e. Malone shrugged and looked away.

"Now," Luba said, "you can take me dancing."

"I can?" Malone said. "I mean, do I? I mean--"

"I mean the Solar Room," Luba said. "I've always wanted to enter on
the arms of a handsome cookie manufacturer. It will make me the
sensation of New York society."

* * * * *

The Solar Room was magnificently expensive. Malone had been there
once, establishing his character as a man of lavish appetites, and had
then avoided the place in deference to his real bankroll. He
remembered it as the kind of place where an order of scrambled eggs
was liable to come in, flaming, on a golden sabre. But Luba wanted the
Solar Room, and Malone was not at all sure she wouldn't use blackmail
if he turned her down. "Fine," he said in a lugubrious tone.

The place shone, when they entered, as if they had come in from the
darkness of midnight. Along with the Universal Joint, it was the pride
and glory of the Great Universal Hotel and no expense had been spared
in the attempt to give it what Primo Palveri called Class. Couples and
foursomes were scattered around at the marble-topped tables, and
red-uniformed waiters scurried around bearing drinks, food and even
occasional plug-in telephones. There seemed to be more of the last
than Malone remembered as usual; people were worrying about
investments and businesses, and even those who had decided to stick it
out grimly at Las Vegas and, _enjoy_ themselves had to check up with
the home folks in order to know when to start pricing windows in high
buildings. Malone wondered how many people were actually getting their
calls through. Since the first breakdown two weeks before, Las Vegas
and virtually every other United States city had suffered
interruptions in telephone service. Las Vegas had had three breakdowns
in two weeks; other cities weren't doing much better, if at all.

Vaguely, Malone began looking around for handbaskets.

"Let's dance," Luba said happily. "They're playing our song."

On a stand at the front of the room a small orchestra was working away
busily. There were two or three couples on the postage-stamp dance
floor, whirling away to the strains of something Malone dimly
remembered as: "My heart's in orbit out in space until I see you
again."

"Our song?" he said.

Luba nodded. "You sang it to me the very first time we met," she said.
"At the cookie-manufacturer's ball. Remember?"

Malone sighed. If Luba