AN AVON GIANT/W143/

400,000 COPIES IN PRINT

ROBERT H. RIMMER

author of

THE HARRAD EXPERIMENT

The shocking novel that explores a new kind of sexual relationship

THE REBELLION OF

YALE MARRATT

PAPERS DARED TO REVIEW
THE REBELLION OF YALE MARRATT!

"SENSATIONAL . . . Rimmer is candid about sexual mat-
ters and presents a new code of ethics which is aimed
at bolstering a social structure which in the past 50 years
is breaking into smaller and smaller family units."
-- Los Angeles Herald-Examiner

"A SHOCKER, lots of sex, lots of wild parties, lots of free
thinking. Its merits will be debated quite a while."
-- Long Beach Press-Telegram

"A novel on bigamy which is causing shocked reaction in
some quarters and stimulating provocative debate in
others."
-- San Francisco Examiner

THE REBELLION OF

YALE MARRATT

ROBERT H.
RIMMER

AN AVON BOOK

FOR ALL WOMEN, ESPECIALLY TWO

All characters and situations in this novel are entirely fictional
and any resemblance to any persons living or dead
is purely coincidental.

AVON BOOKS

A division of

The Hearst Corporation
959 Eighth Avenue
New York, N. Y. 10019

Copyright 1964 by Robert H. Rimmer.

Published by arrangement with Challenge Press.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 64-16411.

All rights reserved, which includes the right
to reproduce this book or portions thereof in
any form whatsoever. For information address
Challenge Press, Inc., 63 Summer Street,
Boston, Mass. 02110.

First Printing. June, 1967.
Fifth Printing, March, 1969.

Cover photo by Morgan Kane

AVON TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND
FOREIGN COUNTRIES, REGISTERED TRADEMARK --
MARCA REGISTRADA, HECHO EN CHICAGO, U.S.A.

Printed in the U.S.A.

Note

In the last portion of this novel, Yale Marratt creates
a foundation called Challenge Incorporated. The similarity
in name to that of the original publisher of The Rebellion
of Yale Marratt  is purely coincidental. In neither fact nor
fiction does any familiarity exist.

Prologue

The trial started promptly at nine thirty in the morning. The courtroom was packed five minutes after it opened with a jabbering mob of the curious and prurient. They had waited in the chill October fog with more than a thousand others for a glimpse of Cynthia and Anne, and the man, Yale Marratt, who lived so disgustingly with two women. The freak of a man . . . who had been headlined in the morning papers with that queer one, Agatha Latham, who was going to leave him her entire fortune. The man who it was said had founded a multi-million dollar religion using some strange and weird power he exerted over women both young and old.

When Ralph Weeks drove the Buick in front of the Buxton County Courthouse, Yale, Anne, Cynthia, and Agatha were immediately surrounded by a mob of excited women who shoved and pushed at each other, yelling and screaming. Some seemed friendly, others stared disdainfully. The police broke a path through the crowd up the steps toward the courthouse.

Anne grinned at Yale for a fleeting second. "There's no half-way, Yale," she said, "they either love you or hate you."

Walking side by side, following Agatha who was being helped up the long stairs to the courthouse by Yale and Ralph Weeks, Cynthia and Anne ignored the jibes. For some curious reason many of the women who stared at them seemed to like Yale but were angry at the girls. One woman, slipping by the police, said, "Pay no attention to them, dearies. They're just put out because you two got him and not them. I don't blame you a bit. If he asked me, I'd marry him. You hang onto him." The police pushed the woman back but Anne and Cynthia couldn't help smiling at each other.

Anne and Cynthia tried to conceal their nervousness. Here and there the milling crowd would feel the impact of their contrasting beauty and the youthful grace in their clean young faces, and would become silent for a moment. It was as if the people staring at them suddenly realized that these were not sordid females championing an unholy alliance, but two lovely girls with a fresh ardor and wonder for life. Were these spectators aware for a second of the proud strength of these women?

Cynthia, Anne and Agatha were directed to a row of bench-like seats already partially occupied by Barbara and Liz Marratt. Cynthia sat next to Liz, looked at her timidly, and smiled back when Liz squeezed her hand. "Pat isn't coming," Liz said. "I'm sorry it has come to this. I really don't know. . . ." Liz sighed. She looked distraught. "When people see you and Anne they get confused. You look like such nice kids. I think a lot of people feel that if this is the way you want it . . . why does anyone have to interfere? There are worse things. It would be nice if there were some simple solution. . . ."

Cynthia smiled at her but didn't answer; her eyes were liquid with tears. She tried to grin at Yale who sat next to Saul Angle at the table set aside for the defense. Yale's lips formed the words "stop worrying." But Cynthia couldn't help herself. She prayed by some miracle that they would continue their lives together. The words of Saul Angle kept circling in her brain. "We could work this out, Yale," Saul had said just last night. "It doesn't have to come to trial. Don't forget there are people in this city after you . . . not for bigamy, but for other things. You've stirred up a lot of rancor. People are afraid of what you'll do next."

Yale had asked Saul just how he proposed to "work it out." Saul had suggested a closed hearing with Judge Rufus Small who would preside on the case. Make an admission of guilt and pay the fine. If they wanted to stay together, then they could move to Mexico or South America.

Yale had looked at Saul unbelievingly. "Saul . . . you miss the point. Cynthia, Anne and I have work to do right here. We have discussed this thoroughly. I believe that the anti-bigamy statutes in this country were instigated years ago by politicians who used the hatred they unleashed to get themselves elected. I believe that Challenge would be denying its validity and its right to existence regardless of money, if it failed to contest the law. I've told you that I am not proselytizing for bigamy any more than I am for monogamy. In the area of marriage patterns, I believe that the only responsibility of the government is to insist on the kind of marriages and families that will contribute to the perpetuation of society. In the case of my marriage to Anne and Cynthia society has this assurance. Beyond this, society should not interfere."

While Cynthia could agree, she couldn't allay the fear that she might lose Yale. Worse, she had no confidence that Yale would be able to force society to conform to his views.

Judge Small entered the courtroom from his chambers and the clerk called the court to order. Ralph Baker, realizing the publicity value of the trial, was prosecuting the case himself. Looking smug and righteous as he made his opening remarks, Baker dramatically let his eyes rove the courtroom.

Then he turned to the jury. "Bigamy or polygamy is the name given to the crime of unlawful cohabitation with two or more wives," he said, emphasizing each word. "Seventy-five years ago this country was plagued by a group of egomaniacs who insisted that plural marriage, the taking of many wives, was a divine command of their religion. In defense of their beliefs, some of these misguided men went so far as to try to prove that Jesus himself was a polygamist and Martha and Mary Magdalene were his wives. . . ." Baker smiled at the gasp of disgust that he had evoked from the courtroom. He continued: "To prevent the growth of this pernicious doctrine our fathers in their great wisdom agreed with these people that they had the right under the First Amendment to the Constitution to establish a religion. However, when they invoked the First Amendment to the Constitution to protect their right to enslave women and destroy the morals of the state, then our fathers, in their great wisdom, denied that this Constitution would permit a foul doctrine of this kind to sap the roots of the state itself.

"Polygamy is a heinous crime. In the words of John C. Bennett who in 1842 made a study of life in a polygamous society, polygamists are guilty of infidelity, deism, atheism; lying, deception, blasphemy; debauchery, lasciviousness, bestiality; madness, fraud, plunder; larceny, burglary, robbery, perjury; fornication, adultery, rape, incest; arson, treason and murder. . . ." Baker whipped the words like lashes at the jury who stared at him in horror, then he continued in a softer voice. "In 1882, aware that polygamy must be stamped out in this Christian country, the Congress of the United States clarified the issue for once and all with the Edmunds-Tucker Act which has since become the law of the land, and is the law upon which our own state statutes against bigamy and polygamy are based. Not only is polygamy clearly defined as a crime in the Edmunds-Tucker law but the law in its insistence on eliminating this crime from the land takes away the right to vote of the polygamist thus disenfranchising him as a citizen. The law also permits the husband or wives in a polygamous marriage to be called to the witness stand and, if they wish, they may testify against each other.

"Today," Baker continued, "we have before us a problem even more dangerous to the welfare of the state than this now repudiated belief in polygamy. More dangerous because the beliefs of the defendant as espoused in that blasphemous book, Spoken in My Manner , do not even have the face-saving grace of divine inspiration. We have before us a young man who thinks, because of his ill-gotten wealth and a future inheritance from a befuddled old woman, that he can defy the laws of this state. This man has the same kind of awe-inspiring ego complex that motivated men like Hitler and Mussolini; the kind of man who feels that he is some god who can make other men conform to his insane philosophies.

"We have before us a man who brazenly admits that he has contracted a bigamous marriage, and has the effrontery, despite the evidence, to plead not guilty." Baker's voice cracked with anger. "He pleads not guilty while in the front row of this courtroom are two women whom we will in the next few moments prove to you incontestably are living with him in this county at a place well known to all of us, that they have now chosen to call Challenge Farm. Before I call the first witness and bring this travesty of a trial to a conclusion as quickly as possible, I feel that it is instructive for us to consider what kind of man we are dealing with." Baker picked up a copy of Spoken in My Manner . "Here is what the defendant has the temerity to call the Ninth Commandment of this godless religion called Challenge.

Baker read slowly. "Challenge believes that its beliefs are so honestly right for today's civilization that if men everywhere would accept them and teach them to their children for several generations . . . eventually a crusade would result that would drive tyranny and oppression and hatred and war from the earth."

Baker slammed the book shut. "This is the militant article of faith of a man who is intent on destroying our churches, making a joke of our marriage laws, and corrupting the very family system that has carried the Western nations of this world a rung higher up the ladder of civilization than our poor, benighted neighbors who live in slavery in societies that permit bigamy and enslavement of women."

A hum of approval spread through the court as Baker spoke. There was no denying his ability to sway his audience. Anne and Cynthia listened to him both frightened and disgusted by the half-truths that he stated so impressively.

Baker was continuing:

"Whatever magic incantation the attorney for the defense has prepared for you, I know not. It is apparent that all the prosecution has to accomplish in this case is to prove the cohabitation or bigamous marriage of Yale Marratt. Since these marriages have been calmly admitted by the defendant in all his public utterances, we will simply be going through the motions here today for the official record."

Baker called as his first witness the justice of the peace who had married Yale and Cynthia. The meek, grey-haired man who had wished them luck less than a year ago quickly identified Yale and Cynthia. Their marriage certificate was admitted as evidence. Saul Angle shook his head when asked if he wished to query the witness.

"As I have pointed out," Baker said, "the law permits, in a case of this kind, any of the wives to testify against her husband. In calling the woman Anne Wilson Marratt to the stand, the witness should fully understand that this is permissive; the law does not insist that she has to testify."

A hush spread over the courtroom as the spectators craned to see Anne. Dressed in a pale green sheath that clung to her figure, Anne walked crisply to the witness stand, her high heels making an incisive staccato on the wooden floor. She took the oath and sat in the witness chair looking at Ralph Baker with a frankly querulous expression.

"Since this court has no evidence that a legal marriage has ever taken place between you and Yale Marratt, perhaps you will enlighten us, Mrs. Marratt. Were you or Yale Marratt ever married in a civil or religious wedding ceremony? Before you answer, and before the attorney for the defense raises any objection I will point out to you again that your answer will be considered as evidence against the defendant, and you are not required to answer."

Saul got up and said quietly, "Your honor, Anne Marratt is well acquainted with what the law does or does not require in this case."

Anne smiled. "I am proud to answer. Yale Marratt and I were married in a Hindu wedding ceremony by a Hindu priest named Sri Sundari in March of last year, in the village of Talibazar in Assam province." Anne ignored the sudden amazed whispering of the spectators. Several reporters edged toward the door. This was headline stuff within minutes after the trial had opened.

Anne continued, "While it is not of supreme importance to me, Mr. Baker, I can tell you that Yale, Cynthia and I have checked; my marriage to Yale is recognized as legal by the laws of the United States."

Baker frowned at her. "It is not necessary for you to teach me the law, young lady," he said drily. "Just answer the questions that I ask you, if you please. Is it true that in March of this year, knowing that Yale Marratt had contracted an illegal marriage with Cynthia Carnell Chilling, that instead of bringing this action to the attention of the law you and Cynthia decided to live under the same roof with Yale Marratt?"

"Yes," Anne said calmly, smiling at Baker. "We agreed that it seemed to be the most practical thing to do under the circumstances. Since we loved Yale individually it didn't seem an insurmountable problem to join forces."

A roar of laughter greeted her remark. Judge Small, maintaining a poker face, rapped for order and threatened to clear the court.

Baker looked at her disgustedly. "It seems superfluous for me to ask whether you have regular sexual intercourse with Yale Marratt."

"Yes," Anne agreed, "it is superfluous."

"Then you do have regular sexual intercourse with Yale Marratt?"

"We are normal human beings," Anne snapped. She looked at Baker disdainfully. "If you want a yes answer, the answer is yes. . . ."

Baker asked Saul if he wished to question the witness. Saul rose leisurely from his chair. "The court will notice that while the defense has not objected to the manner of questioning the witness, it is not because the defense approves or admires the approach of the prosecution. However, to save the time of this court we wish to make it as simple as possible. . . ." Saul grinned at Baker. "So that even a legal novice could prove, if he wished, that Yale Marratt is responsibly living with, and married to, these two women. The defense feels that Anne Marratt has handled herself creditably. While it has no bearing on this case, the defense would like to point out that the law itself is certainly questionable, regardless of circumstances, that could allow a wife to testify against her husband. The defense has no questions for this witness." Saul sat down, amused at Baker's flushed countenance.

Baker called Cynthia to the stand. While not quite so self-possessed as Anne, Cynthia looked so virginally fresh with her large brown eyes open and innocent that she unnerved Baker a little. He didn't want to give the impression that he was asking an innocent child dirty, sexual questions. Gently, he queried her on her feelings about sharing the same household with another woman. He wondered if when she married Yale Marratt she was fully aware that he was in fact already married. He probed into her marriage with Mat Chilling, and discovered, to the interest of the spectators, that the child, Adar, was really Mat Chilling's child.

"What you have really done, Cynthia," Baker said sadly, "is to tolerate this dual relationship and enslave your body to this man's whims for the protection of Mat Chilling's child. Isn't that so?"

