Beyond This Horizon

CHAPTER FOUR

Boy Meets Girl

MONROE-ALPHA called for his ortho-wife again the next evening. She looked up and smiled as he came into her apartment. "Two nights running," she said. "Clifford, you'll have me thinking you are courting me."

"I thought you wanted to go to this party," he said woodenly.

"I do, my dear. And I appreciate your taking me. Half a minute, while I gown." She got up and slipped out of the room with a slow-seeming, easy glide. Larsen Hazel had been a popular dancing star in her day, both record and beamcast. She had wisely decided to retire rather than fight it out with younger women. She was now just thirty, two years younger than her spouse.

"All ready," she announced after an interval hardly longer than her promise mentioned.

He should have commented on her costume; it deserved comment. Not only did it do things with respect to her laudable figure, but its color, a live Mermaid green, harmonized with her hair and with her sandals, her hair ornaments, and her costume clips. They all were of the same dull gold as the skin-tight metallic habit he had chosen.

He should at least have noticed that she had considered what he was wearing in selecting her own apparel. Instead he answered, "Fine. We'll be right on tune."

"It's a new gown, Clifford."

"It's very pretty," he answered agreeably. "Shall we go?"

"Yes, surely."

He said very little during the ride, but watched the traffic as if the little car were not capable of finding its way through the swarming traffic without his supervision. When the car finally growled to a stop at the top floor of an outlying residence warren he started to raise the shell, but she put a hand on his arm. "Let it be, for a moment, Clifford. Can we talk for a little before we get lost in a swarm of people?"

"Why surely. Is something the matter?"

"Nothing-and everything. Clifford, my dear-there's no need for us to go on as we have been going."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean if you stop to think about it. I'm not necessary to you any more-am I?"

"Why, uh-Hazel, I don't know why you should say a thing like that. You've been swell. You're a swell girl, Hazel. Nobody could ask for anything more."

"Mmmm... that's as may be. I don't have any secret vices and I've never done you any harm that I know of. But that's not what I mean. You don't get any pleasure out of my company any more-any lift."

"Uh... that's not so. I couldn't ask for any better pal than you've been. We've never had an argu-"

She checked him with her hand. "You still don't understand me. It might be better if we did quarrel a little. I'd have a better idea of what goes on behind those big solemn eyes of yours. You don't dislike me. In fact, I think you like me as well as you like anybody. You even like to be with me, sometimes, if you're tired and I happen to fit your mood. But that isn't enough. And I'm fond enough of you to be concerned about you, darling. You need something more than I've been able to give you."

"I don't know how any woman could do any more than you've done for me."

"I do. I do, because I was once able to do it. Do you remember when we first registered? I gave you a lift then. You were happy. It made me happy, too. You were so pathetically pleased with me and with everything about me that sometimes I could cry, just to look at you."

"I haven't stopped being pleased with you."

"Not consciously. But I think I know what happened."

"What?"

"I was still dancing then. I was the great Hazel, premiere danseuse, I was everything you had never been. Glamour and bright lights and music. I remember how you used to call for me after a performance, looking so proud and so glad to see me. And I was so impressed by your intellect (I still am, dear) and I was so flattered that you paid attention to me."

"Why you could have had your pick of all the braves in the country."

"They didn't look at me the way you did. But that isn't the point. I'm not really glamorous and never was. I was just a working girl, doing the job she could do best. Now the lights are out and the music has stopped and I'm no longer any help to you."

"Don't say that, kid."

She placed a hand on his arm. "Be honest with yourself, Cliff. My feelings aren't hurt. I'm not a romantic person. ' My feelings have always been maternal, rather than anything else. You're my baby. You aren't happy and I want you to be happy."

He shrugged helplessly. "What is there to do about it? Even if everything you say is true, what is there to do?"

"I could make a guess. Somewhere there is a girl who is everything you thought I was. Someone who can do for you what I once did by just being herself."

"Hunnh! I don't know where I'd find her. There isn't any such person. No, kid, the trouble is with me, not with you. I'm a skeleton at the feast. I'm morose by nature. That's what."

"Hummph right back at you. You haven't found her because you haven't been looking for her. You've fallen into a rut, Cliff. Tuesdays and Fridays, dinner with Hazel. Mondays and Thursdays, work out at the gymnasium. Weekends, go to the country and soak up some natural vitamin D. You need to be shaken out of that. I'm going down tomorrow and register a consent."

"You wouldn't really!"

"I certainly shall. Then, if you find someone who pleases your fancy, you can confirm it without any delay."

"But Hazel, I don't want you to turn me loose."

