it wasn't that pete cooper didn't love his wives, or that he wanted to see them hurry on into the next world. he always felt real grief when he found himself a widower.

but a man must be practical. they were all healthy young women, or at least middle aged when he married them, good insurance risks, and no insurance agent was turning down the business when pete asked for a policy that big, especially when pete was putting the cash on the line to pay up the policy when he bought it.

that was the most sensible way for a man in the interstellar service to invest his money, pete said. when he was out in space traveling at near light speed, and time slowed almost to a stop for him, the few months he spent on an expedition meant that nine years passed for a wife on earth for a centauri trip, and sirius meant fifteen, and altair twenty-five. so a man only saw his wife two or three times between trips, and maybe the last time he saw her he had to take her to the old ladies' home, and the next time he pulled into earth the insurance company was waiting for him with a check. safer than stocks, and there was always the possibility that the loving wife might come to an accidental end, which would sadden him, but it meant a double indemnity payment. that sort of satisfied a man's natural desire to have a little speculation attached to his investment.

sally was the seventh. pete sat fingering the check, feeling genuine sadness at his bereavement.

"lovely girl," he told the insurance agent. "it makes a man feel empty to come home from the stars and find that his wife has gone to her reward."

the insurance man disguised a cynical smirk behind his sympathetic mask. "yes ... a wonderful woman. but it must happen to all of us."

he patted pete's shoulder gently. pete rose, folded the check carelessly and put it into a pocket. he shook the insurance agent's hand.

"you've been very kind. i'll take your card ... in case i ever need another policy...."