Hannah Broch didn't like the way her husband dressed, drank, drove, walked, talked, cleared his throat, made love (too noisy) or water (likewise). In the morning he'd try to fold his pajamas but they always looked like a lump. His belly was large and soft. He had one of those minds which, given, say, a telephone number, could concentrate on it for a few seconds and almost immediately would not only have forgotten the number, but whose it was and to whom he was talking. In the evening he'd waddle in smelling of beer and try to kiss her. She could have poked his eyes out. And now he had a mistress! She could have kicked in his teeth.

Hannah shook her head sometimes, wondering why she held so tenaciously to the little bastard. The truth was, she was competitive. She would rather pull out her hair and set it on fire than lose at anything, whether it was cards or cribbage, chess or conversation. To get a divorce, then, would be to admit a great Defeat, and she was not about to do it. Therefore, when she discovered her husband was having an affair, she called the Authorities.

She was uncertain what they would do or even what they were supposed to do. But she knew they were there—they were everywhere—and they had ways of smoothing over all difficulties. People often resented the amount of paperwork generated by the Authorities, but everyone admitted they got the job done, and life was better.