"I'm not turning you loose. I'm just trying to encourage you to have a roving eye. You can come to see me whenever you like, even if you remarry. But no more of this Tuesday-and-Friday stuff. That's out. Try phoning me in the middle of the night, or duck out of your sacred office during working hours."

"Hazel, you don't really want me to go chasing after other women, do you?"

She took his chin in her hand. "Clifford, you are a big sweet dope. You know all there is to know about figures, but what you don't know about women would fill reels." She kissed him. "Relax. Mamma knows best."

"But-"

"The party waits."

He raised the shell of the car. They got out and went on in.

The town house of the Johnson-Smith Estaire occupied the entire top platform of the warren. It was a conspicuous example of conspicuous waste. The living quarters (that great pile of curiously assembled building materials could hardly be called a home) occupied perhaps a third of the space, the rest was given over to gardens, both open and covered. Her husband's ridiculously large income was derived from automatic furniture; it was her fancy to have her house display no apparent evidence of machine domination.

So it was that real live servants offered to take their wraps-they had none-and escorted them to the foot of the broad flight of stairs at the top of which the hostess was greeting her guests. She extended both arms as Clifford and Hazel approached. "My dear!" she bubbled to Hazel. "So gentle of you to come! And your brilliant husband." She turned to her guest of honor, standing at her side. "Doctor Thorgsen, these are two of my dearest friends. Larsen Hazel-such a clever little person, really. And Master Monroe-Alpha Clifford. He does things about money at the Department of Finance. Dreadfully intricate. I'm sure you would understand it-I don't."

Thorgsen managed to frown and smile simultaneously. "The Larsen Hazel? But you are-I recognize you. Will you be dancing for us tonight?"

"I no longer dance."

"What a pity! That is the first unfavorable change I've found on earth. I've been away ten years."

"You've been on Pluto. How fares it there, Doctor?"

"Chilly." He repeated his somewhat frightening mixed expression. Clifford caught his eye and bowed deeply. "I am honored, learned sir."

"Don't let it-I mean, not at all. Or something like that. Damn it sir, I'm not used to all this fancy politeness. Forgotten how to do it. We have a communal colony, you know. No weapons.

Monroe Alpha had noticed with surprise that Thorgsen was unarmed and brassarded, yet he carried himself with the easy arrogance of an armed citizen, sure of his position. "The life must be quite different," he offered.

"It is. It is. Nothing like this. Work, a little gossip, bed, and back to work again. You're in finance, eh? What sort of thing?"

"I compute the re-investment problem."

"That? Now I know who you are. We heard of your refinement of the general solution-even out on Pluto. High computation that. Makes our little stereo-parallax puzzles look fiddlin'."

"I would hardly say so."

"I would. Perhaps we can find a chance to talk later. You could give me some advice."

"I would be honored."

Several latecomers were waiting in line. Hazel could see that their hostess was becoming impatient. They moved on. "Enjoy yourselves, my dears," she invited them. "There are, well, things-" She waved vaguely.

There were indeed "things." Two theaters were available, one of which was giving a continuous performance of all the latest and smartest stereo-reels, the other provided the current spot news for anyone who could not relax without knowing what was going on out of his sight. There were gaming rooms, of course, and dozens of little snuggeries where small groups, or couples could enjoy each other's company tete-a-tete. A currently popular deceiver circulated through the crowd, displaying his jests and deceptions and sophisticated legerdemain to any who cared to watch. Food and drink in lavish variety, quality, and quantity were available everywhere.

The sweeping tesselated ballroom floor was lightly filled. Pattern dancing would come later. The huge room faced, with no wall intervening, into one of the covered gardens, unlighted save for lights below the surface of numerous rocky little pools. The other side of the ballroom was limited by the transparent wall of the swimming bath, the surface of which was on the floor above. In addition to ornate decoration and moving colored lights on the water side of the crystal wall, the swimmers themselves, with the inescapable gracefulness of underwater movement, gave life and harmony to that side of the room.

Clifford and Hazel seated themselves at that wall and leaned against the glass. "Shall we dance?" he asked.

"No, not just yet." A girl, swimming on the other side of the wall, glided down toward them and blew bubbles against the glass. Hazel followed the girl's nose with her forefinger, tracing against the glass. The swimmer grinned, she smiled back. "I think I'd like a dip, if you don't mind."

"Not at all."

"Join me?"

"No, thanks."