"That is not so, Mr. Baker," Cynthia said indignantly. "I love Yale Marratt. We don't use each other's body as you so disgustingly put it. We share each other's love. In our family we are on an endless voyage of discovery of the possibilities of any human being bridging the gulf of flesh and blood and bones that separates him from another, and by using the gift of our brains instead of animal emotions such as you are invoking, discovering what love really means." Cynthia looked coldly at Baker. "If it will make the situation any clearer to you, Mr. Baker, I love Anne as much as I love Yale, and the children we will have will be taught this kind of love."

Baker looked at her thoughtfully. "You mean that you are pregnant!" Cynthia smiled. "Both Anne and I will have our babies sometime in April next year."

Amidst the confusion and excitement that Cynthia's statement made, Baker concluded that the testimony was sufficient for conviction without going further.

He turned the case over to the defense.

PART ONE

Live, my Lesbia, love. I live -- I love you. Not a fig will we care what grim old men say. Setting sun will come back again tomorrow. We, when once our brief daylight has faded, Needs must sleep an unending night forever. -- Catullus

1

Pat Marratt drove his Packard convertible slowly down the elm-lined street that bisected the campus of Buxton Academy without speaking to his wife. At the highway he jammed the accelerator to the floor and pushed his massive body back in the seat with a sigh of relief. Yale's graduation day was over at last, capping the disappointment that had been building in him for the past two years.

"I don't care whose fault it is, Liz. Maybe it's mine maybe it's yours. There's no use of any further postmortems. The plain truth is that I don't know what the hell I'm going to do about Yale. As for Buxton Academy . . . thank God we don't have to continue driving up here once a month." Pat looked at his wife expectantly, wondering why their son's failure to be admitted to one of the Ivy League colleges didn't seem to bother her.

"Please watch the road, Pat! I can hear you without you looking at me . . . especially when you are roaring in that frustrated executive voice." Liz Marratt took off her hat, a wide-brimmed straw affair decorated with artificial flowers. She flung it carelessly on the back seat. "God" she moaned, "it really was an ordeal. I think those deans and professors just gloat over graduations. Did you ever hear such a collection of platitudes and nonsense? Right out of Benjamin Franklin with a little frosting added." She fiddled with her girdle. "You'll have to stop at the next filling station, Pat. I can't stand this thing a minute more. It's cutting me to pieces."

"That's about how much Yale has worried you over the past few years," Pat said grimly. "Your son has been turned down by every major college in the East. Now he has the nerve to tell me that I should send him to Europe for a year just to bum around. . . . And you worry about a tight girdle!"

"My son! He's your son, too!" Liz retorted. "How much time have you spent with Yale in the last four years? All you have ever done is gripe to me. You complain that he reads too much. Yet . . . what do you know about him? No one can get close to Yale. Your only contribution was teaching him how to play golf. He confided to me last summer that he only played to please you. Golf bores him."

"What doesn't bore him?" Pat asked with disgust. "The two summers that I've had him down to the plant, he acted as if I were infringing on his valuable time." Pat shrugged his shoulders. He pushed one hand through his thick, grey-black hair. "It's a screwball world. I've worked and sweated to create a business worth at least twenty million dollars, and what happens? I end up with a daughter who, if I let her alone, could blow every cent I've accumulated in a couple of years, and a son who would prefer to starve to death trying to write poetry, or figure out some crazy philosophy in a cold water flat in Greenwich Village. Of course, he wouldn't mind if I supported him in the meanwhile . . . just so long as I let him alone."

"But you won't let him alone, will you, Pat?" Liz worried about Pat's unceasing drive toward perfection. Patrick Marratt believed that he could pound and shape his environment to reflect his own image. Liz sighed. So far, with the notable exception of Yale, he had succeeded.

"Damned right, I won't let him alone," Pat said. "Someday, Yale Marratt will thank God that he has a father like me. Every kid goes through this wishy-washy phase. Our 'friend' in the White House with his pseudo-intellectual braintrusters has given these radical ideas a lot of glamour. Because we are in a depression it is smart to figure that capitalism is done. It frightens hell out of me, Liz . . . to think what some of the stupid asses who are running the country today would do, if there weren't a few Republicans left to restrain them." Pat swung into a filling station. "There's your rest room. Hurry up. I want to get home by five and play a few holes. We can eat at the Club."

He watched Liz walk toward the ladies' room at the rear of the station, pleasured with the shapely wiggle of her behind. A pretty good figure, he thought, for a woman in her late forties. Compared with some of the mothers to whom he had been introduced today with their matronly bosoms hanging down to their bellies, Liz looked like a young girl. It had been some time, Pat reflected, since he and Liz had mingled with such an assortment of Connecticut blue-bloods. Stacked up against the tweedy looking men and overstuffed women that they had met this morning, Pat felt that he, as well as Liz, came out well on top.

At least five men that morning had recognized Pat immediately. "Oh . . . Marratt? You must be the Marratt Corporation down in Midhaven." When Pat admitted that he was, he noticed (and he couldn't help grinning) their heightened interest. He guessed that they had read the write-up about him in Fortune magazine, or had examined his Dun and Bradstreet rating. In the past several years men like these had approached him with plans for selling his stock. "You are ready for the American Exchange at least, Pat," they told him. "Spread the stock around. Cash in while the going is good."

The men who came to him came with a banker's knowledge of a good thing. The Marratt Corporation was a good thing, Pat thought, and he controlled eighty percent of its stock. None of these sideline spectators . . . these stock jugglers, would get it. Someday it would be an even better thing. Come hell or high water, Yale Marratt, his son, would be a part of that future.

Sitting in a hard wooden chair under newly budded elms, Pat had watched Yale receive his diploma. It should have been a special day. A day that would be remembered not only by his parents, but by Yale as well. But, it hadn't been that kind of day. Pat and Liz had arrived just after lunch. They found Yale, alone in his room, reading. He acted as if they weren't expected, as if his own graduation were an unpleasant interruption to whatever was preoccupying his mind.

Pat had looked out the windows of Yale's room, across the rolling green lawns that flanked the dormitories and classrooms of Buxton Academy. Liz was putting the finishing touches to Yale, checking his tie, adjusting his graduation cap. And Pat remarked, as he had many times before, that this was a damned splendid layout.

Pat compared this room with its separate study and bedroom shared only by Yale and his roommate, with the linoleum covered kitchen table he had used when he was studying his International Correspondence Courses in Business Administration and Accounting. Here, each boy not only had his own private desk and lounge chair, but they shared their own tiled bathroom. In addition, each room had a fireplace that actually worked.

Pat had done his studying nights, after an eight or nine hour day as a pipefltter at Latham Shipyards. Some different was this life. Here a man could study in solid comfort and then go to bed for a good night's rest without the worry of getting up at five thirty in a freezing house or having to walk the dark streets of Midhaven shivering with cold as he plodded to work.

"I didn't make it, Pat," Yale said when they had completed their questions on his health, and how long the actual graduation would take, and whether he would drive home tonight or tomorrow morning with his things. "Princeton turned me down, too. I'm not the college type, I guess."

Pat's tanned face turned a deep red. He tried to conceal his anger. "Listen to me, son, you are going to college. I don't know what in the devil has gotten into you in the last year or so, but you can just get it out of your head that you are one of these rich man's sons who is going to live on his old man's hard earned dough. I went through the sixth grade. My advanced education was the school of hard knocks. My father was an Irish fruit peddler. I've come up from nothing. Nothing, do you hear me?" Pat's voice was hard and vibrant with controlled fury.

It exasperated him to see Yale flipping the pages of a book, and seemingly only half listening. "You're not of age yet. I've got three years yet to work on you. I'm not buying this stuff about sending you to Europe for a year. You can come down off your cloud and get a grip on yourself."

Pat looked around the book-littered room. Books were piled high on the window seats, dropped in confusion on the floor and in heaps on top of Yale's desk. "This is your trouble," he said, waving his hand disgustedly at the books. He picked up a couple of them muttering their titles aloud. "Kant, Santayana, T. S. Eliot. You think I'm ignorant; that I don't know these names, don't you? Well, I know them." Pat slammed the books down on the desk. "They were jerk professors living in a dream world. Two of these fine fellows couldn't even stomach American democracy. They gave up their citizenship. They went to live in Europe because they were such gentlemen. The other one was a German kike."

Yale stared out the window, a sullen look on his lean face. "Go ahead, sulk. You think I'm a Babbitt, don't you? Well, I'll tell you something, I learned long ago to fight fire with fire. The only way for me was to know more than the next guy. I ploughed through plenty of this type of so-called literature." Pat walked to the door. "You stay here with your Mother while I look up Dean Tracy. Just get it into your head that you're going to college. I'm going to see that you get an education and finish cooking some of your half-baked ideas."

Pat found Dean Tracy near the gym supervising several workmen who were completing the erection of an outdoor stage. The Dean's expression implied that he was busy now. He would talk to Pat later. Pat ignored it. "I want your advice," he said to the reluctant Tracy. "For the past three years I have donated five thousand dollars a year to this institution. That's pretty good money for times like these. It would seem to me that with this trifling incentive, I should now be pleased to hear that my son had been accepted into one of the better colleges. I understand that you, yourself, have some affiliations with Harvard. That should have made it possible to smooth the way for Yale."

Dean Tracy, with years of experience in dealing with irate parents, refused to rise to Pat's anger. "Well, I did graduate from Harvard, many, many years ago," he smiled. "But you know how it is with Yale and Harvard." The smile faded from his face when he noted Pat's expression. "Sorry for the pun, Mr. Marratt. But, I don't believe that I ever asked Yale how he came by such an unusual name."

Pat grumbled something about it being his wife's maiden name. For the second time that day he was reminded of his youth. It seemed an eternity ago. He had finished the International Correspondence courses in Business Administration and had taken a job as assistant accountant in one of the A & P branches. Barbara was three years old. Liz was pregnant again. "If he is a boy, could we name him Yale?" she asked him. "Dad would be so pleased."

In those days, Liz's father had been vice-president of the Midhaven National Bank. Since Pat had begun to have visions of the future Marratt Corporation, and would need a loan to get started, the boy was christened Yale Marratt by his grandfather, who was happy to have the family name survive in this fashion.

"I wish I could help you, Mr. Marratt," Dean Tracy said, fiddling nervously with a pipe that he had taken from the pocket of his tweed jacket. How could he tell this man that in all probability if it hadn't been for Patrick Marratt's donations to Buxton Academy, the faculty would have recommended that Yale not graduate with his class. Either way it was an insult. Marratt had a right to expect that Buxton would have prepared his son for one of the better Eastern colleges.

"While I have a few connections at Harvard," Tracy admitted, "there is nothing I can do. Yale only passed the College Board examinations in English . . . and that exactly reflects his work at Buxton. This shouldn't be a surprise to you, Mr. Marratt. I have written you several letters. Your son has a brilliant mind. He has probably read more widely than any student we have ever had at Buxton. Unfortunately, whatever he has learned, he could just as well have learned on his own. I believe I have brought this up before with you. Yale does just exactly what he wants to do. When he should have been applying himself to his courses in mathematics and science, we discovered that he had been spending all of his time studying Greek philosophy. That we don't happen to have courses at Buxton in Greek philosophy didn't seem to deter him. That he barely passed Chemistry and Geometry didn't disturb him in the least. I gather from several conversations with him that he has no interest in going to college. To be perfectly frank, Mr. Marratt, I have been unable to reach through to whatever it is that makes Yale tick. It seems to me he might be the type to let go his own way and see what develops. He's a very quiet boy. You've no concern on that score."

"Listen," Pat fairly snarled, "I may be fairly well off, but I'm not permitting my only son to drift aimlessly through life. This is a tough world. You can get in and fight and develop a hard fibre, or end up the way Yale is heading, a long-haired intellectual. We have enough of them around, now; developing cobwebbed ideas they hope will uproot the system that supports them. Yale is a kid. I expected Buxton Academy would give him direction." Pat shook his finger in the area of Dean Tracy's nose. "Since you can't, or won't, make any effort, all I want from you is the assurance that you won't foul up my plans. I'm not a college man, but from what I have seen of academic circles," Pat sneered, "a few good American dollars properly placed will lubricate the machinery and stop the squeaks."

In the bright June sunlight Dean Tracy found Pat's intense, staring eyes somewhat uncomfortable. "You may be sure, Mr. Marratt, that Buxton Academy will help you with your son's future in every way possible." He watched Pat walk away and shrugged his shoulders. Teachers today were expected to be parents, he thought. It was nice to have a whipping boy to punish for your own deficiencies. The real trouble with Yale Marratt was Pat Marratt. Some rich men's sons became drunkards. They chased around with women, or spent money wildly. This was the normal, the expected rebellion. It disturbed nothing essential. But this rebellion of Yale Marratt, if it continued, was more fundamental.

Tracy lit his pipe and made a mental note to check up in a few years and see what had developed. He doubted that Yale would be successful in his attempt to undermine the foundations of a man like Pat Marratt. Yale would eventually line up. He would become the not-quite-so-successful son of a successful man. In twenty years or so, a Pat Marratt II, or a Yale Marratt, Jr. would be brought to Buxton by a more subdued Yale Marratt; the rebellion would have been finished years before. Like most rebellions, it would have accomplished little.

It took Pat Marratt until late August to admit defeat. As he told his executive staff all one had to do was define one's objectives carefully and then accomplish them. During the summer, he put his secretary to work tracing the background of his personal and business friends. He discovered at least a dozen Ivy League graduates who were indebted to him in one way or another. With their help he reached the top deans and even college presidents. Just as he would feel success within his grasp, a letter would arrive on official college stationery. It would suggest that if Yale Marratt would take another year of preparation his application would be re-considered. Pat was reading one of these refusals when Liz stepped into his office on her way to her hairdresser's.

"It beats me," he said. He tossed the letter to her. "These damn fool colleges are crying poverty. They are out beating the bushes looking for alumni with money. Yet, when I offer them a deal they act as if they had been stabbed. I had one of the big shots at Harvard on the phone, long distance yesterday. He talked for a half hour on my call about academic standards. I get applications from Harvard graduates every week looking for jobs. Most of them don't know their ass from their elbow."

"Why don't you let Yale take another year at Buxton?" Liz suggested. "Really, Pat, I think you are making a tempest in a teapot. You didn't go to college, Yale doesn't want to go. Is that so bad? Why don't you follow Dean Tracy's advice? Don't drive Yale so hard. Let him drift for awhile. He'll probably decide later that he wants to go."

