Broke, hungry, and considerably vexed at being called an unstable personality, especially since everything now combined to make him feel like one, Kevan MacGreene walked through the streets of Greenwich Village. It was in this mood that he arrived on the corner where Fourth Street unaccountably crosses Twelfth Street. Standing there for a minute, he happened to glance up and see the sign over one of the buildings:
TROUBLESHOOTERS, INC.
Below that, in smaller letters, it said:
Come in.
Kevan MacGreene went in.
The girl at the desk was lovely beyond words. Her hair was like black velvet and her eyes were an emerald green. Just looking at her made Kevan MacGreene feel better.
"I have some troubles I'd like shot," he said, saying the first thing that came into his aching head.
The girl smiled with a distant friendliness. "Do you mean you'd like to employ us?" she asked.
"No," said Kevan MacGreene, realizing what it was that he did want. "I'd like you to employ me."
"I'm sorry," the girl said, "but I'm afraid there are no positions open—none, at least, that you could fill."