After she had gone he wandered around aimlessly for a few minutes. The recreations at hand left him cold; he was searching half-heartedly for a niche in which he could be alone to nurse his own melancholy and, perhaps, a drink as well. But couples-not melancholy!-had had the same idea; the smaller hideaways were populated. He gave up and entered a medium-sized lounge, already occupied by a stag group of half a dozen or so. They were engaged in the ancient sport of liquidating world problems in liquid.

He hesitated at the door, elevated his brows in query, received casual gracious consent from one who caught his eye, came on in and found a seat. The hot-air session went on.

"Suppose they do release the field?" one of the men present was saying. "What will it amount to? What will it contain? Some artifacts possibly, perhaps some records of the period in which it was set up. But nothing more than that. The notion that life could be preserved in it, unchanged, in absolute stasis, for several centuries is preposterous."

"How do you know? It's certain that they thought they had found a way of suspending, uh, shall we say freezing entropy. The instructions with the field are perfectly plain."

Monroe-Alpha began to understand what they were talking about. It was the so-called Adirondack stasis field. It had been a three-day wonder when it was discovered, a generation earlier, in a remote part of the mountain from which it got its name. Not that the field itself was spectacular-it was simply an impenetrable area of total reflection, a cubical mirror. Perhaps not impenetrable, for no real effort had been made to penetrate it-because of the plaque of instructions found with it. The plaque stated quite simply that the

field contained living specimens of the year 1926 (old style, of course) which could be released by the means given below-but there was nothing below.

Since the field had not been passed down in the custody of recognized institutions there was a strong tendency to regard the whole matter as a hoax. Nevertheless, attempts had been made to guess the secret of that blank plaque.

Monroe-Alpha had heard that it had at last been read, but he had not paid much attention. The newscasts were always full of wonders which amounted to little in the long run. He did not even recall how the inscription had been read-a reflected image, using polarized light, or something equally trivial.

"That isn't the matter of real interest," spoke up a third man. "Let us consider the purely intellectual problem of the hypothetical man who might thus be passed down to us, out of the Dark Ages." He was a slender, youngish man-in his late twenties, Clifford judged-and was dressed in a turquoise blue satin which brought out the pallor of his face. He spoke with slow intensity. "What would he think of this world in which he suddenly finds himself? What have we to offer him in exchange for that which he has left behind?"

"What have we to offer him! Everything! Look around you."

The young man answered with a superior smile. "Yes-look around you. Gadgets-but what need has he for gadgets? He comes from an earlier, braver world. A world of independence and dignity. Each man tilled his own plot of ground with his woman by his side. He raised his own children, straight and strong, and taught them to wrest their food from Mother Earth. He had no artificial lights, but he had no need for them. He was up with the dawn and busy with his serious, fundamental affairs. At sundown he was tired and welcomed the rest of night. If his body was sweaty and dusty with honest labor, he took a dip in his own brook. He needed no fancy swimming baths. He was based, rock solid, on primitive essentials."

"And you think he actually liked that better than modern comforts?"

"I certainly do. Those men were happy. They lived naturally, as the Great Egg intended they should."

Monroe-Alpha turned the idea over in his mind. There was something devilishly appealing about it. He felt, quite sincerely, that he cared nothing for gadgets. Not even for his master accumulator. It was not the machine he cared about but the mathematical principles involved. And since when did a mathematician need any tools but his own head? Pythagoras had done well enough with a stick and a stretch of sand. As for other matters, if he and Hazel were partners in the old, old, fight to win a living from the eternal soil, would they have drifted apart?

He closed his eyes and visualized himself back in the simple, golden days of 1926. He was dressed in homespun, woven by his wife's capable hands-or even in the skins of animals, cured on their cabin door. There would be children somewhere about-three, he thought. When the day's work was over, he would walk to the top of the hill with his oldest son, and show him the beauty of the sunset. When the stars came out he would explain to him the intricate wonders of astronomy. Wisdom would be passed down from father to son, as it had been.

There would be neighbors-strong, silent men, whose curt nod and hard handclasp meant more than the casual associations of modern "civilization."

There were others present who did not accept the thesis as readily as Monroe-Alpha. The argument was batted back and forth until it grew somewhat acrimonious. The young man who had started it-Gerald seemed to be his name-got up and asked the company to excuse him. He seemed slightly miffed at the reception his ideas had gotten.

Monroe-Alpha arose quickly and followed him out of the room. "Excuse me, gentle sir."

Gerald paused. "Yes?"

"Your ideas interest me. Will you grant me the boon of further conversation?"

"Gladly. You do me honor, sir."

"The benefit is mine. Shall we find a spot and sit?"

"With pleasure."