Pat shook his head. "You don't get the point, Liz. I don't give a damn about a college education. I'm stalling for time. Yale is nineteen. He's too young to work for the company permanently. I'd just create a job for him, and he would continue to drift. It isn't as if Yale knows what he wants to do in life. If you asked him, he'd probably say nothing, or come up with that Europe crap again. If I could get him anchored for four years the chances are that he'd grow up a little. It's not as if he were stupid."

"Why haven't you talked with Dr. Tangle?" Liz asked. "You have the one man right in Midhaven who could help you, and you won't ask him."

Pat raised his eyebrows and looked at her disgustedly. "I suppose, next, you'll suggest that Yale could go to Midhaven College. Wouldn't Doctor Tangle go for that, though?" he asked sarcastically. "The son of Pat Marratt attending a Baptist theological school . . . Jesus Christ!"

"It hasn't been a theological school for years, and you know it, Pat. Only last week, at the Woman's Club, Doctor Tangle was talking about the changes that have occurred at Midhaven College. Midhaven has a complete curriculum. It's recognized as equal to any college in the East. In a way, you should be proud of Doctor Tangle. He has done a lot for Midhaven."

"So, I haven't done anything for Midhaven? Just because I haven't the time to monkey around in city politics and I don't go around to Women's Clubs shooting off my mouth about the glorious city of Midhaven. . . . Just you remember that if the Marratt Corporation folded up -- several thousand people in Midhaven would go hungry! What has Doctor Tangle done to put bread in their mouths?"

Pat wanted to continue the discussion, but Liz interrupted him with a request for a few hundred dollars. Pat chuckled. "For Christ-sakes, Liz, you're the limit. You go to some damned meeting and listen to a smooth old bastard like Doctor Tangle; you swallow his oily ideas hook, line and sinker. But, when your husband tries to explain what he is doing, it just doesn't have 'class,' does it? It's just old Pat wound up in some sales garbage. It's the way he makes all that dirty money. Well, if it weren't for me and the Marratt Corporation, your dear Doctor Tangle would be back in China whacking the bushes in search of converts. Instead he lives a life of luxury . . . President of Midhaven College and Pastor of the Midhaven Congregational Church. Do you know that his last quarterly dividend check, courtesy of Pat Marratt, amounted to five thousand three hundred and ninety-three dollars? Brother, what a return to get every three months on an investment of two thousand dollars."

"Bye, bye, Hon -- I've got to go," Liz smiled. She had heard Pat rave on the subject of Doctor Tangle's good fortune many times before. As she was about to close the door, a thought occurred to her. "Speaking of Doctor Tangle reminds me that it's been at least three months since we've had him out to dinner. It might be a nice gesture to keep in closer touch with the only other stockholder in the Marratt Corporation. If you did, you might discover that Amos gives most of his dividends to the Doctor Tangle Scholarship Fund for worthy students at Midhaven College."

"Oh, shit -- next thing you'll suggest that Yale apply for a scholarship. Goodbye! Stop and see Frank Middleton on the way out. He and Marie expect us to dinner tomorrow."

Pat looked closely at Liz when he mentioned Frank Middleton. Middleton was Vice President in charge of production. Although he had risen to his present job with the same rough and ready background as Pat Marratt, somewhere Middleton had acquired a gloss and polish. Frank Middleton irritated Pat, but Pat couldn't help but admire him. He knew that Middleton with his throaty, radio announcer's voice and his wavy grey hair was the cynosure of most female gatherings. Liz had betrayed no reaction, however, and Pat said to himself . . . "The hell with it . . . why worry . . . it's only sex." But he knew the worry was there. It cropped up every time he saw Liz and Frank together.

His thoughts returned to Doctor Tangle . . . twenty-three years. Liz's mother had picked Amos Tangle to marry them. He had been an assistant minister, then.

It made little difference to Pat. On his death bed, Pat's father had requested a priest. Pat remembered his mother, who was cockney English, shaking her head and saying, "Look at the likes of him who wants a priest." But she hurried out and came back with one in time to see that "her old man" got the last rites of the Church. Both of them were dead when Pat married Elizabeth Yale. It probably was just as well. Though they had never gone to church regularly, they wouldn't have thought very highly of their only son marrying a "dirty Protestant."

A year after Liz and he were married, Amos Tangle had taken over the duties of full-time minister of the Midhaven Congregational Church. His flock, composed of prosperous businessmen and their wives, and particularly Alfred Latham of Latham Shipyards, found his sermons inspiring. "It's the kind of down to earth religion I think you'll like, Pat," Liz's father had said. "This Tangle is only five or six years older than you and Liz, but he's got a head on him. Besides, the Lathams attend church regularly. . . . They are good people to know."

Tangle's appeal to the businessmen of Midhaven was a neat interpretation of the Bible based on a religious philosophy that made the pursuit of the dollar a fundamental part of militant Christianity. "Christ told you to cast your bread upon waters. For you who are forging the future of this great country, your bread is your boundless energy which comes back to you, and the people of this nation twofold . . . in profits for you and higher standards of living for those you employ."

In the early twenties Doctor Tangle's advice was a pleasant balm to his congregation. While Pat couldn't particularly stomach Tangle's pompous manner, he had to admit that what Doctor Tangle said was sound enough.

Liz's father told Amos Tangle about Pat's plans to start a food packing plant and when Reverend Tangle cornered Liz after church one Sunday, she had first apologized for the fact that her husband seldom went to church and then invited Doctor Tangle to supper. It was the first time that Pat had spoken to him since the wedding, six months before. Tangle's buoyant manner, and his cheery inquiries about newly-wedded bliss brought blushes to Liz's face, but Pat was surly. He couldn't believe that Tangle's enthusiasm and good fellowship were sincere. Pat had continued to feel that way through his long years of association with Doctor Tangle but he had never been able to catch him in open hypocrisy. Pat finally came to the conclusion that Amos Tangle actually believed everything he said. This made Pat even more wary. An unreserved belief in every word you uttered was a form of egotism beyond even Pat's ebullient self-confidence.

Before the evening was over Amos had warmed Pat up so thoroughly on the subject of the future Marratt Corporation, that Pat revealed not only his immediate plans, but his dreams of a brand line of canned vegetables, fruits, jams, jellies and products packed under a label which would become synonymous with top quality throughout the country. Pat was starting out with five thousand dollars borrowed from the Midhaven National Bank and three thousand of his own savings. Amos revealed that he had two thousand dollars inherited some years before from his father's estate. He convinced Pat that the extra two thousand dollar capital would iron out the rough spots for the new company. With no more time than it took to withdraw the money from the savings bank, and inveigle Pat into a few conferences with his lawyers, Amos Tangle became a twenty per cent stockholder in the newly launched Marratt Corporation.

During the next eighteen years, while Doctor Tangle contributed little in the way of actual management, and certainly nothing to the genius that brought the Marratt Corporation to the position of one of the top companies in the food industry, he managed to maintain an uncanny knowledge of the financial workings of the company, as well as an abundance of ideas about everything from production through sales.

It was an act of desperation, Pat thought, but there was no alternative. He finally decided to telephone Doctor Tangle and ask his help. Labor Day was next Monday. The fall terms at the New England colleges would start soon . . . something had to be done. Yale would have to be enrolled somewhere and quickly.

After telling Doctor Tangle's secretary his name, Pat was greeted with a booming "Hello, it's nice to hear your voice, Pat." Pat could picture Doctor Tangle sitting behind his ornate mahogany desk covered with mementos sent to him by missionaries from all parts of the world. He could visualize Doctor Tangle's size eight and one-half, bald head gleaming like an oval-shaped lamp of knowledge.

Pat explained briefly the problem and how he was determined to have Yale admitted to one of the Ivy League colleges. He didn't bother to tell Doctor Tangle that Yale evinced little interest, nor did he tell him that Yale didn't seem to care whether he went to college or not. Pat suggested that Dean Tracy of Buxton was probably sabotaging his efforts. He finally suggested that in view of their long relationship as stockholders in Marratt Corporation and as personal friends, he was throwing the problem in Doctor Tangle's lap. Certainly Doctor Tangle could prevail upon his confreres in some New England college to take Yale in as a freshman. "I'll look into it immediately, Pat. The Lord has a solution to everything," Doctor Tangle said confidently.

As emissary for the Lord, Doctor Tangle arrived in Pat's office the next morning. "I know that you and Liz would prefer to have your son go to Harvard. In your financial position and all, it's the proper place -- but you'll have to face the facts, Pat. I have gone over Yale's records. A strange boy -- not like you, eh!" Doctor Tangle chuckled with a heh-heh sound that Pat found peculiarly irritating. "Yale is surprisingly well read -- way beyond his age group. Dean Tracy mentioned to me that he had few friends at Buxton. Didn't take part in athletics. A little bit of a crusader. I read some of his themes. Excellent! Excellent! But his marks outside of literature." Doctor Tangle shook his head. "Geometry, French, Chemistry . . . barely passing. Well, all is not lost. Who knows? The boy might have the makings of a minister."

Pat frowned. "Are you suggesting Midhaven College? Christ . . . no! I won't buy it."

Doctor Tangle froze in his chair. Slowly and pompously he placed his black Homburg hat on his shining head. "For a man who is the president of a pretty big business, you are remarkably dense," he said ironically. "Money does not make a college. If you would study the various college standings the way you study a profit and loss statement, you would find that Midhaven College rates academically as high as any college in New England. If Yale is accepted to Midhaven it will be on a trial basis motivated simply by our long friendship. College starts in three weeks. If you wish to register Yale with us, it will have to be done no later than next Friday."

His inability to have Yale accepted by the Ivy League colleges became a thorn in Pat's side. Al Latham's son was going to Harvard. Tom Ames, the Midhaven Buick dealer, told Pat while they were having a drink at the club, that his son was accepted at M.I.T. Even Ed Barnes who ran a cut-rate jewelry store in Midhaven had a son going to Princeton.

While Pat had let Doctor Tangle leave his office without a decision, it was apparent that there was no alternative. Liz Marratt blamed her husband, accusing him of not having spent enough time with Yale. She ignored Pat's remark that between her activities as Midhaven's most active hostess and wintering in Florida, she would have difficulty accounting for the time she spent with her son. "I might remind you," she told Pat, "that our daughter Barbara is in her second year at Bryn Mawr. I can't remember that it was a desperate decision on her part. She could have gone to Wellesley or Smith."

Having placed the blame where she felt it belonged, Liz took the idea of Yale's going to Midhaven College philosophically. "While he will live at the college, he will be near home. Besides, despite your own lack of interest in religion, I feel that Doctor Tangle will work miracles with him."

Pat's look was sour. He had been a deacon of the Midhaven Congregational Church for nearly ten years. Prodded by Doctor Tangle and Liz, he had contributed several thousand dollars annually to God-knew-what religious causes, but he rarely went to hear Doctor Tangle preach. Privately, he figured that his contribution to the church absolved him from seeing Doctor Tangle more often than necessary.

So the son of Patrick Marratt, Yale Marratt, who owned a red Ford convertible which he rarely drove; who usually had twenty or thirty dollars in his pocket, which, if he spent at all, he spent on books; Yale Marratt, eighteen last April, son of the next to wealthiest man in the city of Midhaven; Yale Marratt who had kissed one girl in his life, and under pressure from his sister and mother, had dates with two others (and found them dull); Yale Marratt, a bewilderment to his parents, was enrolled in Midhaven College.

2

Yale met Cynthia Carnell at the George Kramer picnic. Doctor Tangle had personally checked to make sure that Yale was among the mixed group of about two hundred boys and girls who gathered on the lawn in front of Doctor Tangle's home. It was the first Saturday after their arrival at college.

Doctor Tangle pumped Yale's hand heartily. "Even though you have lived in Midhaven all your life, boy, you're going to find a new world in the next four years. Years from now you'll look back on this picnic with a real nostalgia for Midhaven College."

Yale was skeptical . . . and bored. He never could remember the names of those he met for the first time. He was so conscious of his own embarrassment that all he retained was the blurred memory of a smile. Later, when he became better acquainted on the campus, he was surprised to number among his friends those who claimed they had first met him at the Kramer picnic.

Accompanying Dr. Amos Tangle and George Kramer on the hike to the picnic grounds were Dean Amelia Wiswell, in charge of women, and Harry Shaw, Dean of Men. Several of the upper classmen who had suffered through the picnic as freshmen came along to direct the cooking of hot dogs.

Dean Wiswell trotted along with the freshmen girls. Dressed in a tweed skirt, she darted from one group to another, showing her large teeth in an insincere smile as she attempted to mix the groups and spread the shyer girls among the more homely men. "Mr. Yale Marratt, meet Miss Beardsley. Mr. Marratt, meet Mr. Williams. Yale lives in Midhaven, you know. He can tell you all about the city. Mr. Marratt, meet Miss Cynthia Carnell."

Yale looked at the girl smiling at him. He retained a flashing image of sweet, heart-shaped face and wide-apart brown eyes. As he was mumbling hello, she disappeared in the crowd. He felt a momentary disappointment. Her swift glance had given him an elusive feeling of intimacy.

A get acquainted party for the freshman class, the George Kramer picnic had been an annual function for fifteen years. The picnic, in the words of Doctor Tangle, was now a "college institution."

Doctor Tangle wearing knickers, argyle socks and a tweed jacket, along with George Kramer, professor of Zoology, who was second-in-command on the hike, led the straggling procession. The rear guard was composed of several worldly sophomores and Dean Shaw who urged along the less enthusiastic male hikers. Yale found himself somewhere in the middle of the procession listening to the denunciations of his new roommate Sonny Thompson, "What a crackpot way to spend a Saturday. How far do we have to walk?"

Yale told him that the picnic grounds were about five miles from the college. "Oh brother," Sonny groaned. "Five miles on a hot day like this. I hate this jerk stuff. . . ."

They exchanged the usual comments about the co-eds. Yale gathered that Sonny was enrolled in Midhaven College for much the same reason as he. Sonny had been a big man in a small suburban high school just outside of Boston. Unfortunately, he had become so involved in being assistant manager of the high school football, track and baseball teams, that his marks had suffered. To the dismay of his father, who had arduously saved the money from his earnings as an insurance salesman, it was discovered that, academically, Sonny was not prepared to go to Princeton. "I'll transfer next year," Sonny said. "Even if no one ever heard of it, Midhaven College has a good reputation."

Yale grinned. He wondered how many were in the freshman class at Midhaven College who actually planned to stay the four years.

