 How long had the branch of Hartshorne-Logan been opened?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction December 1956. The Christmas party at the Boston branch of Hartshorne-Logan was threatening to become more legendary than usual this Christmas. When he slid under the table containing the drinks, Miss Pringle, who sold millinery, had screamed: "He'll drown!" One out of every three dirty stories started by party attendees had remained unfinished, because each had reminded someone else of another story. The recently developed liquors which affected the bloodstream three times faster had driven away twinges of conscience about untrimmed trees and midnight church services. The janitor foreman weighed fifty pounds less than the Burma gentleman, who was the salesman's customary opponent. But the impact knocked the hallowed portrait of H. H. Hartshorne, co-founder, from its nail. "It's all in the spirit of good, clean fun!" cried Mr. Hawkins, the assistant general manager. Mr. Hawkins himself, acting by reflex, attempted to return the portrait to its place until new glass could be obtained. To hear more of it, he said to her: "I'll bet that's been in there ever since the picture was framed. There's a company legend that that picture was put up the day this branch opened, eighty years ago." He bent, reached painfully over his potbelly and picked up the order form. Here's an order that Hartshorne-Logan never filled! Milly was reading aloud the scrawled words on the order form: "Best electric doorbell. Finally, from an anonymous voice in one corner: "Would the warp work over eighty years? We were always told that it must be used only for complaints within three days." Mr. Hawkins downed the rest of his drink and pulled a batch of keys from his pocket. But I remember that my grandmother never bought anything from Hartshorne-Logan because of some trouble her mother had once with the firm. The label was addressed in a wandering scrawl, a sharp contrast to the impersonal typing on the customary Hartshorne-Logan bundles. Two-year-old Sally heard the box rattling. She found scissors in her sewing box, tossed a cushion onto the floor, sat on it, and began to open the parcel. The twine sprang away from the carton as if it were alive. Instead, she tossed the wrappings aside and removed the lid from the carton. Ann grabbed her daughter's arms, held them above her head and pulled at the dress. She took one step forward, then began to float three inches above the ground.
 Eighty years
 Eighty years  Eight years  Twenty years  Two years