and son raking leaves in the front yard, graceful elderly couple entertaining children and grandchildren at a merry hearth, young husband and wife going to bed. He was in no hurry now, for the Marriage Building was legal sanctuary.

He passed the long lines of registering Quickies, men filing into one room, women into another. He let his glance rove the line of female Quickies, wondering if his new wife would come from this group. They ranged in age from eighteen to about sixty, he guessed, and naturally they were of all conceivable types. He caught himself in time and stopped looking. It was not considered proper etiquette.

Rounding a turn in the corridor, Simon took the slidestair down one level to where Transients registered and attached himself to the end of a long line of men which was swallowed slowly by a doorway above which was the legend: MARRIAGE COUNSELORS.

Simon checked his counterfeit registration papers and was aware of the old, familiar feeling of uncertainty. His heart bobbed up into his throat and pounded there. His palms were clammy, his fingers wouldn't keep still. Would the papers pass inspection? He was almost certain they would. But he savored the other possibility although he hated its ultimate consequences. As some people craved security, so others thrived on adventure.

Simon lit a cigarette and waited while the line crawled forward, paralleling a line of female Transients moving through another doorway.

"Sit down, Mr. Grover," the Counselor said as Simon entered the room. It was a large place with a central aisle and a dozen private cubbies on either side, each one with celotex walls, a desk, two chairs, the latest in marriage literature, and a Counselor.

Simon eased his small frame into a comfortable chair and handed his papers to the Counselor. "I see you have come from Philadelphia," the man said, smiling not quite professionally--which, Simon knew, was the best of all professional smiles. "Were the accommodations satisfactory? Of course, you don't have to talk about them."

"They were fine. Just fine." Naturally, Simon did not tell the Counselor about his flight from the police.

"How long will you be with us in New York?"

"I figure about three weeks. It depends on business, though. Might be a little longer, I guess."

"We'll say three weeks." The Counselor scrawled something on 

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