Hamilton Felix showed up at the party somewhat late. His credit account was such that he rated an invitation to any of Johnson-Smith Estaire's grand levees, although she did not like him-his remarks confused her; she half suspected the amused contempt he had for her.

Hamilton was troubled by no gentlemanly scruples which might have kept him from accepting hospitality under the circumstances. Estaire's parties swarmed with people in amusing combinations. Possessing no special talents of her own, she nevertheless had the knack of inducing brilliant and interesting persons to come to her functions. Hamilton liked that.

In any case there were always swarms of people present. People were always funny-the more, the merrier!

He ran across his friend Monroe-Alpha almost at once, walking in company with a young fellow dressed in a blue which did not suit his skin. He touched his shoulder. "Hi, Cliff."

"Oh-hello, Felix."

"Busy?"

"At the moment, yes. A little later?"

"Spare me a second. Do you see that bucko leaning against a pillar over there. Now-he's looking this way." "What about him?"

"I think I should recognize him, but I don't."

"I do. Unless I am misled by a close resemblance, he was in the party of the man you burned, night before last."

"Sooo! Now that's interesting."

"Try to stay out of trouble, Felix." "Don't worry. Thanks, Cliff."

"Not at all."

They moved on, left Hamilton watching the chap he had inquired about. The man evidently became aware that he was being watched, for he left his place and came directly to Hamilton. He paused a ceremonious three paces away and said, "I come in friendship, gentle sir."

"The House of Hospitality encloses none but friends, '" Hamilton quoted formally.

"You are kind, sir. My name is McFee Norbert."

"Thank you. I hight Hamilton Felix." "Yes, I know."

Hamilton suddenly changed his manner. "Ah! Did your friend know that when he chopped at me?"

McFee glanced quickly to the right and left, as if to see whether or not the remark had been overheard. It was obvious that he did not like the tack. "Softly, sir. Softly," he protested. "I tell you I come in friendship. That was a mistake, a regrettable mistake. His quarrel was with another."

"So? Then why did he challenge me?" "It was a mistake, I tell you. I am deeply sorry."

"See here," said Hamilton. "Is this procedure? If he made an honest error, why does he not come to me like a man? I'll receive him in peace." "He is not able to."

"Why? I did no more than wing him." "Nevertheless, he is not able to. I assure you he has been disciplined."

Hamilton looked at him sharply. "You say 'disciplined'- and he is not able to meet with me. Is he-perhaps-so 'disciplined' that he must tryst with a mortician instead?"

The other hesitated a moment. "May we speak privately-under the rose?"

"There is more here than shows above water. I don't like the rose, my friend Norbert." McFee shrugged. "I am sorry."

Hamilton considered the matter. After all, why not? The set-up looked amusing. He hooked an arm in McFee's. "Let it be under the rose, then. Where shall we talk?"

McFee filled the glass again. "You have admitted, Friend Felix, that you are not wholly in sympathy with the ridiculous genetic policy of our so-called culture. We knew that."

"How?"

"Does it matter? We have our ways. I know you are a man of courage and ability, ready for anything. Would you like to put your resources to work on a really worthwhile project?"

"I would need to know what the project is."

"Naturally. Let me say-no, perhaps it is just as well not to say anything. Why should I burden you with secrets?"

Hamilton refused the gambit. He just sat. McFee waited, then added, "Can I trust you, my friend?"

"If you can't, then what is my assurance worth?"

The intensity of McFee's deep-set eyes relaxed a little for the first time. He almost smiled. "You have me. Well... I fancy myself a good judge of men. I choose to trust you. Remember, this is still under the rose. Can you conceive of a program, scientifically planned to give us the utmost from the knowledge we have, which would not be inhibited by the silly rules under which our official geneticists work?"

"I can conceive of such a program, yes."

"Backed by tough-minded men, men capable of thinking for themselves?"

Hamilton nodded. He still wondered what this brave was driving at, but he had decided to see the game through.

"There isn't much more I can say... here," McFee concluded. "You know where the Hall of the Wolf is?"

"Certainly."

"You are a member?"

Hamilton nodded. Everybody, or almost everybody, belonged to the Ancient Benevolent and Fraternal Order of the Wolf. He did not enter its portals once in six months, but it was convenient to have a place to rendezvous in a strange city. The order was about as exclusive as a rain storm.

"Good. Can you meet me there, later tonight?"

"I could."

"There is a room there where some of my friends sometimes gather. Don't bother to inquire at the desk-it's in the Hall of Romulus and Remus, directly opposite the escalator. Shall we say at two hundred?"

"Make it half past two."

"As you wish."

