Max Field tossed aside his notebook and pounded his knee with his fist. God! To have seen that happen! To sweet little Alice!
His dream girl. But naturally. She had been too perfect, actually. She was designed for him, perhaps only a clever illusion clothed in flesh by his own imagination. At any rate she was the reason for him filling out all those forms. To discover just what he liked in every department. To give them a pattern for "Alice".
They were cute. Even to the point of having Starr pretend to dislike her. When Starr pretended to poke carefully into her background, that was enough to prevent Max from doing just that. Because actually she had no background. It was phony.
That phone call he had made to Corky. The girl who answered. That could have been Alice, using a heavy Brooklyn accent to cover her voice. She had been so convincing he hadn't bothered to check back later.
Now, the two of them were in the kitchen planning his death. "Science Fiction Editor Accidentally Killed in Mountain Retreat. Bride Stricken." Then the grief-stricken bride would carry on in his place. Orion was going great guns now. It really didn't need Max Field. And without him their propaganda machine could move forward all the faster—forward to the day when the Kiriki cosmic crusade moved down into this solar system. The Patterned Contentment boys would take over. Whose pattern? Kiriki, of course....
The kitchen door opened slowly. Max tensed.
It was—Alice.
She wore that clinging black lace negligee he had bought in an exclusive Fifth Avenue shop.
"Max."
He stood up stiffly, staring.