o, he didn't approve of public education. He had a lot of odd
ideas.

"Anyway, I saw him during summer vacations and went to school the rest
of the year. He took me all over the world when I was with him, and the
instructors were pretty wonderful people; I'm not sorry that I was
brought up that way. It was a little different from the education that
most children have, but it gave me a chance to use my mind."

"I know the school," said Mike the Angel. "That's the one under the
Cesare Alfieri Institute in Florence?"

"That's it; did you go there?" There was an odd, eager look in her eyes.

Mike shook his head. "Nope. But a friend of mine did. Ever know a guy
named Paulvitch?"

She squealed with delight, as though she'd been playfully pinched. "Sir
Gay? You mean Serge Paulvitch, the Fiend of Florence?" She pronounced
the name properly: "_Sair_-gay," instead of "surge," as too many people
were prone to do.

"Sounds like the same man," Mike admitted, grinning. "As evil-looking as
Satanas himself?"

"That's Sir Gay, all right. Half the girls were scared of him, and I
think _all_ the boys were. He's about three years older than I am, I
guess."

"Why call him Sir Gay?" Mike asked. "Just because of his name?"

"Partly. And partly because he was always such a gentleman. A real
_nice_ guy, if you know what I mean. Do you know him well?"

"_Know_ him? Hell, I couldn't run my business without him."

"Your business?" She blinked. "But he works for--" Then her eyes became
very wide, her mouth opened, and she pointed an index finger at Mike.
"Then you ... you're Mike the Angel! M. R. Gabriel! Sure!" She started
laughing. "I never connected it up! My golly, my golly! I thought you
were just another Space Service commander! Mike the Angel! Well, I'll be
darned!"

She caught her breath. "I'm sorry. I was just so surprised, that's all.
Are you really _the_ M. R. Gabriel, of M. R. Gabriel, Power Design?"

Mike was as close to being nonplused as he cared to be. "Sure," he said.
"You mean you didn't know?"

She shook her head. "No. I thought Mike the Angel was about sixty years
old, a crotchety old genius behind a desk, as eccentric as a comet's
orbit, and wealthier than Croesus. You're just not what I pictured,
that's all."

"Just wait a few more decades," Mike said, laughing. "I'll try to live
up to my reputation."

"So you're Serge's boss. How is he? I haven't seen him since I was
sixteen."

"He's grown a beard," sai