Monroe-Alpha Clifford saw her first during the grand promenade. He could not have told truthfully why she caught his eye. She was beautiful, no doubt, but beauty alone is, of course, no special mark of distinction among girls. They cannot help being beautiful, any more than can a Persian cat, or a luna moth, or a fine race horse.

What she did possess is less easy to tag. Perhaps it will do to say that, when Monroe-Alpha caught sight of her, he forgot about the delightful and intriguing conversation he had been having with Gerald, he forgot that he did not care much for dancing and had been roped into taking part in the promenade only through his inadvertent presence in the ballroom when the figure was announced, he forgot his own consuming melancholy.

He was not fully aware of all this. He was only aware that he had taken a second look and that he thereafter spent the entire dance trying to keep track of her. As a result of which he danced even worse than usual. He was forced to apologize to his temporary partners more than once for his awkwardness.

But he continued to be clumsy, for he was trying to work out in his head the problem of whether or not the figures of the dance would bring them together, make them partners for an interval. If he had been confronted with the question as an abstract problem-Given: the choreographic score of the dance. Required: will unit A and unit B ever come in contact?-had it been stated thus, he could have found the answer almost intuitively, had he considered it worthy of his talents.

To attempt to solve it after the dynamics had commenced, when he himself was one of the variables, was another matter. Had he been in the second couple? Or the ninth?

He had decided that the dance would not bring them together, and was trying to figure out some way to fudge-to change positions with another male dancer-when the dance did bring them together.

He felt her finger tips in his. Then her weight was cradled against his hand as he swung her by the waist. He was dancing lightly, beautifully, ecstatically. He was outdoing himself -he could feel it.

Fortunately, she landed on top.

Because of that he could not even help her to her feet. She scrambled up and attempted to help him. He started laboriously to frame his apology in the most abjectly formal terms he could manage when he realized that she was laughing.

"Forget it," she interrupted him. "It was fun. We'll practice that step on the quiet. It will be a sensation."

"Most gracious madame-" he began again.

"The dance-" she said. "We'll be lost!" She slipped away through the crowd, found her place.

Monroe-Alpha was too demoralized by the incident to attempt to find his proper place. He slunk away, too concerned with his own thalamic whirlwind to worry over the gaucherie he was commiting in leaving a figure dance before the finale.

He located her again, after the dance, but she was in the midst of a group of people, all strangers to him. A dextrous young gallant could have improvised a dozen dodges on the spot whereby the lady could have been approached. He had no such talent. He wished fervently that his friend Hamilton would show up-Hamilton would know what to do. Hamilton was resourceful in such matters. People never scared him.

She was laughing about something. Two or three of the braves around her laughed too. One of them glanced his way. Damn it-were they laughing at him?

Then she looked his way. Her eyes were warm and friendly. No, she was not laughing at him. He felt for an instant that he knew her, that he had known her for a long time, and that she was inviting him, as plain as speech, to come join her. There was nothing coquettish about her gaze. Nor was it tomboyish. It was easy, honest, and entirely feminine.

He might have screwed up his courage to approach her then, had not a hand been placed on his arm. "I've been looking everywhere for you, young fellow."

It was Doctor Thorgsen. Monroe-Alpha managed to stammer, "Uh... How do you fare, learned sir?"

"As usual. You aren't busy, are you? Can we have a gab?"

Monroe-Alpha glanced back at the girl. She was no longer looking at him, was instead giving rapt attention to something one of her companions was saying. Oh well, he thought, you can't expect a girl to regard being tumbled on a dance floor as the equivalent of a formal introduction. He would look up his hostess later and get her to introduce them. "I'm not busy," he acknowledged. "Where shall we go?"

"Let's find some place where we can distribute the strain equally on all parts," Thorgsen boomed. "I'll snag a pitcher of drinks. I see by this morning's news that your department announces another increase in the dividend, " he began.

"Yes," Monroe-Alpha said, a little mystified. There was nothing startling in an increase in the productivity of the culture. The reverse would have been news; an increase was routine.

"I suppose there is an undistributed surplus?"

"Of course. There always is." It was a truism that the principal routine activity of the Board of Policy was to find suitable means to distribute new currency made necessary by the ever-increasing productive capital investment. The simplest way was by the direct issue of debt-free credit-flat money-to the citizens directly, or indirectly in the form of a subsidized discount on retail sales. The indirect method permitted a noncoercive control against inflation of price symbols. The direct method raised wages by decreasing the incentive to work for wages. Both methods helped to insure that goods produced would be bought and consumed and thereby help to balance the books of every businessman in the hemisphere.