When they arrived at the picnic grounds Doctor Tangle, waving his arms ostentatiously, formed the class in a half circle. He then proceeded to make an interminably long speech about the traditions of Midhaven College and the wonderful opportunities that lay before these eager freshmen.

Standing near the portly Doctor Tangle, George Kramer listened with an expression of interest that belied the fact that he had heard this speech practically word-for-word for the past fifteen years. When his turn finally came, the class was treated to a further long discussion. In a surprisingly deep voice, Professor Kramer expounded on the value of this land as a future bird sanctuary. It was suggested that this glorious new class, like its predecessors, would be anxious to contribute in the form of a class gift to the growing Sanctuary fund. Usually by graduation, some member of the class would remember with nostalgia the George Kramer picnic, and old Goosey Kramer's bird sanctuary would get a few hundred dollar donations.

That's the way things were done at Midhaven College. Compared with some of its more venerable New England companions, Midhaven was a young college, only seventy-five years old. Few alumni with sufficient money to endow it heavily had been graduated. The courses with a strong emphasis on training teachers and ministers inevitably developed alumni who were embarrassingly deficient in funds. What the college lacked in money, however, was compensated for by the enthusiastic energy of its president and former missionary to China, Dr. Amos Tangle.

After eating a hot dog and drinking a glass of warm cider, Yale managed to extricate himself from the crowd of freshmen who were being coached in the Midhaven College songs. He wandered along the river by himself. This country was familiar to him; the Marratt farm was located only a few miles farther up the river. Many times he had followed the winding course of the river directly into the city of Midhaven.

Yale amused himself scaling flat stones across the water to the opposite bank. It occurred to him that he had never been on the other side at this point. He was plagued with curiosity as to what was over there. Looking across he could see that it was heavily wooded. He knew that once on the other side, if he walked in a straight line for about a half mile, he would come to Route 6. It would then be possible to hitchhike the several miles to his home. He could skip out and not bother to go back to college this afternoon. Yale had scarcely adjusted to living in the small dormitory with a stranger called Sonny Thompson; a boy from Boston who said words like car and park with such a peculiar "ah" sound that Yale shivered every time the combination of "a" and "r" came together in a word.

No one would miss him at the picnic. By tying his pants and shoes around his neck, he could partly walk and partly swim to the other side and still emerge fairly dry. He was about to take off his shoes when he heard a feminine voice. He turned and recognized one of the girls he had been introduced to earlier. She was sitting on a flat ledge, partially obscured by a heavy growth of white birches. She held a pint of whiskey which she waved in Yale's direction.

"Have a shot, freshman," she said. "Larry won't mind. By the way, meet Larry McQuail." She giggled. "Met you once but I've forgotten your name. Mine's Cynthia. Cynthia Carnell."

Yale tried to conceal his surprise. Students at Midhaven College didn't drink. Dr. Amos Tangle had recently issued a statement to the nation's press: "There is no drinking problem at Midhaven. No matter what occurs at other colleges, Midhaven, with its long religious tradition, has successfully overcome the problem of drinking. We attribute this to close supervision and strict admission requirements that have eliminated such deplorable practices."

Yale took the bottle. He had consumed quite a lot of beer in the past year, more or less encouraged by his father. But Pat had never given him any encouragement with whiskey. Yale had experimented several times with Pat's Scotch, but had given it up in despair. He disliked the hot, searing effect as it went down. He knew he would make a face with the whiskey and tried to conceal it. Who did this Carnell dame think she was, he wondered? Just because she was drinking a sophomore's whiskey didn't raise her from her green freshman's ranks.

Yale took a long swallow. "Rotgut." His voice was hoarse. "Why don't you drink good whiskey?" These were lines he had heard his father speak but he mouthed them effectively. "This stuff will kill you."

Any doubts in their minds about Yale vanished with his words. They passed the bottle around several times. They weren't much more experienced drinkers than he, although Larry McQuail seemed the more confident of the three. In the distance they could hear the freshmen singing Midhaven, our alma mater . . . .

Larry burped and said, "In the real song it goes like this: Midhaven, our alma mater . . . . He sang in a reedy voice. ". . . a fart for a starter . . . there is no fairer shithouse in the land. . . ." Larry finished a version of the song that was well known on the campus, probably to all except Doctor Tangle.

Yale retaliated by singing a stanza from a lurid version of Little Red Wing that the Meyerberger boys (who worked in one of the packing departments at the Marratt plant) had taught him. He blushed as he sang, and was surprised to hear Cynthia and Larry pick up the chorus and finish a dozen or more verses to the conclusion. Yale looked at Cynthia unbelievingly. Everything she said came from her throat in a rich, exciting, alto-pitched voice without the artificiality and the affected manner of the few girls he had known. If Cynthia weren't so completely feminine with long brown hair tumbling on her shoulders and rounded breasts beneath the white shantung dress, he would have felt as at ease with her as with any boy he had ever known.

"Here's one you never heard, I bet," Cynthia said. She sang to a cowboy tune,

"I lined a hundred men up against a wall and bet two bucks I could screw 'em all. I screwed just ninety-eight and thought my blooming back would break. ...

Cynthia stopped singing. "Why, Mr. Marratt, you look shocked!"

Yale was shocked but denied it. Larry simply said, "Wow!" and then he apologized for having to leave them. He went back to the picnic to give an orientation talk to the trembling freshmen. He left the bottle. Cynthia and Yale took several more gulps and eyed each other uneasily. As Yale watched her drink, he was amazed that Cynthia's only reaction to the hot tasting stuff was a slight wrinkle between her eyebrows.

"You think I'm awful, don't you?" she demanded, her eyes teasing him. Yale shook his head. "Not awful," he said, "just simple. Do you know what he'll do?" Yale jerked his thumb in the direction that Larry McQuail had gone. "He'll tell every guy in the college about a hot babe named Cynthia Carnell. Tomorrow your dormitory phone will ring all day. The bets will be on who makes you first."

Cynthia turned away from him. "That's a rotten thing to say. What I say and what I do are completely unrelated. Because I sing a dirty song doesn't mean anything." She was crying. Yale fought an impulse to brush the tears from her cheeks. Instead, he said, "Let's get away from here before Larry comes back." He led her along the river beyond the picnic grounds. There was no path. Holding her hand, he guided her over fallen trees, and through the underbrush. He felt strangely at ease with her and wondered whether it were Cynthia that made him feel this way or the whiskey.

Cynthia hung to his arm. "I'm kind of dizzy," she said. "Where are we going? We've got to go back."

"They'll never miss us. Just a bit farther; there's a cove and a little sandy beach. I'll show you a quicker way back to the campus from there."

They stumbled out of the woods onto a tiny, sandy stretch of river bank. "This is a tributary of the river that cuts right across my father's land," Yale explained.

"It's nice," Cynthia said. She flopped on the sand. "Is your home near here?"

Yale told her that the Marratt estate covered more than one hundred acres. His father's house was at least a half mile farther up the river.

Cynthia was impressed. Yale told her about his father. It was difficult for him to make the portrayal objective. "He's president of the Marratt Corporation. I'm not his pride and joy. He wanted me to go to Harvard but my marks weren't good enough. I guess he expects that I'll eventually go to work in the company." Yale described the factory to her. He liked the interested way Cynthia listened to him as he talked. He tried to convey to her that he wasn't like his father, that he couldn't get enthusiastic over the famous line of Marratt jams, soups, ketchups and piccalillis. Whenever Pat made a tour of the plant he was greeted with grins and cheery hellos. He would talk to the men about their families, and give them tips on how to run their machines. "Your old man's a great guy, the workmen, almost without exception, told Yale. Yale envied Pat's easy camaraderie. He wanted to emulate him but he couldn't seem to overcome his basic shyness and engage in casual conversations and gossip the way Pat could. His unintended withdrawal had gained him the reputation of being a "Snotty rich man's son. Nothing like his old man."

"You don't seem so very different to me." Cynthia lay back on the sandy edge of the river and watched the clear blue sky through half closed eyes.

"Why did you pick Midhaven College?" Yale asked. He tried to focus Cynthia a little more closely. He wondered for a moment whether the whiskey which burned in his stomach was going to make him sick.

She didn't answer for a moment, and then, she looked at him seriously. "What religion do you think I am?"

Yale looked puzzled. "How do I know? Most everyone at Midhaven College is a Protestant. Me, I'm nothing."

"I'm Jewish," she said, softly. "My father's name was Carnetsky. When he came from Poland he changed it to Carnell."

"I still don't get it."

"Midhaven was the only college whose Jewish quota was not filled this year," Cynthia explained. In high school, she told him, she had been on the honor roll, but the college of her choice couldn't accept her until next year.

Yale was surprised to learn that certain New England colleges had a quota system that limited the number of Jewish students.

"This world is batty," he said. "Everybody in this country professes to be upset about Hitler, yet we do the same thing and don't talk about it." His mind was a little too fuzzy to think any further on the subject. He had a vague recollection of discussions on the subject of Jews by his family. A few years before he remembered that Pat had made reservations for his family at a hotel in Florida. When Pat found that it was predominantly occupied by Jews there had been an angry discussion with the manager and they had gone somewhere else. It had all seemed rather silly to Yale.

"From what you have told me about your father," Cynthia smiled, "I'll bet he doesn't like Jews." She didn't tell him that it was only in the past year or two that she herself had become aware that her racial background could be considered offensive to some people.

"Small worry," Yale laughed. "He doesn't like me much either. He says I read too much and have crazy ideas. I read the whole Bible last year." Cynthia looked at him amazed. "Oh, I'm not one of those religious twerps. I happened to read another book that kept making reference to Biblical characters so I just decided to read it. It took me two months." He grinned. "There are a lot of nice Jewish girls in the Bible."

"If you read so much, you must be smart."

"Oh, I'm smart. I'm so smart that I am a freshman on trial. I'm smart . . . queer. Anybody who reads and doesn't care for athletics and thinks he would like to be a poet rather than a businessman is not smart in my family."

"Well, I like you," Cynthia whispered.

Yale looked at her in wonder, struck by the clear, clean beauty of her features. She had large, brown eyes that seemed to contain within them the wisdom of her race. Her face descended from high cheekbones to a firm chin. Her slightly angular jaw was a favorite of many artists depicting feminine beauty. He suddenly realized that Cynthia's features resembled his own imaginings of Ruth and Naomi in the Old Testament. In the years to come, as he knew Cynthia better, the thought would often recur to him that even beyond her own awareness she seemed to carry with her a racial warmth and understanding. Later, he would ask her many times if she realized that she had this transcendent beauty, and she would look at him and laugh, and tell him that perhaps it wasn't she at all, but something he had conjured in his own eyes and in his own brain.

Although Yale had kissed only one or two girls in his lifetime, and those halfheartedly as the expected thing to do, he had a tremendous desire to kiss Cynthia. The liquor gave him the courage to try.

She looked at him, amused. "You kiss like a schoolboy. I'll show you how a farmer's daughter does it." She kissed him with her lips pressed hard against his, her mouth slightly open. The top of her tongue brushed his teeth. Yale blinked. The liquor was beginning to give him a dull, throbbing headache. He saw Cynthia's face through a blur. The clear vision of a moment ago vanished. She became a curious blend of black hair and wide brown eyes.

"I'm drunk," he mumbled. He closed his eyes. He didn't know how long he slept. Perhaps it was only a few minutes. He awoke to her shaking him and saying, "Hey, freshman, wake up. I feel awfully funny. Have you ever been drunk before?" Yale looked at her leaning over him, her hair falling across her eyes.

"Nope," he said and wondered if the dizzy feeling he had, and an inability to bring Cynthia into clear focus, was being drunk. "But I think I am now. How much of that stuff did you drink?"

"Five or six swallows. I've never been drunk before either. I feel like a bird. Woo. . . ." She stood up and then quickly sank to her knees. "I am dizzy." She flung her arms in front of her and fell forward on the sand.

Yale looked at her, alarmed. "Hey, come on. Wake up! Are you sick?" She didn't answer. He felt suddenly protective toward her. "Cynthia? Cynthia, what's the matter?"

"Oh, I think I'm sick," she moaned.

He looked at her helplessly, "I've got an idea. Let's go in for a swim. The river water is cold, it'll straighten us up." He pulled off her saddle shoes and ankle socks. She didn't move. "Come on," he said, patting her on the back. He noticed a zipper on the back of her dress and pulled it down. Her dress came apart to just above her buttocks. Still she didn't move. He started to fumble with her brassiere clasp, and she jumped up.

"Okay -- you think I'm afraid to go in?" Quickly she stripped off her brassiere and panties, and ran into the water. "Oh! Oh!" she shouted gaily. "It's freezing. Come on in, you coward!"

Wallowing in the water beside her, Yale knew he was blushing. He watched her with a feeling of warm delight. Her hair was soaking wet, and dripped over her shoulders. Her breasts were thrust high, her nipples firm and pointed from the cold water.

"Gosh, I feel better," she said, smiling at him, Unconcerned about her lack of clothes. "You know," she confided, "I never had but one drink before in my life."

They walked back on the tiny beach. "Why did you drink that stuff, then?" Yale asked.

"I don't know. I won't again, I can tell you."

They sat together on the sand. Yale sprawled on his stomach and watched her hugging her knees. She seemed like some lovely creature out of a fairy tale he had read years ago. Yet he was bothered. She was so wild and unexpected. Did she go swimming naked with just anyone? The thought made Yale jealous.

"I suppose, now, you'll tell all your friends that we went swimming together naked," she said, looking at him speculatively.

Yale shook his head. How could he tell her that this moment was indescribably precious to him? That this was the first time he had ever seen a woman naked except maybe his sister and that had been years ago when Barbara was thirteen. How could he tell Cynthia that her beauty, the curve of her shoulders, the softness of her breasts, the arch of her stomach and the triangle of her hair leading into her slender thighs, was for him an emotion ineffable. An emotion that brought tears to his eyes and joy to his very being. He wanted to somehow shout, "Look at the wonder of the existence of us. We are alive . . . and it is good!" A woman's body, he thought, could give the beholder the concept of God -- a tangible evidence of mysteries beyond comprehension.

"Look at you!" she giggled. "You're a man, too!" She stared at him thoughtfully. "You look different from my father and brother though." She suddenly realized that it was because Yale was not circumcised. Cynthia blushed. She wondered what he was thinking. She wanted to tell him that other than her own brothers, he was the only boy she had ever seen naked. Awkwardly, Yale tried to put his arm around her.

