nemonic norm
when I temporalize. Isn't this a crisis-point in your life?"

Martin breathed hard, which seemed to confirm the robot's assumption.

"Exactly," it said. "The ecological imbalance approaches a peak that may
destroy the life-form, unless ... mm-m. Now either you're about to be
stepped on by a mammoth, locked in an iron mask, assassinated by helots,
or--is this Sanskrit I'm speaking?" He shook his gleaming head. "Perhaps
I should have got off fifty years ago, but I thought--sorry. Good-bye,"
he added hastily as Martin raised an angry glare.

Then the robot lifted a finger to each corner of his naturally rigid
mouth, and moved his fingers horizontally in opposite directions, as
though sketching an apologetic smile.

"No, don't go away," Martin said. "I want you right here, where the
sight of you can refuel my rage in case it's needed. I wish to God I
could get mad and stay mad," he added plaintively, gazing at the
telephone.

"Are you sure your mother's name wasn't Helena Glinska?" the robot
asked. It pinched thumb and forefinger together between its nominal
brows, somehow giving the impression of a worried frown.

"Naturally I'm sure," Martin snapped.

"You aren't married yet, then? To Anastasia Zakharina-Koshkina?"

"Not yet or ever," Martin replied succinctly. The telephone rang. He
snatched it up.

* * * * *

"Hello, Nick," said Erika Ashby's calm voice. "Something wrong?"

Instantly the fires of rage went out of Martin's eyes, to be replaced by
a tender, rose-pink glow. For some years now he had given Erika, his
very competent agent, ten percent of his take. He had also longed
hopelessly to give her approximately a pound of flesh--the cardiac
muscle, to put it in cold, unromantic terms. Martin did not; he put it
in no terms at all, since whenever he tried to propose marriage to Erika
he was taken with such fits of modesty that he could only babble o'
green fields.

"Well," Erika repeated. "Something wrong?"

"Yes," Martin said, drawing a long breath. "Can St. Cyr make me marry
somebody named Anastasia Zakharina-Koshkina?"

"What a wonderful memory you have," the robot put in mournfully. "Mine
used to be, before I started temporalizing. But even radioactive neurons
won't stand--"

"Nominally you're still entitled to life, liberty, et cetera," Erika
said. "But I'm busy right now, Nick. Can't it wait till I see you?"

"When?"

"Didn't you get my message