But man is a working animal. He likes to work. And his work is infernally productive. Even if he is bribed to stay out of the labor market and out of production by a fat monthly dividend, he is quite likely to spend his spare time working out some gadget which will displace labor and increase productivity.

Very few people have the imagination and the temperament to spend a lifetime in leisure. The itch to work overtakes them. It behooved the planners to find as many means as possible to distribute purchasing power through wages in spheres in which the work done would not add to the flood of consumption goods. But there is a reasonably, if not an actual, limit to the construction, for example, of non-productive public works. Subsidizing scientific research is an obvious way to use up credit, but one, however, which only postpones the problem, for scientific research, no matter how "pure" and useless it may seem, has an annoying habit of paying for itself many times, in the long run, in the form of greatly increased productivity.

"The surplus," Thorgsen went on, "have they figured out what they intend to do with it?"

"Not entirely, I am reasonably sure," Monroe-Alpha told him. "I haven't given it much heed. I'm a computer, you know, not a planner."

"Yes, I know. But you're in closer touch with these planning chappies than I am. Now I've got a little project in my mind which I'd like the Policy Board to pay for. If you'll listen, I'll tell you about and, I hope, get your help in putting it over."

"Why don't you take it up with the Board directly?" Monroe-Alpha suggested. "I have no vote in the matter."

"No, but you know the ins-and-outs of the Board and I don't. Besides I think you can appreciate the beauty of the project. Offhand, it's pretty expensive and quite useless."

"That's no handicap."

"Huh? I thought a project had to be useful?"

"Not at all. It has to be worthwhile and that generally means that it has to be of benefit to the whole population. But it should not be useful in an economic sense."

"Hmmm... I'm afraid this one won't benefit anybody."

"That is not necessarily a drawback. 'Worthwhile' is an elastic term. But what is it?"

Thorgsen hesitated a moment before replying. "You've seen the ballistic planetarium at Buenos Aires?"

"No, I haven't. I know about it, of course."

"It's a beautiful thing! Think of it, man-a machine to calculate the position of any body in the solar system, at any time, past or future, and give results accurate to seven places."

"It's nice," Monroe-Alpha agreed. "The basic problem is elementary, of course. " It was-to him. To a man who dealt in the maddeningly erratic variables of socio-economic problems, in which an unpredictable whim of fashion could upset a carefully estimated prediction, a little problem involving a primary, nine planets, a couple of dozen satellites, and a few hundred major planetoids, all operating under a single invariable rule, was just that-elementary. It might be a little complex to set up, but it involved no real mental labor.

"Elementary!" Thorgsen seemed almost offended. "Oh, well, have it your own way. But what would you think of a machine to do the same thing for the entire physical universe?"

"Eh? I'd think it was fantastic."

"So it would be-now. But suppose we attempted to do it for this galactic island only."

"Still fantastic. The variables would be of the order of three times ten to the tenth, would they not?"

"Yes. But why not? If we had time enough-and money enough. Here is all I propose," he said earnestly. "Suppose we start with a few thousand masses on which we now have accurate vector values. We would assume straight-line motion for the original set up. With the stations we now have on Pluto, Neptune, and Titan, we could start checking at once. Later on, as the machine was revised, we could include some sort of empirical treatment of the edge effect-the limit of our field, I mean. The field would be approximately an oblate ellipsoid."

"Double oblation, wouldn't it be, including parallax shown by our own stellar drift?''

"Yes, yes. That would become important."

"I suppose you will include the Solar Phoenix devolution?"

"Huh?"

"Why, I should think that was obvious. You'll type the stars, won't you? The progression of the hydrogen-helium transformation in each body is certainly a key datum."

"Brother, you're way ahead of me. I was thinking only of a master ballistic solution."

"Why stop with that? When setting up a structural analogue why not make the symbolic mechanism as similar to the process as possible?"

"Sure, sure. You're right. I just wasn't that ambitious. I was willing to sell out for less. Tell me-d'you think the Board would go for it?"

"Why not? It's worthwhile, it's very expensive, it will run on for years, and it doesn't show any prospect of being economically productive. I would say it was tailor-made for subsidy."

"It does me good to hear you say so."

They made a date for the following day.

As soon as he could gracefully do so, Monroe-Alpha excused himself from Thorgsen and went back to where he had last seen the girl. She was no longer there. He spent more than an hour looking for her, and was finally forced to the conclusion that she had left the party, or had hidden herself very cleverly. She was not in the swimming bath, or, if she were, she was capable of remaining under water longer than ten minutes. She was not in any of the accessible rooms-he had risked his life quite unconsciously, so thoroughly had he searched the dark corners.