"Don't get any ideas," she said. She slapped him playfully on the stomach. "I'm a virgin. I intend to stay that way for a while." Yale admitted that he was a virgin, too. He told her that it was all right with him. He didn't tell her that just being with her, sharing the warm September sun, the quiet whisper of the trees and the murmur of the river as it rushed by toward the ocean, was a kind of completeness in itself. Holding her hand as he lay beside her, he realized that for the first time in his life he was not alone; that he had a potential friend. Someone who might come with him in a wondrous search for all the mystery and beauty that he knew was in life. Was Cynthia that kind of person? Or was she just another one of the crazy girls that he had known whose only interest seemed to be what clothes they wore, what dances they were going to, what song was on top of the Hit Parade, what dates were the smoothest, or which boy could dance the best.

He looked at Cynthia and found her watching him. "You seem so far away," she said. "Come back and tell me what you were thinking."

"Why did you drink with Larry McQuail? Why did you sing that song?" Yale demanded bluntly. "I'm not a prude, but you are too nice to get mixed up with him."

"And why am I lying here naked with you?" she asked angrily. "I know what you think -- that I'm a tramp."

Yale denied it. "I think you are beautiful. I don't know. I'm the romantic type, I guess." He was silent trying to think what he meant. How could he tell her that he felt protective toward her. He was embarrassed to try to explain to her the feeling of exaltation he felt in her presence. The same feeling of wonder, only sharper, more poignant, that he felt on a warm summer evening as the day slowly departed and soft shadows of night crept into the sky. The same wonder and emotion that made him shiver with delight when he walked along deserted ocean beaches in the winter and felt his own insignificance in relation to the sky and water stretched in cold and remote infinity before his eyes.

"I guess I don't like dirty songs," he said slowly. "Why do people want to make sex so ugly? I don't understand it."

Cynthia had tears in her eyes as she tried to answer him. "I'm not wild, honestly, Yale. I guess it is kind of an act. For a long time in school, no one knew I existed. I was just a smart Jewish kid whose father grew tomatoes. I was shy and I studied hard, and the better marks I got the fewer friends I had. I was the wallflower at all the dances. Then I watched how the other girls acted -- and I found that if I acted sexy and said crazy things like they did that I could have dates too. It worked. I was very popular in my senior year."

"Sure," Yale said, acidly. "You were hot stuff!"

Cynthia stood up. The sunlight, drifting through the leaves, made a shimmering pattern of shadows on her body. "I take it back," Yale said. "You are a chaste goddess."

She kissed him quicldy. "Cynthia is a moon goddess." She grinned. Then she blushed. "We better go back."

They dressed, shyly, turning away from each other, On the way back to the campus she told him not to worry -- that from now on she would go back to being a wallflower. "And when you find out what a grind I am -- even you won't like me."

Yale smiled. He had a friend, a beautiful, wonderful friend. A girl -- he thought. A girl. The word was filled with a sense of magic. He squeezed Cynthia's hand. "I like you, Cynthia, very much. . . ."

3

Within a month after college started Yale had established that Cynthia was his girl. Because Cynthia was very definite in her desire to complete her major requirements in English, Yale decided he would do the same. It had the added advantage that they were able to take many of the same classes together.

Sonny Thompson labelled them the "inseparables" He told Yale in a leering voice that the rumor abounded that Cynthia could be "had." One night Sonny carried it too far. When Yale returned to their room around ten-thirty, after a date with Cynthia, Sonny looked up from the book he was studying. "You must be Charles Atlas or something," he said with a smirk.

Yale, filled with happy thoughts of the lingering kiss Cynthia had just given him, failed to catch the drift of Sonny's remark. "What do you mean?"

"It takes a strong man to knock off a piece of ass every day -- Saturday and Sunday included." Sonny howled at his own joke. Yale grabbed his Introduction to Freshmen English and hurled it at Sonny, hitting him squarely on the side of his face. Yale threw the book with such force that the binding broke. Sonny slumped off his chair, a glazed look in his eye.

Yale pulled him to his feet. He was shaking from the violence of his anger. "I'm sorry, Sonny -- but keep your dirty mind off my life." He didn't say that the crude expression that was bandied about in every bull session by pimply faced students irritated him as much as Sonny's inference.

Sonny rubbed his face. "Listen, you crazy bastard, I'll tell you for your own good. All the guys in this school think you're a fruit. Hanging around with a dame all the time. You don't take part in any of the normal activities. You don't go out for sports -- you never show up at football rallies. Believe me if this dump had any fraternities you'd never make a pledge. I hear through the rumor channels that a few of the sophomores plan to take you for a little ride in the country and straighten you out."

Yale looked at him incredulously. "You must be nuts. What I do is none of your goddamned business. I don't happen to care whether Midhaven wins a football game or not. As far as sports go I'll beat anyone in the college at tennis or golf -- if I want to -- but it so happens I think golf is stupid, and I play tennis when the mood suits me, and not for the glory of Midhaven. You can tell your beloved sophomores to stay clear of me because I think freshmen hazing is little boy stuff. I wouldn't hesitate to report anyone who tries it on me. Remember," he finished sarcastically, "we don't go in for hazing and infantilism at Midhaven to quote the good Dr. Tangle."

"You're a spoiled rich man's son," Sonny said sourly.

"Well, don't expect a 'Good-bye Mr. Chips' ending," Yale said. He began to laugh. The ridiculous prep school atmosphere that Sonny and a good portion of the freshman class thought should prevail at Midhaven College amused him. He had had his fill of that at Buxton Academy. "Believe me, Sonny -- my father has tried for eighteen years to make me a 'man's man.' I don't care for the type. I've known it all my life -- and if the great Pat Marratt couldn't succeed -- you and a few sophomore goons won't accomplish it."

Yale continued to see Cynthia as much as possible. While the girls' dormitory rules made this somewhat difficult, they discovered a small Italian delicatessen about a half mile from the college called Mama Pepperelli's. Even though the faculty of the college had tried unsuccessfully in the past to close the place, Mama's had acquired a reputation as a college hangout. Since no liquor was sold, there was little that Doctor Tangle could do about it.

Here amidst the occasional boomings of a juke box, Cynthia and Yale took refuge and studied their common courses together. The wide reading that Yale had done over the past five years came suddenly into focus. He was able to interrelate the subject matter in his various courses in a way that was surprising to his professors. His fervor delighted Cynthia. "Your father must be pleased with you. At the rate you are going you will have the best marks in the freshman class."

Yale laughed. "If Pat knew that I had the highest marks in a course called 'Biblical History,' he would get Doctor Tangle on the telephone and ask him why in hell his son was taking such a course. What practical value could it have? if I told him that the course was unsuspectingly giving me a tremendous appreciation of the cultural contributions of the Jewish people to the world, I think my father would blow his top."

While Yale had questioned Cynthia endlessly about Judaism he had carefully avoided telling her about his parents' reactions; particularly Pat Marratt's feelings about Jews. She sensed that his family wouldn't approve of her.

One evening in March, Yale brought Cynthia to a family dinner. As they drove up the tree-lined, three-quarter mile drive to the Marratt home, Cynthia remarked nervously that this was some difference from the dirt road that led into her home in New Jersey. "In the summer I live in the middle of tomato plants as far as you can see. There are no rolling green lawns and pine trees. In the winter our house is surrounded by acres of muddy level land. New Jersey is a lot flatter than Connecticut, you know."

Yale looked over at Cynthia. She was wearing a light-brown wool coat. A scotch-type beret with a colored knob perched on the side of her head. His eyes filled with tears. She was so delightfully feminine, as she looked at him with big questioning brown eyes. He wanted to put his arms around her protectively. "Stop worrying, it won't be so bad. We'll leave early."

Yale tried to see the house through Cynthia's eyes. He knew she was impressed. Pat Marratt had built in 1933, the middle of the depression, and people in Midhaven had thought he had gone crazy. What most of the town didn't know was that he had picked up the hundred acres of Connecticut farmland on both sides of the Mamaputock River on a farm foreclosure for less than three thousand dollars. Pat's idea had been, some day when the pressure let off, to start a dairy farm as a hobby. The plan had not yet materialized. The day-to-day operation of the Marratt plant demanded too much of his attention.

The house with its lonely setting obviously appealed to Pat. It probably would never have occurred to him that its very remoteness had contributed to the development of Yale's character. With the nearest friends more than a mile distant, Yale had spent his teens roaming the woods and fields, or kept to himself, reading, alone in his room.

Yale drove past the house and down a narrow road that led to a boathouse. He noticed that Pat's car was in the garage. It was only six thirty. Pat would be showering. It would be easier to arrive just a few minutes before seven when he was certain that dinner would be ready. It would save sitting around, awkwardly, trying to talk with Liz.

"This is the boathouse. Come on, I'll show you." He led Cynthia in the door at the back. "That's Pat's Chris-Craft," Yale said, pointing at a boat snuggly cradled and glistening with new varnish and paint. "He uses it to go to work in the spring and summer. The factory is down the river about six miles."

Cynthia clung to Yale's arm. "I'm afraid, Yale. I never realized that your family was so rich. They won't like me. I just know it. Have you told them about me?" When she said it Yale knew she meant, "Have you told them I am Jewish." He hugged her close and kissed her lips. "Stop worrying. They're not ogres. I won't let them bite you."

Neither Pat nor Liz were downstairs when Yale took her in the house. "They're gettin' ready," Amy, the Marratts' maid and cook, told Yale. "The roast beef is all done. We'll eat as soon as they come down."

Yale led Cynthia into the huge living room. A fire crackled warmly in the fieldstone fireplace. Yale looked at the room through Cynthia's eyes, realizing for the first time that the expensive antiques collected by Liz, the luxurious chairs and sofas set in casual groupings on a tremendous oriental rug gave an impression that was equivalent to entering the lobby of a plush hotel.

"Golly," Cynthia said in awe. "You could lose thirty people in here and never miss them." She took off her coat and sat on the needlepoint bench in front of the Steinway. She touched a chord and then another. "I haven't been near a piano for nearly six months. Daddy would be ashamed of me."

Yale was surprised. "I didn't know you played the piano." Her grin was mischievous. "There's lots of things you don't know about me. May I play?"

Yale listened, astonished. Her fingers touched the keys easily without flourish, yet with conviction. The music she played conveyed her emotion. The delicacy of the moment, the firelight on her face, and the lost quality of the expression on her face brought tears to his eyes.

She finished and sat bemused.

"That was very well done."

Yale jumped. He turned to find Pat standing behind his chair. Cynthia looked at Pat and blushed.

"This is Cynthia, Pat," Yale said. "I didn't know she played the piano until just now. Pat is a piano enthusiast himself, Cynthia. Maybe he'll play for you."

Pat shook his head. "I am just a dabbler alongside this girl. After hearing the Appassionata played like that, I'll beg off. How long have you studied?" Cynthia told him she had started taking piano lessons when she was five.

Liz came in and was introduced. She greeted Cynthia coolly with the appraising eye of a mother as well as a woman. "Amy is about ready to serve, I hope you both are hungry." She led them into the dining room. Cynthia was seated across the table from Yale. He winked at her.

"Did you hear this girl playing, Liz?" Pat asked. "It gets me sometimes. Here we have the finest piano money can buy. Neither of my kids can play it. I'll bet you learned to play on an old upright, didn't you?"

"Well, it was old," Cynthia said smiling, "but it had nice tone."

"It couldn't have been like the one I practiced on, by God! The whole damned thing was out of tune. I think my father found it in a dump. It's funny," Pat mused. "Today we give kids everything. Offer them the things we fought to have, and when they get it handed to them on a silver platter, they sneer at it."

Cynthia and Pat talked about music. Yale could tell that Pat's interest surprised her. "I never thought businessmen cared much about music," she said.

Pat shrugged. "You've got the same Babbitt complex that Yale has. That damned fellow Sinclair Lewis is a menace. You can't stereotype anyone. Even Jews, with all their money grabbing, have produced fine musicians." Pat ate his roast beef, lost in his thoughts.

Liz talked with Cynthia casually about college. Liz told her Barbara was a Junior at Bryn Mawr. Yale breathed a sigh of relief. So far, with the exception of Pat's remark about Jews, the evening had gone well. A little formal, perhaps, but he had expected that.

After dinner, sitting before the fire, Pat Marratt questioned Cynthia pointedly. "You're Jewish, aren't you?" Pat, hunched in his wing-backed chair, looked like a huge questioning judge.

"Is it so apparent?" Cynthia asked, and then said, "Yes, I am."

Yale tried to interrupt, knowing that Pat had none of the normal inhibitions in discussing any subject. "Don't suppose you know a fellow named Harry Cohen." Cynthia shook her head negatively. "There are lots of Jewish people in the world."

"Oh, Pat, drop the subject, will you," Yale said angrily.

Pat ignored him. "This Cohen is a bastard. He's trying to organize my factory. I don't know what it is about Jews but they can't leave well enough alone. They are either ferreting their way into some place they aren't wanted or they are off on some idealistic program to change the world. Like some of these cronies of Roosevelt's. There's a real Jew lover for you."

Yale watched Cynthia's face and was filled with compassion for her. Pat amazed him. In one breath he could talk about stereotyping businessmen. Now, he had fallen into his own trap by stereotyping Jews. Yale wanted to get up, put his arm around Cynthia and quietly walk out of the room. But none of Pat's sparks ignited on Cynthia. She just listened to him with a half smile on her face.

"What I don't like about the Jews," Pat continued, chewing on a cigar, "is their pumped-up emotionalism. You should hear this guy Cohen. He lays it on so thick to my employees that you can't scrape it off. Of all the emotional crap and ding-dong you have ever heard, he takes the cake and, sister, the damn fools lap it up."

"The world is changing, Pat," Yale interrupted. "You reach people today not in what you say but how emotionally you say it. Roosevelt proves that."

"It wouldn't surprise me if Roosevelt were a Jew, too!" Pat said, looking at him coldly. "The world is going to hell." Yale knew what Pat meant. Eventually he would hear further explosions from Pat on the subject of his interest in Cynthia.

Liz tried to mollify the situation and in Yale's mind made it worse. "Oh, you forget, Pat, that right here in Midhaven some of our best friends are Jews."

Yale heard the platitude for the first time in a new light. It was the necessary qualification that any really prejudiced person made to prove their complete lack of prejudice. He felt like arguing with Pat. To prove to him that without the great religious thinkings of the Jews there would have been no Christians. He was aware for the first time that he was reaching beyond the courses he was taking in religion at Midhaven College to a unification of his own thinking.

