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better to live it up, gather ye rosebuds, carpe that old diem, with dollars and days at hand, then—well, join the Marine Corps maybe, like my dad.
    I refolded the paper to the “Personals” column.
    They were pretty good. Besides the usual offers of psychic readings and how to learn yoga and the veiled messages from one set of initials to another there were several that were novel. Such as—
    R EWARD !! Are you contemplating suicide? Assign to me the lease on your apartment and I will make your last days lavish. Box 323, H-T
    Or: Hindu gentleman, nonvegetarian, wishes to meet cultured European, African, or Asian lady owning sports car. Object: improving international relations. Box 107
    How do you do that in a sports car?
    One was ominous— Hermaphrodites of the World, Arise! You have nothing to lose but your chains. Tel. Opéra 59-09
    The next one started: A RE Y OU A C OWARD ?
    Well, yes, certainly. If possible. If allowed a free choice. I read on:
A RE Y OU A C OWARD ? This is not for you. We badly need a brave man. He must be 23 to 25 years old, in perfect health, at least six feet tall, weigh about 190 pounds, fluent English with some French, proficient with all weapons, some knowledge of engineering and mathematics essential, willing to travel, no family or emotional ties, indomitably courageous and handsome of face and figure. Permanent employment, very high pay, glorious adventure, great danger. You must apply in person, 17, rue Dante, Nice, 2me étage, appt. D.
    I read that requirement about face and figure with strong relief. For a giddy moment it had seemed as if someone with a skewed sense of humor had aimed a shaggy joke right at me. Somebody who knew my habit of reading the “Personals.”
    That address was only a hundred yards from where I was sitting. I read the ad again.
    Then I paid the addition , left a careful tip, went to the kiosk and bought The Stars & Stripes , walked to American Express, got money and picked up my mail, and on to the railroad station. It was over an hour until the next train to Toulon, so I went into the bar, ordered a beer and sat down to read.
    Mother was sorry I had missed them in Wiesbaden. Her letter itemized the children’s illnesses, the high prices in Alaska, and expressed regret that they had ever had to leave Germany. I shoved it into my pocket and picked up The Stars & Stripes .
    Presently I was reading: A RE Y OU A C OWARD ?—same ad, right to the end.
    I threw the paper down with a growl.
    There were three other letters. One invited me to contribute to the athletic association of my ex-college; the second offered to advise me in the selection of my investments at a special rate of only $48 a year; the last was a plain envelope without a stamp, evidently handed in at American Express.
    It contained only a newspaper clipping, starting: A RE Y OU A C OWARD ?
    It was the same as the other two ads except that in the last sentence one phrase had been underlined: You must apply in person —
    I splurged on a cab to rue Dante. If I hurried, there was time to untangle this hopscotch and still catch the Toulon train. No. 17 was a walk-up; I ran up and, as I approached suite D, I met a young man coming out. He was six feet tall, handsome of face and figure, and looked as if he might be a hermaphrodite.
    The lettering on the door read: D R . B ALSAMO — HOURS BY APPOINTMENT , in both French and English. The name sounded familiar and vaguely phony out I did not stop to figure it out; I pushed on in.
    The office inside was cluttered in a fashion known only to old French lawyers and pack rats. Behind the desk was a gnomelike character with a merry smile, hard eyes, the pinkest face and scalp I’ve ever seen, and a fringe of untidy white hair. He looked at me and giggled. “Welcome! So you are a hero?” Suddenly he whipped out a revolver half as long as he was and just as heavy and pointed it at me. You could have driven a Volkswagen down its snout.
    “I’m not a hero,” I