The Last Letter Read Free Page A

the word 'trouble.' My groupmaster and socializer are on vacation duty in the Adirondacks. My Queen Mother is busy replacing Girls Next Door."
    Â 
    "Yes, it all fits," Potshelter proclaimed excitedly. "Don't you see, Krumbine? Except for a set of mischances that would only occur once in a billion billion times, the letter would never have been conceived or sent."
    Â 
    "You may have something there," Krumbine concurred. "But in any case, boy, why did you — er — written this letter to this particular girl? What is there about Jane Dough that made you do it?"
    Â 
    "Well, you see, sir, she's—"
    Â 
    Just then, the door re-dilated and a blue matron machine conducted a young woman into the office. She was slim and she had a head of hair that would have graced a museum beauty, while across the back and — well, "chest" is an inadequate word — of her paper chemise, "Jane Dough" was silk-screened in the palest pink.
    Â 
    Krumbine did not repeat his last question. He had to admit to himself that it had been answered fully. Potshelter whistled respectfully. The blue detective engines gave hard-boiled grunts. Even the blue matron machine seemed awed by the girl's beauty.
    Â 
    But she had eyes only for Richard Rowe. "My Grand Central man," she breathed in amazement. "The man I've dreamed of ever since. My man with hair." She noticed the way he was looking at her and she breathed harder. "Oh, darling, what have you done?"
    Â 
    "I tried to send you a letter."
    Â 
    "A letter? For me? Oh, darling!"
    Â 
    Krumbine cleared his throat "Potshelter, I'm going to wind this up fast. Miss Dough, could you transfer to this young man's hive?"
    Â 
    "Oh, yes, sir! Mine has an over- plus of Girls Next Door."
    Â 
    "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."
    Â 
    He cut short the young people's thanks. "Just one thing," he said, wagging a finger at Rowe. "Don't written any more letters."
    Â 
    "Why ever would I?" Richard answered. "Already my action is beginning to seem like a mad dream."
    Â 
    "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."
    Â 
    "Well, I don't know-" Krumbine began.
    Â 
    "Oh, please, sir!"
    Â 
    "Well, I don't know why not, I was going to say. Here you are, miss. Just see that this husband of yours never writes another."
    Â 
    He turned back as the contracting door shut the young couple from view.
    Â 
    "You were right, Potshelter," he said briskly. "It was one of those combinations of mischances that come up only once in a billion billion times. But we're going to have to issue recommendations for new procedures and safeguards that will reduce the possibilities to one in a trillion trillion. It will undoubtedly up the Terran income tax a healthy percentage, but we can't have something like this happening again. Every boy must marry the Girl Next Door! And the first-class mails must not be interfered with! The advertising must go through!"
    Â 
    "I'd almost like to see it happen again," Potshelter murmured dreamily, "if there were another Jane Dough in it."
    Â 
    Krumbine, Richard and Jane had halted to allow a small cortege of machines to pass. First came a squad of police machines with Black Sorter in their midst, unmuzzled and docile enough, though still gnashing his teeth softly. Then — stretched out horizontally and borne on the shoulders of Gray Psychiatrist, Black Coroner, White Nursemaid Seven and Greasy Joe — there passed the slim form of Pink Wastebasket, snow-white in death. The machines were keening softly, mournfully.
    Â 
    Round about the black pillars, little mecho-mops were scurrying like mice, cleaning up the last of the first-class-mail bits of