Before he could say anything, however, Pat had started on a new line of inquiry. "What does your father do, Miss Carnell?"

Cynthia explained that he was a farmer in New Jersey. Yale listened, warily. He saw the connection forming in Pat's mind.

"Well, for God's sakes," Pat exploded, "don't tell me that your father is the Carnell that has all that tomato acreage. I'll be a son-of-a-gun. We've been buying most of his crop for the past ten years. He's a pretty shrewd operator. Joe Freeman, our purchasing agent, has dealt with him. I've never met him." Pat's voice trailed off. Unsaid, but very apparent, was the thought that he hadn't known that Cynthia's father was Jewish.

"He raises nice tomatoes too," Cynthia said, the smile still playing lightly on her lips.

"You can say that again!" Pat said. "The finest that come on the market every year are from the Carnell farms. Believe me, Marratt Corporation only buys the finest."

Amy walked into the room, and whispered to Liz. "Pat," Liz said, "the Tangles and Middletons are here." As she spoke their names, Dr. Tangle walked into the room, blowing on his hands, followed by his wife, Lucy. Frank Middleton and his wife, Marie, were just behind them.

Liz performed the introductions. Yale noticed that both Dr. Tangle and Frank Middleton looked at Cynthia with evident interest. "So you're a friend of the Marratts?" Doctor Tangle said, his words leaving a question unspoken, and chuckled with the heh-heh that trailed almost every statement he made. "Well, it is nice that our out-of-town students can get acquainted with some of the prominent people in Midhaven."

"Bill Sawyer called me at the Club," Frank Middleton said to Pat. "I told him I was coming over here. Bill was at the plant meeting. The entire plant is going to join the union. Every damned one of them. Cohen has promised them the world. I thought you would want to know. They'll be around to demand an election in a few days."

Pat noted that already Liz was putting a Dry Martini into Frank's hand. She murmured that it was made just to Frank's taste. Marie Middleton, a dumpy, blonde woman, remarked that Frank was just crazy about Liz's Martinis.

"I don't give a damn if they do join the union," Pat said, feeling as irritated at Frank as he did at Harry Cohen. "It burns my ass. After all of the good things I have done for those people, they can turn right around, and let a skunk like that Cohen run away with them. Only six months ago when I walked through the plant everyone would smile and wave to me. Now, they look at me as if I were some kind of a rat. Six months ago that bastard Cohen was in a soup line. We give him a damned good job and the first thing you know he's biting the hand that feeds him. They can join a union if they think it'll do them any good. I'm not paying one damned cent more in wages. Let them strike!"

"A strike wouldn't be a very good thing for Midhaven," Dr. Tangle said apprehensively. "I don't like to have that kind of publicity in a community like ours. It spreads the idea that we are more of an industrial city. That's bad for college enrollments."

"To hell with your enrollments, Amos," Pat said, his face mottled red. "I've been checking with Reece all afternoon and we've got sufficient inventories in our warehouse in every line to keep going for a couple of months without any trouble at all. We've probably got too damned much inventory anyway. So, let them join a union! Let the crazy bastards strike. We can operate for a couple of months without them."

"The only trouble is, Pat, with this European situation the way it is you're likely to lose the people to the Latham Shipyard. I was talking with one of the boys at the Club tonight. He says that it's almost certain that they are going to get a couple of British freighter contracts. If that happens, you are going to have to go up plenty in wages in order to hold anyone. Al Latham may be your friend, but he can't stop the upward trend when he starts hiring." Frank Middleton sipped his Martini and waited for Pat's reaction.

Pat relighted his cigar. "I'm telling you, if they don't get that Roosevelt out of the White House in the November elections, this country will go to hell. Landon may not be much, but at least he's a Republican."

The conversation started to take a political turn. Neither Yale nor Cynthia was included in it. Liz started her own independent conversation with Lucy Tangle and Marie Middleton. Rather pointedly she left Cynthia out of it. Yale made their departure excuses.

"There you are," Pat said, frowning at Yale. "I've got one son and eventually he will inherit this business. You can see how much it concerns him. All he's interested in, Amos, is in soaking up every damn bit of radical nonsense he can get his hands on. It would be interesting to know just how many Reds you have on the faculty down there at Midhaven. That Jack Leonard that teaches Sociology -- I'll bet a couple of bottles of good Scotch that he carries a party card." Pat turned to Yale. "You just wait . . . if the Marratt Corporation goes under and you have to earn a dollar on your own, you'll get some sense into you!"

"Now! Now!" Doctor Tangle said. "Don't you worry about Yale. He'll come around. Good solid background in that boy. His true colors will show up."

Liz walked to the front door with Yale and Cynthia. "I won't apologize for Pat," she said to Cynthia "He's a very blunt man and sometimes not very tactful. It was nice to have you to dinner. Perhaps Yale will bring you again sometime." She said the words in a way that implied that that of course was highly unlikely.

"You won't apologize for him," Yale said to Liz as he helped Cynthia with her coat, "but I will, and for you, too, Liz. It will be a long day before I bring any of my friends to this house."

Liz looked at Yale coolly. "At this age, darling, you should be aware of the facts of life. Stop trying to break out of your environment. Some day you'll know that your parents are your real friends. Good night, Miss Carnell."

Yale slid behind the wheel of the car. "It was awful, Cynthia, I'm sorry." He tried to put his arm around her.

"Don't, Yale! Not here. Please never bring me to your house again." As they drove toward the college Cynthia was silent.

"Cynthia," Yale said, trying to reach her, "I'm Yale Marratt, not Pat Marratt. Remember, that I can't help the way Pat is, any more than you can help being Jewish."

"I don't want to help being Jewish," she said scornfully. "I'm proud of it, Yale. It's no good. My family wouldn't approve of you, either."

Yale drove the car off Route Six into a side road. He turned off the ignition.

"Please, Yale, take me back to the dormitory. I feel kind of sick."

"No, I won't -- not until we get a few things straightened out! Okay, I admit it. I was wrong in not telling you how my family felt about Jews. Actually, I wasn't sure myself until this evening. I didn't know Pat could condemn you because of your religion without even knowing you. He listened to you play the piano, and enjoyed it. He couldn't help but see that you are lovely as a woman. Yet, he and Liz could be absolutely boorish and discourteous to you. Why? Why? I kept asking myself all evening. Do you know why, Cynthia? Because they are afraid! Supposing I brought a Catholic home or a Chinese girl, and they thought I was in love with her. They would have had the same reaction. A terrible fear of anyone who challenges the narrow concepts they have lived by. I strike at the shallow roots of their life because I care for a person who is a Jew. But you are not a Jew to me. No more than I am a Christian to myself. I don't go around saying, 'I'm a Christian.' I'm just me, Yale Marratt, and you are just you, Cynthia Carnell." Yale looked at her helplessly. "Honey, don't you understand?"

"I'm cold, Yale," Cynthia said. She huddled against the door of the car. Yale started the engine and turned on the car heater. "I wonder, Yale, if I'm just a kind of rebellion for you. Some kids break windows or get drunk or steal cars. You just want to shock people."

"Oh, God, don't you understand, Cynthia? I'm not trying to wave your religion at Pat like a red flag at a bull. I love you. It wouldn't make any difference to me if you were a Catholic or a Mohammedan. I love you." Yale repeated the words and in the process of saying them became quite convinced himself. He wondered for a moment if that was how you fell in love. If you said "I love you" to a girl, was it because you said the words that you loved her? When did love between a man and woman start? When you said, "I love you" what did it mean? It was a new feeling, and Yale had had no experience with it. He simply knew that Cynthia seemed to fill all his waking thoughts and the confused worries and fears that beset him vanished when he was with her. He felt that when he said "I love you" he could just as well have said, "I will die for you, or I will live because of you."

"Cynthia, dear," he said, touching her cheek, "you know what I am going to call you. I am going to call you Cindar. Every time I say it, it will be just like saying Cynthia dear. I can make love to you in public, just with words. Good idea?" he asked, trying to kindle a smile on her face. "Oh, Cindar, what's the matter?"

Cynthia looked at him sadly. She didn't really know how she felt about Yale. She admired his iconoclasm. She knew that he had the ability to inspire her with his enthusiasm toward abstract ideas, in the few classes she had with him she was amazed at Yale's headlong approach and his challenge of the teachers. No other student in the freshman class seemed to have the ability to get into the deep discussions that he did. She was pleased when Professor Walters, who taught freshman literature, remarked on Yale's ability to inter-relate one course with another; to take what he was learning in religion or psychology and reapply it in a study of some phase of English literature. Professor Walters had read a composition to the class in which Yale made an examination of English social structure in the Elizabethan times by analyzing the Shakespearean plays. Walters seemed to be particularly impressed that Yale had read every play that Shakespeare had written; an accomplishment which he assured the class was not true of ninety per cent of the seniors and even most of those who graduated with a Bachelor's degree in literature.

While Cynthia enjoyed Yale's restless, probing mind, she didn't clearly understand the roots, nor did she care for the minor key of his thinking. Yale was moody. He would fling himself furiously into a project, carry it halfway through, and then claim that the end result would not justify his effort. A few days later he would plunge headlong into some other idea. In this way he did a prodigious amount of reading in philosophy, sociology and psychology, continually searching for the answer to ideas so vague that he found difficulty in explaining even to Cynthia what motivated him.

Under the influence of Clifford Odets, whose plays he greatly admired, Yale had started to write his own play. So far he had written one act which he had read to her. It was a symbolistic thing about labor leaders. Now that she had met him, Cynthia could recognize a characterization of Pat Marratt. "Does your father know about your play?" Cynthia asked.

Yale wanted to know what his play had to do with anything at the moment; particularly the fact that he had just told her he loved her. "Oh, i don't know," Cynthia admitted, "it just seems to me, Yale, that you are playing with fire. You say you never realized how your parents felt about Jews, but I have a feeling you did know, and maybe you were just using me as a test or experiment. The play you are writing, maybe you are doing it just to aggravate your father. If he ever read it, he would have a fit. Why do you do it, Yale?" she asked, looking at him with tears in her eyes. "You seem to be always sailing against the tide. I heard what you said in the psych class the other day. it's all over the College. If it ever gets back to Doctor Tangle and your father and mother . . ." She looked at him in wonder.

Yale laughed, "What did I say that was so terrible?"He knew what it was. Professor Ratnor who taught the introductory Psychology course used a portion of the course to introduce his classes to Freud. Using a tiptoe approach, the happy sexual adjustments of the students at Midhaven were explained. By happy sexual adjustment, of course, was meant as complete a sublimation of sex as possible for girls and boys in their late teens. After listening to Ratnor discuss Freud and the Id and Libido for several class hours, Yale was quite thoroughly disgusted. When Ratnor called on him to answer some question, Yale managed to use the opportunity to voice his own opinion. The trouble with Freud, Yale had said, and most of the psychologists following him, as well as most writers, and so far as Yale could see, religious leaders to boot, was that they failed completely to understand the love relationship between a man and woman. Instead of seeing it in its cosmic beauty they tended to reduce it to a machine-like rutting: a union of two sewerage systems.

After Yale's speech, Professor Ratnor was scarcely able to continue the class for the balance of the hour. There was a hail of laughter from the men and embarrassed titters from the girls, followed by an instant buzz of conversation around the room.

"You know, Yale," Cynthia said, "you just don't say things like that at Midhaven College. What's more, I don't know whether you know it or not, but because we have been going around together so steadily after the way you talked, my roommate and most of the girls in the freshman class are pretty convinced that we have been sleeping together." Yale knew that that was true. Sonny Thompson, his roommate, had intimated as much and tried more than once to draw Yale into a long, trying conversation about Cynthia's sexual ability.

"Listen, Cindar," Yale said, "I don't care who knows I love you. You can be sure of one thing, that I'll never discuss our love with anyone. I don't care what anyone thinks. The students at Midhaven . . . Pat, Liz, Doctor Tangle, anyone . . . they all can jump in a lake." Yale looked at her, tears in his eyes. "I love you, that's all."

"Oh, Yale, I guess I love you too," Cynthia said. She put her arms around him and kissed him fervently on the lips and eyes and nose. What does it matter, she thought. Maybe, somehow, by some miracle it could work out. But she was unable to picture herself on friendly terms with Pat and Liz Marratt. Was it wrong to be in love, she wondered? She had thought about it often. She guessed that most girls when they went out with a boy thought of what it would be like to be married. Several times she had written "Mrs. Yale Marratt" on the pages of a notebook and looked at her writing, trying to imagine herself with that name; then, blushing, scribbled it out. It was silly. She was only eighteen. She had to finish college. Daddy expected that. He was so proud of her. Three years and she would graduate and be twenty-one. There were girls at home that had graduated with her and were going to have babies. Three years. How many things could happen? She turned to Yale, shivering. "Oh, it's silly, Yale. We're only kids. We've got to finish college. Your parents hate me. My father would be horrified. But I do love you!" She buried her face in his coat and sobbed at the wonder and fear of being in love with a boy. A good-looking, wonderful, frightening, unpredictable boy who wasn't childish or smooth or a wolf like many of the boys at Midhaven, but in some strange way wilder and more dangerous than any boy or man she had ever known.

"Cindar," Yale whispered, "do you remember the Kramer picnic? I thought your breasts were beautiful." He touched her breasts through her dress. "That day I wanted so much to kiss your breasts. Could I now?" He pushed up her sweater. Unhooking her brassiere, he smelled the warm fragrance of her skin. He kissed her nipples. She held his face close to her, caressing his cheek as if she were holding a child. She marvelled at the warm, good feeling of happiness that flowed through her. It was nice to have this boy, with his curly hair and warm face cuddled against her breasts. I do love you, Yale, she thought.

4

Small co-ed colleges like Midhaven College have certain well-established traditions regarding dating, and boy and girl relationships. You won't find them described in the college catalogue, nor is there any written protocol that says you must pick out a member of the opposite sex, and pretty much "go steady" for a college year. It just happens that if you are a boy, by the time you have become a sophomore you have either picked a girl whom you can count on for college dances or Saturday night dating, or you find that the "preferred" girls are already committed. A girl who goes steady for any length of time in the cloistered college environment soon learns that no other boy will try to break in. Then, too, if a girl shifts dates too often, she becomes the intriguing subject of male "bull-sessions." For the sophomore males as with the juniors and seniors, it becomes pretty much common knowledge what girls "have done it," what girls "might come across," and those who you "wouldn't be caught dead with, or take to a dog show." The only imponderable in the situation is the incoming freshman class. By midyears, the freshman girls have been classified and committed, usually by upper classmen who have avoided earlier entanglements.

