But "the Saint" was harder to take than Old Nasty. He was His Wisdom CXLI and was so goddam noble and spiritual and holier-than-thou that I went fishing for three days. Star herself was robust and full of ginger and joy in life; this bloke didn't drink, smoke, chew gum, nor utter an unkind word. You could almost see Star's halo while she was under his influence.

Worse, he had renounced sex when he consecrated himself to the Universes and this had a shocking effect on Star; sweet submissiveness wasn't her style. So I went fishing.

I've one good thing to say for the Saint. Star says that he was the most unsuccessful emperor in all that long line, with genius for doing the wrong thing from pious motives, so she learned more from him than any other; he made every mistake in the book. He was assassinated by disgusted customers after only fifteen years, which isn't long enough to louse up anything as ponderous as a multi-universe empire.

His Wisdom CXXXVII was a Her—and Star was absent two days. When she came home she explained. "Had to, dear. I've always thought I was a rowdy bitch—but she shocked even me."

"How?"

"I ain't talkin', Guv'nor. I gave myself intensive treatment to bury her where you'll never meet her."

"I'm curious."

"I know you are and that's why I drove a stake through her heart—rough job, she's my direct ancestor. But I was afraid you might like her better than you do me. That unspeakable trull!"

I'm still curious.

Most of them weren't bad Joes. But our marriage would have been smoother if I had never known they were there. It's easier to have a wife who is a touch batty than one who is several platoons—most of them men. To be aware of their ghostly presence even when Star's own personality was in charge did my libido no good. But I must concede that Star knew the male viewpoint better than any other woman in any history. She didn't have to guess what would please a man; she knew more about it than I did, from "experience"—and was explosively uninhibited about sharing her unique knowledge.

I shouldn't complain.

But I did, I blamed her for being those other people. She endured my unjust complaints better than I endured what I felt to be the injustice in my situation vis-a-vis all that mob of ghosts.

Those ghosts weren't the worst fly in the soup.

I did not have a job. I don't mean nine-to-five and cut the grass on Saturdays and get drunk at the country club that night; I mean I didn't have any purpose. Ever look at a male lion in a zoo? Fresh meat on time, females supplied, no hunters to worry about—He's got it made, hasn't he?

Then why does he look bored!

I didn't know I had a problem, at first. I had a beautiful and loving wife; I was so wealthy that there was no way to count it; I lived in a most luxurious home in a city more lovely than any on Earth; everybody I met was nice to me; and best second only to my wonderful wife, I had endless chance to "go to college" in a marvelous and un-Earthly sense, with no need to chase a pigskin. Nor a sheepskin. I need never stop and had any conceivable help. I mean, suppose Albert Einstein drops everything to help with your algebra, pal, or Rand Corporation and General Electric team up to devise visual aids to make something easier for you.

This is luxury greater than riches.

I soon found that I could not drink the ocean even held to my lips. Knowledge on Earth alone has grown so out of hand that no man can grasp it—so guess what the bulk is in Twenty Universes, each with its laws, its histories, and Star alone knows how many civilizations.

In a candy factory, employees are urged to eat all they want. They soon stop.

I never stopped entirely; knowledge has more variety. But my studies lacked purpose. The Secret Name of God is no more to be found in twenty universes than in one—and all other subjects are the same size unless you have a natural bent.

I had no bent, I was a dilettante—and I realized it when I saw that my tutors were bored with me. So I let most of them go, stuck with math and multi-universe history, quit trying to know it all.

I thought about going into business. But to enjoy business you must be a businessman at heart (I'm not), or you have to need dough. I had dough; all I could do was lose it—or, if I won, I would never know whether word had gone out (from any government anywhere): Don't buck the Empress's consort, we will make good your losses.

Same with poker. I introduced the game and it caught on fast—and I found that I could no longer play it. Poker must be serious or it's nothing—out when you own an ocean of money, adding or losing a few drops mean nothing.

I should explain—Her Wisdom's "civil list" may not have been as large as the expenditures of many big spenders in Center; the place is rich. But it was as big as Star wanted it to be, a bottomless well of wealth. I don't know how many worlds split the tab, but call it twenty thousand with three billion people each—it was more than that.

A penny each from 60,000,000,000,000 people is six hundred billion dollars. The figures mean nothing except to show that spreading it so thin that nobody could feel it still meant more money than I could dent. Star's non-government of her un-Empire was an expense, I suppose—but her personal expenses, and mine, no matter how lavish, were irrelevant.

King Midas lost interest in his piggy bank. So did I.

Oh, I spent money. (I never touched any—unnecessary.) Our "flat" (I won't call it a palace) -- our home had a gymnasium more imaginative than any university gym; I had a salle d'armes added and did a lot of fencing, almost every day with all sorts of weapons. I ordered foils made to match the Lady Vivamus and the best swordmasters in several worlds took turns helping me. I had a range added, too, and had my bow picked up from that Gate cave in Karth-Hokesh, and trained in archery and in other aimed weapons. Oh, I spent money as I pleased.

But it wasn't much fun.

I was sitting in my study one day, doing not a damn thing but brood, while I played with a bowlful of jewels.

I had fiddled with jewelry design a while. It had interested me in high school; I had worked for a jeweler one summer. I can sketch and was fascinated by lovely stones. He lent me books, I got others from the library—and once he made up one of my designs.

I had a Calling.

But jewelers are not draft-deferred so I dropped it—until Center.

You see, there was no way for me to give Star a present unless I made it. So I did. I made costume jewelry of real stones, studying it (expert help, as usual), sending for a lavish selection of stones, drawing designs, sending stones and drawings out to be made up.

I knew that Star enjoyed jeweled costumes; I knew she liked them naughty—not in the sense of crowding the taboos, there weren't any—but provocative, gilding the lily, accentuating what hardly needs it.

The things I designed would have seemed at home in a French revue—but of real gems. Sapphires and gold suited Star's blond beauty and I used them. But she could wear any color and I used other gems, too.

Star was delighted with my first try and wore it that evening. I was proud of it; I had swiped the design from memory of a costume worn by a showgirl in a Frankfurt night club my first night out of the Army—a G-string deal, transparent long skirt open from the hip on one side and with sequins on it (I used sapphires), a thing that wasn't a bra but an emphasizer, completely jeweled, and a doohickey in her hair to match. High golden sandals with sapphire heels.

Star was warmly grateful for others that followed.

But I learned something. I'm not a jewelry designer. I saw no hope of matching the professionals who catered to the wealthy in Center. I soon realized that Star wore my designs because they were my gift, just as mama pins up the kindergarten drawings that sonny brings home. So I quit.