He intended to tell Hazel of the incident on the way to her home, but he could not find the words. What was there to tell, really? He had seen an attractive girl, and had managed to trip her by his clumsiness. What was there in that? He did not even know her name. And it did not, somehow, seem like just the evening to speak to Hazel of other women. Good old Hazel!

She noticed his preoccupation, noticed that it differed in character from his earlier glumness. "Enjoy yourself, Clifford?"

"I think so. Yes."

"Meet any attractive girls?"

"Why, uh, yes. Several."

"That's nice."

"See here, Hazel-you don't intend to go through with this silly divorce business, do you?"

"I do."

One might think that he lay awake that night, filled with romantic thoughts of the nameless beauty. One would be wrong. He did think of her, but only for long enough to work out a suitable face-rehabilitating day dream, one in which he made killingly witty remarks anent his own awkwardness to which she responded with proper appreciation. It had not even been necessary to bulldoze any of the braves who surrounded her. They, too, had applauded his wit.

Nor did he think long of Hazel. If she saw fit to break the contract, it was her business. Not that there was any sense to it; it did not occur to him that anything could greatly change their relations. But he would stop this twice-a-week dine-and-visit. A woman appreciated a few surprises, he supposed.

All this was simply to clear the circuits for the serious getting-to-sleep thoughts. Thorgsen's proposal. A really pretty problem, that. A nice problem-

Hamilton Felix had a much busier night. So busy, that he had much on his mind at breakfast the next morning. Decisions to make, matters to evaluate. He did not even turn on the news, and, when the annunciator informed him that a visitor waited outside his door, he punched the "welcome" key absent-mindedly, without stopping to consider whether he really wished to see anyone. Some woman, he had noticed, from the mug plate. His thoughts went no further.

She came in and perched herself on the arm of a chair, one leg swinging. "Well," she said, "good morning, Hamilton Felix!"

He looked at her in puzzlement. "Do we know each other?"

"Noooo," she said calmly, "but we will. I thought it was about time I looked you over."

"I know!" He stabbed the air with a forefinger. "You are the woman Mordan picked for me!"

"That's right. Of course."

"Why, damn your impudence! What the devil do you mean by invading my privacy like this?"

"Tut! Tut! Tut! Mamma spank. Is that any way to talk to the future mother of your children?"

"Mother of my fiddlesticks! If I needed anything to convince me that I want to have nothing to do with the scheme, you have given it to me. If I ever do have children, it won't be by you!"

She had on shorts and a boyish corselet. In defiance of usual custom for her sex she wore, belted to her side, a hand weapon, small but deadly. She stood up at his words, resting her hands on her hips. "What's wrong with me?" she said slowly.

"Hunh! What's wrong with you! What isn't wrong with you? I know your type. You're one of these 'independent' women, anxious to claim all the privileges of men but none of the responsibilities. I can just see you, swaggering around town with that damned little spit gun at your side, demanding all the rights of an armed citizen, picking fights in the serene knowledge that no brave will call your bluff. Arrgh! You make me sick."

She remained still, but her face was cold. "You are a shrewd judge of character, aren't you? Now you listen to me for a while. I haven't drawn this gun, except in practice, for years. I don't go around insisting on privileges and I am just as punctiliously polite as the next brave."

"Then why do you wear it?"

"Is there anything wrong with a woman preferring the dignity of an armed citizen? I don't like to be coddled and I don't like to be treated like a minor child. So I waive immunity and claim my right-I go armed. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing-if that were really the case. Which it isn't. You give the lie to your own words by the fashion in which you broke in on me. A man couldn't get away with it."

"So! So? Let me remind you, you ill-mannered oaf, that you signalled 'welcome' and let me in. You did not have to. Once inside, before I could say yes, no, or maybe, you started to snarl at me."

"But-"

"Never mind! You think you have a grievance. I said I hadn't drawn this gun in years-that doesn't mean I'm not ready to! I'm going to give you a chance, my fine bucko boy, to work out that grievance. Belt on your gun."

"Don't be silly."

"Strap on your gun! Or, so help me, I'll take it away from you and hang it in the Square."

Instead of answering he moved toward her. She gripped her weapon, half drew it. "Stand back! Stand back, or I'll burn you."

He checked himself and looked at her face. "Great Egg!" he said delightedly. "I believe you would. I honestly believe you would."

"Of course I would."

"That," he admitted, "puts a different face on things, doesn't it?" He eased back a step, as if to parley. She relaxed a trifle, and removed her fist from the grip of the weapon.