Meeting Cynthia so early in his freshman year, being constantly seen with her between classes, Yale established his priority. Refusing to discuss her in "bull-sessions" alienated Yale from male companionship; being with Cynthia so often identified him in male eyes as a bit of a "twerp," a current expression to indicate anyone who lacked group approval. By the end of their sophomore year, it was generally accepted on the campus that almost any time of the day in their free time, look for Yale and you would find Cynthia, look for Cynthia and you would find Yale.

This state of affairs went just far enough beyond unwritten traditions as to represent a defiance of them. It was all right to have Saturday night dates with the same girl, or walk between classes with the same girl, but to give up all other college activities for the exclusive enjoyment of each other's company was a Daphnis and Chloe, Romeo and Juliet state of affairs that was generally frowned upon. From the faculty standpoint it could only result in an unforeseen marriage, or worse, an unwanted pregnancy. It was difficult to cope with.

While word of these "going-ons" had reached Doctor Tangle, and he had considered having Dean Shaw discuss it with Yale, by the middle of Yale's junior year Doctor Tangle had taken no action. Looking over the scholastic records of Yale and Cynthia, trying to decide what to do, Doctor Tangle was puzzled. Both Yale and Cynthia were on the Dean's list. It was quite possible that they would both graduate Phi Beta Kappa. From Yale's standpoint, considering that he had been accepted on a trial basis, this was surprising enough; but worse was the knowledge that despite Yale's wide interests in learning he refused to listen when his faculty advisor suggested that he take a few courses in such subjects as Accounting, Advertising or Business Management.

It wasn't that Doctor Tangle thought much of these courses. They had been made available at Midhaven College in keeping with demand; but it would have been simpler if he could have told Pat that Yale was taking a few business courses. Certainly, he couldn't tell Pat that Yale had written a brilliant study of Judaistic influences on Christianity. There were certain times when it was the better part of valor to watch and wait. Doctor Tangle sighed, wondering how Cynthia and Yale could study so successfully in the confusion of the college hangout, "Mama Pepperelli's," a combination soda fountain and delicatessen, or in the reception room of Cynthia's dormitory. It defied all common sense, yet, he reflected, they probably had no other place they could be together. Doctor Tangle rubbed his bald head. He tossed Yale and Cynthia's records into his file basket. Running a college entailed a great many more problems than Patrick Marratt realized. Times had changed. Now, the girl-boy problem on campus had become a problem for the college president. Yet, in this case, it wasn't a problem, really. He rather admired Yale's consistent rejection of Pat's way of life. While he carried no banner for Jews, Doctor Tangle thought it might be interesting if Pat's Irish blood were tempered with a mixture of Jewish corpuscles. Pat's consternation would be worth watching.

Pat's own problems with the Marratt Corporation during Yale's sophomore and junior years, precluded any great interest in Yale's activities. Liz assured him that the affair with Cynthia was "first love." If Pat would keep hands off, it would fade into a normal perspective. Pat, who never had a date with a girl until he was twenty-six, and married Liz when he was twenty-seven, couldn't withhold a certain disdain toward any boy who could devote so many hours to a girl.

While the Marratt employees had unanimously joined the union, and the years since had been punctuated with endless bargaining conferences, there had been no strike. The threat of a "sit-down" strike persisted, however, and a feeling of tension continually existed in the plant. Pat knew he no longer held the parental control that he exercised for so many years over his employees. It was as if, unasked, a new management had moved in and taken charge; undermining and countermanding his authority. Some days it gave him the feeling that he was sitting on a time bomb waiting for the fuse to go off. The only thing that seemed to prevent a strike was the uncertainty on the part of the union as to the future of the Marratt Corporation. While general business conditions had improved, it was common knowledge that the company was facing fierce competition from private brand products. Pat had reluctantly taken several huge contracts from one of the country's largest grocery chains and the company was packing jams, soup, piccalillis and ketchup under the chain's own label. It wasn't only that he had taken the contract through necessity at prices he considered impossible, but these chain brands that sold well below the level of the Marratt line were hurting the sale of his own brands. If the union called a strike, Pat was prepared to dump the chain contract, and automatically lay off half the employees. Among the remaining employees, he was certain there were sufficient who would cross the picket line. Harry Cohen was well aware of the situation; so it had become a cat and mouse game that kept Pat constantly studying his operating costs.

Yale, living in his own world, trying to find a way of reconciling his family with his love for Cynthia, and caught up with the wonder of learning and knowledge, paid little attention to the mundane problems of running a business. During his sophomore and junior years, he saw Pat and Liz only occasionally. During school holidays he came home and lived as a shadowy part of the family. His awkward attempts to discuss Cynthia usually ended in an angry discussion of Jews. Had either Pat or Liz listened to him silently and sympathetically, they would have found that Yale had changed considerably from his Buxton Academy days. Then, he studied what interested him and simply ignored everything that didn't. Now, almost every area of knowledge entranced him. He found that Cynthia had a penetrating mind, and to his delight challenged his ideas. He was charmed with her female outlook on life. Not that he became feminine in his concepts, but he appreciated Cynthia's warm practicality. He told her that she was the balance wheel for him. One day he stumbled on a book of Chinese philosophy; the idea of the Yang and the Yin. This male and female principle permeating all living became a wonderful substantiation of his own feeling.

He found a symbol that expressed it, and went to a jeweler in Midhaven. The design was a divided circle. "That's the trademark of the Northern Pacific Railroad," the jeweler laughed. Yale found out later that the jeweler was correct. Some former president of the railroad had seen the symbol in his oriental travels and adopted it.

Yale told Cynthia the story the night he gave her the ring. It was an expert job. The jeweler had made it using ivory and jade mounted in a platinum setting.

"With this ring I thee wed," Yale said. "It is a symbol of us -- always."

Cynthia smiled through her tears. "Yale, I love you so very much. I'll wear it always." She thought, now, I'll have to tell Daddy and Aunt Adar. Would Yale tell his family? Why did their love have to be sordid, and depend so much on the approval of others? How could either Yale's family or her father know the deep abiding love that she and Yale experienced? She knew without asking that she was not accepted by Pat or Liz . . . never would be probably. She knew that her father would accept Yale, reluctantly at first, but eventually in his own way. But he would never be happy if he knew that Yale's father and mother hated Jews. That kind of marriage would never work.

Yale kissed the tears on her cheeks. "Don't be sad, Cindar. No one will come between us -- ever." They were parked on Strawberry Hill a few miles from the college. Across Midhaven Bay the lights of an amusement park and roller-coaster seemed like stationary ships far at sea. Cynthia, stretched on the seat, lay in Yale's arms.

"We have never really made love, have we, Yale?" she asked, whispering in his ear. "Do you ever think about it?"

"Yes, I think about it, and when it happens it will be good and the nicest thing that ever happened to either of us."

Cynthia was silent for a moment. "I wonder . . ." she said. She didn't finish the thought.

"Wonder what, honey?"

"No, it's not a nice thing to ask."

Yale held her away from him. He looked into her shadowed eyes. "Come on, what's troubling you?"

"Have you ever loved another girl?"

Yale laughed, delighted at the frightened way she said it. "No, I haven't, Cindar. I'm not sure I even know how to go about it."

"Me either, but I won't be afraid with you.

They were engaged, but they told no one. They had long wonderful talks about marriage and timidly discussed intercourse. Yale knew when she had her monthly periods. They bought and read together books about reproduction and marital relations. And, in their love, they held secure the knowledge that soon, somehow, they would really "make love" . . . not in an automobile, not on a blanket in the woods, but on a bed, tenderly embraced through a long wonderful night.

Because of his love for Cynthia, Yale studied his courses with more energy than he had ever thought possible. A book was always under his arm. Now as he read he was able to integrate his reading into mature thinking. Driving himself, night after night, long after Sonny Thompson had gone to bed, Yale covered the contents of most of the English courses offered at Midhaven College before the end of his sophomore year.

He read Philosophy on a historical basis from the early Greeks through the latest thinkers like Josiah Royce. His continuing search for the ultimate meanings in life seemed to grow out of his love for Cynthia. Somehow, someway, he would find answers to all the mystery of life, and he would share his discovery with her.

Having Yale in a class was a challenge the Midhaven College professors did not appreciate. By the end of his junior year he had changed direction so rapidly that Professor Heatherly, his English professor, told him he was bewildered as to what might come out of him next. Yale had renounced as a waste of time the essay he had written previously on sociological conditions in Shakespeare's time. He had come to the conclusion that digging into literature and analyzing all the nuances of meaning that long dead authors probably didn't intend anyway was a waste of time.

To the amusement of the class he started a long argument with Heatherly, whose book A Study of Pre-Elizabethan Drama had been just published by one of the University presses. To Yale the book represented a colossal waste of time. A few days before the end of the year, in answer to a question that Heatherly had asked him, he managed to say so.

Yale enjoyed the sensation his remark had produced. He was sorry that Cynthia wasn't taking this course so that she could hear him. Most of the students in the class were largely sponges absorbing, or letting pass through their minds onto notebook paper, the rehashed wisdom of their instructors. Seldom did the sponges repel the knowledge. Seldom did they react to it. The stuff that oozed into their minds never became a part of their life. It was there as dead weight only. They could squeeze it out if necessary in about the same form in which it had been originally assimilated.

When Yale stated, so bluntly, his criticism of Heatherly's book, a nervous giggle ran through the classroom. Heatherly, a slight man with thin black hair brushed across his bald head, did not cringe.

"Just what do you think is a better use of time, Marratt?"

Yale, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, answered. He was the inquisitor. He let himself go. "It's like digging in cemeteries. That's what I think. What use is it to know where Christopher Marlowe bought his cigars, or what he did on the night of August sixteenth, fifteen hundred eighty-five? It's infinitely more use for me to know what manner of environment produced a man who could think writing such stuff was important."

Yale liked the sound of his voice. The class which had been dozing was now at rapt attention. Yale went on. Picking up Heatherly's book from his chair, he murmured sarcastically, "The ecclesiastical beginning of drama." He dropped the book disdainfully. "What good is it going to do me to go into all the ramifications of early Christian drama which, no matter how you slice it, and how you try to convince yourself, is completely boring and has nothing to say for present-day problems."

Heatherly felt the class getting out of his grip. He answered Yale ironically in a well-modulated, classroom manner. "It seems to me," Heatherly paused and he let his eyes rove about the classroom. "It seems to me that I remember a little story about Mr. Marratt that appeared in the Midhaven Herald several years ago. I think it was before Mr. Marratt was a student at this institution. Let me see, it was about some gliders. Ah, yes, that was it!"

Yale blushed, knowing what was coming.

"You and some other boy, Mayer something or other, had a wild idea that you were birds. It seems that you weren't satisfied that the Wright Brothers had done the same thing more practically years ago. You, shall we say, 'lifted' a few odds and ends, assembled a glider and whizzed through the air." Heatherly spoke with gestures, swooping and flaying his arms. The class snickered. "The fact that you broke your leg, crashed into a helpless old lady, created a minor scandal because of certain valuable properties that had gone into the contrivance directly from the Latham Shipyards, was a small matter. All that, less than three years ago seemed to have tremendous use to you. Now, let me see, less than six months ago, I seem to remember you wrote an essay on Shakespeare which, I understand, was read in your Sociology class, which purported to study sociological conditions in Shakespeare's time. Now you find the same type of analysis in my book to be so much tripe. Perhaps, Mr. Marratt, your values are not completely settled. Perhaps, you are floundering a bit! If I am to believe my eyes when I cross the campus, I often see your hands linked with the hand of a certain lovely lady. I can assume that within this same relatively short period of several years you have found a new meaning in life. Perhaps a new romance?"

The class roared with laughter. Everyone at Midhaven College was aware of Yale and Cynthia. Yale blushed, angry with Heatherly for making a point of his relationship with Cynthia.

He sat in his chair vanquished, but Heatherly wasn't finished. He directed the hour into a discussion of the values in life. Determined to vindicate himself in the eyes of the class, he ranged world affairs. What was useful in life? What was tripe? Was it useful to be a Mussolini or a Hitler? Was it useful to build battleships and airplanes to destroy people? Was it useful to spend a lifetime in pursuit of the "bitch goddess Success"? He jumped back on Yale. Was it useful to sit in a place like Mama Pepperelli's, day after day, drinking chocolate Cokes; reading all the current magazines without buying them? Was that useful? Maybe Mr. Marratt would give the class a definition of what was useful and what was tripe?

Yale didn't attempt it. He felt Heatherly's attack was unfair, without realizing that his own criticism of Heatherly had been a hit below the belt. Within an hour after the class was over the rumors of what had happened spread around the college. Like any gossip in a small college it was chewed and regurgitated endlessly.

Walking toward Mama Pepperelli's that afternoon to meet Cynthia, Yale regained his sense of humor. He even began to feel a little bit of admiration for Professor Heatherly.

Sonny Thompson was making Cokes behind the soda fountain when Yale walked in.

Yale looked around. Cynthia had not yet arrived.

"Hyah, lover -- your red hot flame has not yet honored us with her graceful appearance." Sonny's manner was always effusive and many times quite embarrassing to Yale. Yale noticed that several of the other students in Mama Pepperelli's looked up when he came in and exchanged glances.

Sonny followed Yale into one of the back booths. "I've got a great idea," he said, "I'll get a date this weekend. If you'll toss in your car and a few bucks' worth of gas, we'll beat it to the City. We can go up the old Post Road, find a joint to dance, soak up a few beers, and then heave to with the dates in one of those cozy little cabins. What do you say?"

Yale didn't quite grasp what he meant. "Do you mean stay overnight?" Yale shook his head, but not convincingly. Spending the night with Cindar seemed like a warm, good idea. As he had done many times, he imagined himself burrowed beneath the blankets with Cindar, really making love to her for the first time. Although he had been with her almost daily during the past two years, the strict regulations for co-eds had kept their dates little more than hand-in-hand walks to Mama Pepperelli's, or a few hours studying together at her dormitory reception room. Or on Saturdays when there was time to use his car, they would end up parking for a few hours on a lonely road. He had explored Cindar's body but his approach to her continued to have the same feeling of reverence. They both sensed, without saying it, that intercourse in a parked car would have little beauty or satisfaction. Yet they both knew that given the right time and place, they would consummate their love.

