufacturing Co._ he walked in.

In his office he slouched into his chair and stared at the small
calendar on his desk. Rakoff wanted the fifty-thousand before Royal
Pastel Mink Monday. One week--that wasn't very muc