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ninety-five, next to Madame Pompadour.” Over this was his picture in holo, smiling and repeating his slogan: “I’m Father Schultz, your friend in need. No problem too large, no problem too small. All work guaranteed.”
    Guaranteed to be what? Hendrik Schultz looked just like Santa Claus minus the beard and not at all like my friend Enrico, so I keyed him out—reluctantly, as I felt kinship with the Reverend Doctor. “Gwen, he’s not in the directory, or not in it by the name on his Golden Rule ID. Does that mean he was never in it? Or that his name was removed last night before his body was cold?”
    “Do you expect an answer? Or are you thinking aloud?”
    “Neither one, I guess. Our next move is to query the hub—right?” I checked the directory, then called the office of immigration at the hub. “This is Dr. Richard Ames speaking. I’m trying to locate a habitant named Enrico Schultz. Can you give me his address?”
    “Why don’t you look him up in the directory?” (She sounded just like my third-grade teacher—not a recommendation.)
    “He’s not in the directory. He’s a tourist, not a subscriber. I just want his address in Golden Rule. Hotel, pension, whatever.”
    “Tut, tut! You know quite well that we don’t give out personal information, even on marks. If he’s not listed, then he paid fair and square not to be listed. Do unto others. Doctor, lest ye be done unto.” She switched off.
    “Where do we ask now?” inquired Gwen.
    “Same place, same seatwarmer—but with cash and in person. Terminals are convenient, Gwen…but not for bribery in amounts of less than a hundred thousand. For a small squeeze, cash and in person is more practical. Coming with me?”
    “Do you think you can leave me behind? On our wedding day? Just try it, buster!”
    “Put some clothes on, maybe?”
    “Are you ashamed of the way I look?”
    “Not at all. Let’s go.”
    “I give in. Half a sec, while I find my slippers. Richard, can we go via my compartment? At the ballet last night I felt very chic but my gown is too dressy for public corridors at this time of day. I want to change.”
    “Your slightest wish, ma’am. But that brings up another point. Do you want to move in here?”
    “Do you want me to?”
    “Gwen, it has been my experience that marriage can sometimes stand up against twin beds but almost never against twin addresses.”
    “You didn’t quite answer me.”
    “So you noticed. Gwen, I have this one nasty habit. Makes me hard to live with. I write.”
    The dear girl looked puzzled. “So you’ve told me. But why do you call it a nasty habit?”
    “Uh… Gwen my love, I am not going to apologize for writing…anymore than I would apologize for this missing foot…and in truth the one led to the other. When I could no longer follow the profession of arms, I had to do something to eat. I wasn’t trained for anything else and back home some other kid had my paper route. But writing is a legal way of avoiding work without actually stealing and one that doesn’t take any talent or training.
    “But writing is antisocial. It’s as solitary as masturbation. Disturb a writer when he is in the throes of creation and he is likely to turn and bite right to the bone…and not even know that he’s doing it. As writers’ wives and husbands often learn to their horror.
    “And—attend me carefully, Gwen!—there is no way that writers can be tamed and rendered civilized. Or even cured. In a household with more than one person, of which one is a writer, the only solution known to science is to provide the patient with an isolation room, where he can endure the acute stages in private, and where food can be poked in to him with a stick. Because, if you disturb the patient at such times, he may break into tears or become violent. Or he may not hear you at all…and, if you shake him at this stage, he bites.”
    I smiled my best smile. “Don’t worry, darling. At present I am not working on a story