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contents belonged to Chew-Z Manufacturers of Boston, U.S.A., Terra, now.
    “How—can I get in touch with you?” Hnatt asked, as Icholtz started away from the table.
    “You won’t be getting in touch with us. If we want you we’ll call you.” Icholtz smiled briefly.
    How in hell was he going to tell Emily? Hnatt counted the skins, read the contract, realized by degrees exactly how much Icholtz had paid him; it was enough to provide him and Emily with a five-day vacation in Antarctica, at one of the great, cool resort cities frequented by the rich of Terra, where no doubt Leo Bulero and others like him spent the summer…and these days summer lasted all year round.
    Or—he pondered. It could do even more; it could get himself and his wife into the most exclusive establishment on the planet—assuming he and Emily wanted it. They could fly to the Germanies and enter one of Dr. Willy Denkmal’s E Therapy clinics. Wowie, he thought.
    He shut himself up in the bar’s vidphone booth and called Emily. “Pack your bag. We’re going to Munich. To—” He picked the name of a clinic at random; he had seen this one advertised in exclusive Paris magazines. “To Eichenwald,” he told her. “Dr. Denkmal is—”
    “Barney took them,” Emily said.
    “No. But there’s someone else in the field of minning, now, besides P. P. Layouts.” He felt elated. “So Barney turned us down; so what? We did better with this new outfit; they must have plenty. I’ll see you in half an hour; I’ll arrange for accommodations on TWA’s express flight. Think of it: E Therapy for both of us.”
    In a low voice Emily said, “I’m not sure I want to evolve, when it comes right down to it.”
    Staggered, he said, “Sure you do. I mean, it could save our lives, and if not ours then our kids’—our potential kids that we might be having, someday. And even if we’re only there a short time and only evolve a little, look at the doors it’ll open to us; we’ll be personae gratae everywhere. Do
you
personally know anyone who’s had E Therapy? You read about so-and-so in the homeopapes all the time, society people…but—”
    “I don’t want that hair all over me,” Emily said. “And I don’t want to have my head expand. No. I won’t go to Eichenwald Clinic.” She sounded completely decided; her face was placid.
    He said, “Then I’ll go alone.” It would still be of economic value; after all, it was he who dealt with buyers. And he could stay at the clinic twice as long, evolve twice as much…assuming that the treatments took. Some people did not respond, but that was hardly Dr. Denkmal’s fault; the capacity for evolution was not bestowed on everyone alike. About himself he felt certitude; he’d evolve remarkably, catch up with the big shots, even pass some of them, in terms of the familiar horny rind which Emily out of mistaken prejudice had called “hair.”
    “What am I supposed to do while you’re gone? Just make pots?”
    “Right,” he said. Because orders would be arriving thick and fast; otherwise Chew-Z Manufacturers of Boston would have no interest in the min. Obviously they employed their own Pre-Fash precogs as P. P. Layouts did. But then he remembered; Icholtz had said
very little publicity at first
. That meant, he realized, that the new firm had no network of disc jockeys circling the colony moons and planets; unlike P. P. Layouts, they had no Allen and Charlotte Faine to flash the news to.
    But it took time to set up disc jockey satellites. This was natural.
    And yet it made him uneasy. He thought all at once in panic, Could they be an illegal firm? Maybe Chew-Z, like Can-D, is banned; maybe I’ve got us into something dangerous.
    “Chew-Z,” he said aloud to Emily. “Ever heard of it?”
    “No.”
    He got the contract out and once more examined it. What a mess, he thought. How’d I get into it? If only that damn Mayerson had said yes on the pots…
    At ten in the morning a terrific horn, familiar