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knew that he could not stand to have Miss Pefko watch him for even another thirty seconds.
    “Miss Pefko,” he said, his eyes still closed, “I don’t think you’ll like it here.”
    “What?” said Francine.
    “Go back to the Girl Pool, Miss Pefko,” said Fuzz. “Tell them about the freak you found in the basement of Building 523. Demand a new assignment.”
    Fuzz opened his eyes.
    Francine was pale and rigid. She shook her head slightly, incredulous, scared. “You—you don’t like me, Mr. Littler?” she said.
    “That has nothing to do with it!” said Fuzz, standing. “Just clear out of here for your own good!”
    Francine stood, too, still shaking her head.
    “This is no place for a pretty, clever, ambitious, charming little girl like you,” said Fuzz unevenly. “Stay here and you’ll rot!”
    “Rot?” echoed Francine.
    “Rot like me,” said Fuzz. In a jangling jumble of words he poured out the story of his fubar life. And then, beet red and empty, he turned his back on Francine. “Good-bye, Miss Pefko,” he said, “it’s been extremely nice knowing you.”
    Francine nodded wincingly. She said nothing. Blinking hard and often, she gathered up her things and left.
    Fuzz sat down at his desk again, his head in his hands. He listened to Miss Pefko’s fading footfalls, awaited the great, echoing
ka-boom
that would tell him Francine had left his life forever.
    He waited and he waited and he waited for the
ka-boom
.And he supposed, finally, that he had been cheated out of that symbolic sound, that Francine had managed to close the door noiselessly.
    And then he heard music.
    The music Fuzz heard was a recording of a popular song, cheap and foolish. But, turned back on itself by the countless echo chambers of Building 523, the music was mysterious, dreamlike, magical.
    Fuzz followed the music upstairs. He found its source, a large phonograph set against one wall of the gym. He smiled bleakly. The music, then, had been a little farewell present from Francine.
    He let the record play to the end, and then he turned it off. He sighed, let his gaze travel over the decorations and playthings.
    If he had raised his eyes to the level of the balcony, he would have seen that Francine hadn’t left the building yet. She was sitting in the front row of the balcony, her arms resting on the pipe railing.
    But Fuzz did not look up. In what he believed to be privacy, he tried a melancholy dance step or two—without hope.
    And then Francine spoke to him. “Did it help?” she said. Fuzz looked up, startled.
    “Did it help?” she said again.
    “Help?” said Fuzz.
    “Did the music make you any happier?” said Francine.
    Fuzz found the question one he couldn’t answer promptly.
    Francine didn’t wait for an answer. “I thought maybe music would make you a little happier,” she said. She shookher head. “I don’t mean I thought it could solve anything. I just thought it would maybe—” She shrugged. “You know—maybe help a little.”
    “That’s—that’s very thoughtful of you,” said Fuzz.
    “Did it help?” said Francine.
    Fuzz thought about it, gave an honest, hesitant answer. “Yes—” he said. “I—I guess it did, a little.”
    “You could have music all the time,” said Francine. “There’s tons of records. I thought of something else that could help, too.”
    “Oh?” said Fuzz.
    “You could go swimming,” said Francine.
    “Swimming?” said Fuzz, amazed.
    “Sure,” said Francine. “Be just like a Hollywood movie star with his own private swimming pool.”
    Fuzz smiled at her for the first time in their relationship. “Someday I just might do that,” he said.
    Francine leaned out over the railing. “Why someday?” she said. “If you’re so blue, why don’t you go swimming right now?”
    “On company time?” said Fuzz.
    “There isn’t anything you can do for the company now anyway, is there?” said Francine.
    “No,” said Fuzz.
    “Then go on,” said