He lunged forward, low, tackling her around the knees. They rolled on the floor, tussled briefly. When events slowed down a little, it could be seen that he had her right wrist grasped firmly, as firmly, indeed, as her right hand gripped her gun.

He banged her knuckles hard against the polished floor, grabbed the shank of the weapon with his other hand and broke it out of her grasp. Still grasping her wrist, he struggled to his knees and moved away from the spot, half dragging her behind him. He ignored the minor violences that were happening to his person in the process. When he was within reach he chucked her gun in the oubliette and turned his attention back to her.

Heedless of her struggles he picked her up and carried her to a large chair where he seated himself with her on his lap. He pinned her legs between his knees, forced her arms behind her back until he managed to get both her wrists in one of his fists. She bit him in the process.

With her thus effectively immobilized, he settled back, holding her away from him, and looked at her face. "Now we can talk," he said cheerily. He measured her face with his eye, and slapped her once, not too hard but with plenty of sting in it. "That's for biting. Don't do it again."

"Let me go."

"Be reasonable. If you look closely you will see that I am nearly forty kilos heavier than you are, and a lot taller. You are tough and strong-I've got to hand it to you-but I'm a hell of a sight stronger and tougher. What you want doesn't matter."

"What do you intend to do with me?"

"Talk to you. Yes, and I think I'll kiss you."

She answered this by giving a brief but entirely futile imitation of a small cyclone, with wildcat overtones. When it was over he said, "Put your face up."

She did not. He took a handful of hair and snapped her head back. "No biting," he warned, "or I'll beat holy hell out of you."

She did not bite him, but she did not help with the kiss either. "That," he observed conversationally, "was practically a waste of time. You 'independent' girls don't know anything about the art."

"What's wrong with the way I kiss?" she said darkly.

"Everything. I'd as lief kiss a twelve-year-old."

"I can kiss all right if I want to."

"I doubt it. I doubt if you've ever been kissed before. Men seldom make passes at girls that wear guns."

"That's not true."

"Caught you on the raw, didn't I? But it is true and you know it. See here-I'll give you a chance to prove that I'm wrong, and then we'll talk about letting you go."

"You're hurting my arm."

"Well-"

This kiss was longer than the first one, about eight times as long. Hamilton released her, drew his breath, and said nothing.

"Well?"

"Young lady," he said slowly, "I've misjudged you. Twice, I've misjudged you."

"Will you let me go now?"

"Let you go? That last deserves an encore."

"That's not fair."

"My lady," he said quite seriously, "'fair' is a purely abstract concept By the way, what is your name?"

"Longcourt Phyllis. You're changing the subject."

"How about the encore?"

"Oh, well!" He relaxed his hold on her completely. Nonetheless, it was as long and as breath-consuming as the last. At its conclusion she ran a hand through his hair, mussing it. "You heel," she said. "You dirty heel!"

"From you, Phyllis, that's a compliment. Have a drink?",

"I could use one."

He made a ceremony of selecting the liquor, fetching glasses, and pouring. He paused with his glass in the air. "Shall we pledge peace?"

She checked her own glass before it reached her mouth. "At this point? I think not. I want to catch you armed."

"Oh, come now. You fought valiantly and were licked with honor. To be sure I slapped you, but you bit me. It's even."

"How about the kisses?"

He grinned. "That was an even exchange. Don't be stuffy. I don't want you hunting me down. Come on. Peace, and let bygones be bygones." He raised his glass a trifle.

He caught her eye and she smiled in spite of herself. "All right-peace."

"Have another drink?"

"No, thanks. I've got to go."

"What's the hurry?"

"I really must go. May I have my blazer now?"

He opened the oubliette, reached in, recovered it, and dusted it off. "It's mine, you know. I won it."

"You wouldn't keep it, would you?"

"That's what I mean," he said, "about you armed women just pretending to take a man's part. A man would never ask for his gun back. He would wear a brassard first."

"Are you going to keep it?"

"No, but I wish you wouldn't wear it."

"Why not?"

"Because I want to take you to dinner tonight. I'd feel a fool, escorting an armed woman."

She looked at him. "You're an odd one, Hamilton Felix. Slap a girl around, then ask her to dinner."

"You'll come?"

"Yes, I'll come." She unsnapped her gun belt and tossed it to him. "Tube them back to me. The address is on the name-plate."

"Twenty hundred?"

"Or a few minutes after."

"Do you know, Phyllis," he said as he dilated the door for her, "I have a feeling that you and I are going to have lots and lots of fun."

She gave him a slow, sidelong look. "You'll find out!"