LITMIR.BIZ

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twisted features, even in the futile effort to withdraw attention from the ball. It’s no good, he thought. I have failed all along.

      Savagely he worked the sphere. He would do it quickly. There was no use expecting Tony’s fate. The ball darted again for Slag and this time there could be no interference. It became pure mathematics, the motion, complicated far beyond Tony’s simple corondo, a flashing three-dimensional blur of color. He could not keep it up. The concentration brought an invading blackness to his mind. Somewhere there was a dull roar, and he felt as if his own mind were cracking. His nerves quivered to put an end to it, to touch Slag with the ball. Slowly, cautiously, he brought the sphere down....

      Slag was not there!

      He gaped. His eyes suddenly found the crumpled heap across the court, and relief swept ever him. The man was beaten, in a state of collapse, and there was nothing more Grant could do.

      “Grant!” Bee screamed. “Oh, no! Grant darling, look up!”

      Her radiance was almost blinding. He half-twisted to reach her, and then his eyes caught it—the ugly sheen of the fast-growing ball. Desperately he turned, and it shifted in unison. Then she shrieked once more, despairingly, and he threw himself flat, arms outstretched, toward her.

      The ball’s speed was so great that it shattered to pieces against the shield behind him.

      From back of the barrier ran Bee. She crouched beside him, and her enveloping warmth lifted the evil spell from his mind. The loud confusion of the crowd burst upon him, he saw the referee’s swiftly lowering bubble. He was in control of himself, thanks to Bee’s interference, and could act on the knowledge so dangerously gained.

      “The murderer!” Grant pulled Bee up with him. “We’ve got him!”

      Opposite them, Slag still lay on the court.

      “I don’t see how he did it,” Grant said bewilderedly.

      “Not Slag—him!” She pointed out the small, running figure.

      Teagle battered vainly at a gate. The still-active screen held him back, and the man’s face was a despairing white grimace. Then Grant was upon him, and took him by the throat.

      Woods paced the dressing room, still confused. “I begin to see,” he said, “but what can I do with the two of them?”

      “Stop worrying.” Grant was curt. “You can do nothing. The law will take Teagle, and without him Slag is just another bum.”

      “He never knew,” marveled Bee. “Slag never knew how he won.”

      “I am to blame.” Grant thought of the surging fear Teagle had directed in him at Slag’s hotel. “I should have known that telepsychical phenomena could be used as a weapon. The man is a freak. He couldn’t influence the ball, but communicated overpowering emotion—without even seeing his subjects—from behind his shield. The victims committed suicide, just as I nearly did before Bee....”

      “What did you feel—a so-called called death wish?” asked Woods. “No matter. Not seeing Slag collapse, he overplayed his hand.”

      “Slag’s being unconscious merely provided an anti-climax,” said Grant. “There was a more important factor added this time. And if you don’t mind, Woods, I have an apology to make in private to my one and only second.”

      “Not just the only one, darling,” said Bee. “But your permanent, till-death-do-us-part second! Right?”

      “Right!” Grant said.

      “That’s the only thing tonight,” said Woods, “of which I officially approve.”

Prime Difference, by Alan Nourse

      I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when he gets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife.

      Understand now—I’ve got nothing against marriage or any thing like that. Marriage is great. It’s a good old red-blooded American Institution. Except that it’s got one defect in it big enough to throw a cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a woman like Marge—

      It’s so permanent.

      Oh, I’d have divorced Marge in a minute if we’d been living in the Blissful ‘Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968, and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women got their teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved Spouse Compensation Act, I’d have been a pauper for the rest of my life if I’d tried it. That’s aside from the social repercussions involved.

      You can’t really blame me for looking for another way out. But a man has to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime.

      So, all right, I was desperate. I’d spent eight years trying to keep Marge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long.

      Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyes and a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was where the dream stopped.

      She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances long enough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn’t complaining, she was crying, and when she wasn’t crying, she was pointing out in chilling detail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband, which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a “beastly headache” (for which I was personally responsible) and the other half she was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time we got along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case.

      Maybe we just weren’t meant for each other. I don’t know. I used to envy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to live with either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in a while with one of the stenographers and get away with it.

      I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn’t even smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. Give Marge something real to howl about, and I’d be ready for the Rehab Center in a week.

      But I’d underestimated Marge. She didn’t need anything real, as I found out when Jeree came along.

      Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffled around from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got an executive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. As a matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort of secretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do any work—just to sit there.

      Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without saying anything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she was there, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply the opportunity, she’d be glad to supply the motive.

      That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something over during the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to my mouth, and then she said, “I hear you got a new secretary today.”

      I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear.

      Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. “I also hear that she’s five-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you’re handsome.”

      Marge had quite a spy system.

      “She couldn’t be much of a secretary,” she added.

      “She’s a perfectly good secretary,” I blurted, and kicked myself mentally. I should have known Marge’s traps by then.

      Marge exploded. I didn’t get any supper, and she was still going strong at midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was no stopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned.

      Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning. “What you need is an Ego Prime,” he said with a grin. “Solve all your problems. I hear they work like a charm.”

      I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing

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