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“I tried to send you a letter.”

“A letter? For me? Oh, darling!”

Krumbine cleared his throat. “Potshelter, I’m going to wind this up fast. Miss Dough, could you transfer to this young man’s hive?”

“Oh, yes, sir! Mine has an over-plus of Girls Next Door.”

“Good. Mr. Rowe, there’s a sky-pilot two levels up—look for the usual white collar just below the photocells. Marry this girl and take her home to your hive. If your Queen Mother objects refer her to—er—Potshelter here.”

He cut short the young people’s thanks. “Just one thing,” he said, wagging a finger at Rowe. “Don’t written any more letters.”

“Why ever would I?” Richard answered. “Already my action is beginning to seem like a mad dream.”

“Not to me, dear,” Jane corrected him. “Oh, sir, could I have the letter he sent me? Not to do anything with. Not to show anyone. Just to keep.”

“Well, I don’t know—” Krumbine began.

“Oh, please, sir!”

“Well, I don’t know why not, I was going to say. Here you are, miss. Just see that this husband of yours never writtens another.”