.........Actually, you reach in the grab bag and whichevercomes out, it's much the same, but in those days— I had a friend, Mortenson — AndrewMortenson.

 

 I don't think you know him.

 I haven'tseen much of him myself in recent years.

The point is, he was soppy about a woman, aparticular woman.

 She was an angel, he said.

 Hecouldn't live without her.

 She was the only one inthe universe and without her the world wascrumbled bacon bits dipped in axle grease.

 Youknow the way lovers talk.

 

The trouble was she threw him over finally andapparently did so in a particularly cruel mannerand without regard for his self- esteem.

 She hadhumiliated him thoroughly, taking up with an-other right in front of him, snapping her fingersunder his nos- trils and laughing heartlessly at histears.

 

I don't mean that literally.

 I'm just trying to givethe impres- sion he gave me.

 He sat here drinkingwith me, here in this very room.

 My heart bled forhim and I said,"I'm sorry, Mortenson, but youmustn't take on so.

 When you stop to think of itclearly, she's only a woman.

 If you look out in thestreet, there are lots of them passing by.”

 He said,bitterly, “I intend a womanless existence fromnow on, old man — except for my wife, of course,whom, every now and then, I can't avoid.

 It's justthat I'd like to do something in return to thiswoman.”

 “To your wife?”

 I said.

 

“No, no, why should I like to do something to mywife?

 I'm talking about doing something for thiswoman who threw me over so heartlessly.”

 “Likewhat?”

 “Damned if I know,” said he.

 

“Maybe I can help,” I said, for my heart was stillbleeding for him.

 

 “I can make use of a spirit withquite extraordinary powers.

 

by Issac Azimov.