The visitor looked doubtful, and then the stony green countenance relaxed.

“Very well,” he said gently. “In three days I will return. If you succeed, all will be well. If not—”

He shrugged, opened the door, and left.

It had to be Naomi Winkler. Not because Naomi was the woman he had dream-envisioned himself spending the rest of his natural life with on some far-off planet, but simply because she was the only female Milt had been seeing.

Milt Klowitz had not quite been a Mama’s boy, but things had been so secure, so regulated, living with Mama, that until her death at the age of seventy-four Milt had lived on in the old house without a thought of the outside world. Least of all, marriage.

With his science fiction, his undemanding job in the advertising agency, and his Mama’s gugelhopf, Milt’s life had been cozily comfortable. But when Mama died, the old place became oppressive, and Milt had sold it to take this smaller, compact bachelor apartment.

He had met Naomi in the traffic department of the agency, when she had been sent up as a replacement from the typing pool. They had dated only casually. Although he had fumblingly kissed her on three occasions, there was never a thought of marriage. Marriage was totally outside his interests.

Now, it was his sole interest.

Consequently, it had to be Naomi Winkler.

“Hello, Naomi? Milt. I was, uh, wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight? Yeah, I know it’s Saturday and all that, but I was just thinking if we could get together—”

Milt had never known he could talk so long or so convincingly. But with the final gasp and the plunk of the receiver, he had made the dinner date.

He shaved with extreme care, and used more aftershave lotion than usual.

“This really is a lovely place, Milt. Are you sure you can afford it? I mean, it looks so expensive—”