Sonny could see that Yale was wavering. "Listen, my honorable roommate, don't tell me that all these months you haven't got into Cynthia's pants. From what I've heard, in my short career, these Jewish babes are passionate and go big for a little nooky."

Yale stood up in the booth with a murderous look in his eye. If Cynthia hadn't walked in just then, he probably would have struck Sonny.

"What gives with you two?" she asked, locking from Yale's face, frozen with anger, to Sonny's half grinning smirk.

"Nothing. Beat it, Sonny, I'll talk with you later."

But the seed of Sonny's idea took root. Warm visions of making love with Cynthia stayed with Yale. He broached the idea to her on the way back to her dormitory. She didn't answer at first. A thousand ideas slipped wildly in her mind. Mixed with fears of getting pregnant was her realization that Yale's love for her bordered on adoration. His, "I love you, Cindar, I need you, Cindar" was at once the expression of violent emotion, and bewildered fear. She herself had grown up in the confines of a closely integrated and loving family. Until she had met Yale her brief emotional life outside of home had been confined to the quick give and take of high school boys. She had learned to return the flippant remarks with searing wisecracks and easy banterings about sex that gave an illusion of knowledge but had little foundation in fact.

In their two years at Midhaven Cynthia had found that the fact of her religion could produce new and unaccustomed hostilities with veiled feelings from even those girls that she knew most familiarly. It had been a pleasant relief to realize that with Yale, for some strange and unaccountable reason certainly not bearing on his family, the fact of her Jewishness had absolutely no effect. It had made her only voyage into Gentile waters easier, or more dangerous. She didn't know. Whatever her own confused feelings were toward Yale, she was certain of the strength of his love, and she knew that the love she gave him in return was a clean, comforting experience.

"Yale, don't look as if you asked me to jump off the Empire State Building." She kissed him lightly on the cheek. "It'll take some doing to get me out of the dormitory overnight, but that's your problem. Who is Sonny Thompson going to get?"

5

Sonny solved the complications of getting Cynthia out of her dormitory. "It's quite simple," he told Yale. "I can get a date with Bee Middleton. Bee lives in Midhaven so all you have to do is have a note from Bee's mother that Cynthia is going to stay overnight at Bee's. All Bee has to do is to tell her house mother that she is going home for the week end. In other words, one note will do the trick." Sonny smiled at his ingenuity. "I'll write the note. Bee can give it to the house mother and, presto, we're all set."

Sonny's facile plan for getting the girls free of college restrictions worked without a hitch. Saturday afternoon they piled into Yale's Ford convertible and started toward New York. Yale was not too enthusiastic about having Beatrice Middleton along, since her father was vice president of the Marratt Corporation.

Liz had tried in the past to promote several dates with Beatrice, but after one experience Yale decided that it was crazy to go out with a girl who didn't like anything he liked. He had taken her to the West Haven Amusement Park. . . .

After one circuit of the lurid jangling splendor he had guided Beatrice toward the deserted beach. But she didn't enjoy sitting alone, listening to the night, speculating on the mystery of the stars. She wanted to be back on the midway, riding the roller-coasters, screaming on the whip, driving the bump-em cars, eating greasy hot dogs, trying to win the plaster of paris dogs or cupids for rolling a ball or tossing a loop. It was such fun Beatrice's eyes sparkled; her cheeks were flushed. But Yale hadn't been happy. The crowds oppressed him. He felt the sorrow of thousands of people drifting aimlessly. He wanted to walk the whole length of the midway quickly to see if the something they were all looking for was there, buried somewhere in the smell of water-rotted wood in the tunnel of love or lurking in the dingy back rooms of amusement palaces where swarthy men and women counted the dimes and nickels from their concessions while they planned new and bigger lures in which the people could drown their sorrows. It was crazy. Or maybe all these people were happy? Maybe they returned to their walk-up flat and over a cheap linoleum on a kitchen table or in the shadow of carnival lamps with lush purple fringes adorning mahogany-vanished end tables, they surveyed their rag dolls and plaster of paris monstrosities, and congratulated themselves on their ability to win them so cheaply. And every time they looked at them the noise and gaiety of the carnival came back to them; the thrill of the coaster ride, the frenzy of the plunge down after the car had inched wearily to the top of the wooden dragon, was honey to the monotony of their lives. To Yale it was sorrow. Sorrow so intense that it made him shiver with the sad misery of it.

Sonny had miraculously produced a couple of bottles of whiskey. After a few raw slugs, Yale found it somewhat easier to adjust himself. Bits of Beatrice's inane conversation continued to drift from the back seat of the car, interrupting his more muted whispering with Cindar. By six thirty they were a few miles outside of New York City, and had found a roadhouse that seemed to constitute Sonny's and Beatrice's idea of a good evening. It was called The Golden Coach. Photographs in the ornate but run down lobby advertised charcoal broiled steaks and dancing to Red Pierce's orchestra. Sonny, realizing that they wouldn't be served hard liquor, had come in equipped with two flasks. They ordered glasses of ginger ale and giggled while Sonny spiked them under the table.

By the time their steaks arrived they were all feeling very gay. Sonny entertained them with a tower built of water glasses, salt shakers, knives and forks that mysteriously hung on the verge of tumbling, horrifying their waiter.

Cynthia held hands with Yale under the table. The supper room was almost dark. A glittering dome that revolved on the ceiling cast sparkles of light among the tables and on the dance floor. "Listen to that song," Cynthia said. "I want to dance to it." Dizzily they walked to the dance floor.

A singer with incredibly high arched eyebrows sang the words of the newest popular song, "Remember Tomorrow."

Remember tomorrow, Cynthia thought. The words slide into my mind and gracefully pirouette to an old dancing tune. Remember tomorrow, born in the afterglow of yesterday.

The orchestra hushed. Brasses muted. The body of the singer disappeared. Only her face remained, glowing softly in a green spotlight. Flecks of blue, yellow, green, bounced off the slowly moving crystal ball and were flung on the dreamy faces of the dancers. "Remember Tomorrow." It was sure fire. Hit Parade stuff.

Cynthia danced, the curves of her body against Yale's chest and stomach. My tomorrows are yesterdays. Time has ceased to be marked by hours and minutes. This moment alone is all. I feel this warmth. I feel this splendor. The bloom has burst forth in full fragrance. I am all. "I am drunk, Yale," she said, pressing close to him. "And I love you."

Sway-slide-easily. Closed eyes. A thousand sounds trickle into the silence of my brain like useless echoes chasing themselves from rock to rock. I am a pebble cast into infinity. The rings spread out convolute and then expand into echoless space. I am a warm, splashing ocean lapping the shore. A creature of moons. A lovely twenty-eight-day flower; degenerating and re-generating on moon currents.

"What are you thinking, Cindar?"

"What am I thinking, Cindar? About you, Yale, my darling. About the warmth of you. About the warmth of us. Cindar is warm. Her breasts are warm and suddenly conscious." She laughed, throwing her head back, searching his face with her wide-set brown eyes. "Oh, Yale, Yale, my dearest. You want to know a secret? I am tight! Gloriously and maddeningly tight. Undid. Words and thoughts are bubbling through my brain, half dressed, and I am embarrassed. But I can't help staring at them because they are so lovely in their nakedness."

Yale drew her close and kissed her. "You're cute, Cindar. Let's smoke the rest of this one out."

"Isn't getting glowing nice?" Cynthia smiled the feeling at everyone she passed. Not that she could tell who they were. Dimly -- shadows, but not substance. Not men and women from high up in skyscraper offices, or freshly scrubbed from dirty factory jobs. Not men and women dressed in Saturday night white linens, and flowered silks and crinkly seersuckers. Not the gray haired man she had smiled at over Yale's shoulder. This was not Rick Rocco's famous Golden Coach. It was a gray place. The colors were whirling too fast, and their brilliance intermingled.

Cynthia's mind hummed a gay tune. Cynthia is Cindar, and Cindar glows. Johnny Walker glows. Funny man with knee britches and a tall silk hat, a man with an aerial beam casting his smile through a fog of uncertainty. The puritan old maid has left for the night, and the usually quiescent people downstairs have taken over the joint. Hell would break loose, and the old lady that dwelled somewhere in her head would have a few of her expensive vases broken. So, they could be mended, not so good as new, but serviceable.

What if they could see her at Midhaven College? Cynthia Carnell, the pride of French V, glowing. Wouldn't Professor Cartier be surprised! He didn't drink. He didn't smoke. He wore a kimono. Why, he probably sits down to pee! Cynthia broke into happy laughter. Yale squeezed her through the crowd at the edge of the dance floor.

Why am I giggling and murmuring, "I love you," into Yale's ear? It's a nice ear. Scrumptiously clean. Is this me giggling? Is this an outward giggle or an inward giggle? "Yale!" Cynthia demanded, her mind suddenly clearing. "Where are Sonny and Bee?"

"Probably still in there dancing." Yale guided Cynthia onto the wide veranda that girded the rear of the Golden Coach. The roadhouse had been so arranged that it backed onto a landscaped garden, with a parking lot for automobiles on the far end. They walked in and out of the hammocks and divans scattered along the porch, noticing the people sitting, quietly talking, kissing, smoking. Near the end of the veranda Yale found a secluded spot. He leaned against the low, white railing, held the swaying Cynthia with one arm, and looked out into the darkness. I'm in love, he thought. I'll always be in love and I'll always be lonely and anxious like this because, no matter how much you're in love, you always have within you a small untouchable island, an area so remote and so unrevocable that no matter how much you care for someone you never can communicate it.

He hugged Cindar against him and she, glad of his support, stayed close. What am I afraid of, he wondered. I set goals for myself impossible to attain, and I am emotionally shattered, just realizing the impossibility. Why can't I be like Sonny and leave things alone and not press them so far? Why do I respond so violently? Even to the weather? I seem to absorb the sadness of the night, and want to touch it. I float on sunshine, yet I am happiest at night. Yale smiled to himself. I'm just a weird character, he thought, and chuckled.

He flicked his cigarette over the shrubbery surrounding the veranda. It showered sparks against the mudguard of one of the cars parked in the lot, gleamed against the headlight and disappeared.

Like a sudden shift in the wind the breath of the music drifting onto the veranda stopped. Other couples walked out into the cool evening air, flushed from the close sweatiness of the dance floor. Cigarettes gleamed in the darkness. Confident male whispers echoed back answers to the sibilant husky sound of female voices.

The music of the spring evening took up where the orchestra left off. Maple trees, their buds just fully emerged into yellow pink leaves, shifted uneasily in the warm wind. Across the garden thousands of fireflies careened through the air, disappeared, only to flash again as they slid down another air current. The warm dampness of the late spring evening filled the air with a rich earthy smell, and erupted in wet drops on the silhouetted automobiles huddled in neat rows alongside the building.

Cynthia clung to Yale oblivious to the sounds of laughter, and the kissing, and the brown smell of cigarette smoke mingling with the air. The conversation moved about them like an oscillograph reaching peaked crescendos and diminishing into soft whisperings of the night. On the top of the arcs a male voice slightly louder than the rest seemed to dominate the peaks.

"I don't care what he thinks. It was a dirty trick. Someday the bastard will get what is coming to him. Freedom, they call it, huh?" The voice died away and then wafted back strong and full. "A man can't open his mouth, that's what I say, and McGrew is a lousy, cheap chiseler, and I'll tell him so someday."

A female voice pleading. "Why not forget it for tonight, Jim? Come on, let's have another drink."

"Yale, I'm awfully tight." Cynthia said, pushing a lock of hair back on her forehead. "When are we going?"

"Pretty soon. Are you going to be sick?"

"No." Cynthia's voice was doubtful. "At least I hope not."

Sonny Thompson walked up, peering into the dim light, eading Beatrice Middleton by the hand. "Yale?"

"Yeah."

"We've been looking all over for you. We better get going. We got to find a place to stay before it's too late."

"Where are we going?" Beatrice asked suspiciously. She knew what was coming, but evidently hoped by some good fate to avoid it at the last minute.

"We're going to find a bed to sleep in," Sonny said jovially. "Ye Gods, stop looking as if you were going to an execution."

Yale drove the Ford slowly along the Post Road, trying to ignore the argument going on in the back seat between Beatrice and Sonny. They passed signs. Cabins -- running water -- Red Cross mattresses -- radio. Yale stopped the car questioningly.

"I won't stay in those places, they look like outhouses," Beatrice moaned.

"We can find better cabins than that," Sonny said, trying to pacify her.

"Let's find them then," Cynthia said. "I'm dead."

A few miles farther, Yale turned the car off the road into a small group of what looked like miniature log cabins. An old lady came out of one of them. Her hair was in wispy strings on her forehead and she clutched what was once a maternity gown.

"Whatcha want?"

"Have you got two cabins?"

"Nope, got a double. Five dollars for tonight. Pay in advance." She peered into the car. "You ain't married, are you? Well," she sighed, "I suppose it ain't none of my business."

Sonny was about to say they would drive on and look for two singles when Beatrice perked up. "We'll take it," she said firmly, probably figuring in safety in numbers. She gave Sonny a sarcastic look.

"Sure, let's take it," Cynthia said sleepily. "I don't want to drive all night."

In the cabin they stared at each other awkwardly. The only partition between the two beds was a faded chintz curtain suspended on rings that moved along a wire fastened between the exposed rafters.

The old lady had opened the single door of the bathroom, and given detailed instructions on how to flush the toilet. She also expounded on the fact that she expected the place to be picked up and not left messy. Finally, after staring silently at the four of them, she left.

"This place makes me feel cheap," Beatrice said.

Sonny flopped on one of the beds. "Forget it, and have a drink. We've got to sleep somewhere, haven't we? After all, you did pick the place. If it had been up to me, I'd have kept looking."

Beatrice sat on the edge of the other bed beside Cynthia, and whispered to her. "I don't like this. Let's get out of here."

Cynthia shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know about you, but I'm pooped."

Sonny passed the half empty bottle around. Cynthia refused it. Beatrice reluctantly took it, examined it, and, in an act of bravado, took a long swallow. Fiddling in the drawers of the one dresser in the room, Sonny found a deck of worn cards and fanned them. "I don't feel sleepy. Do you kids?"

The strangeness of the place, plus an awakened feeling of guilt and nervousness, had all their minds racing. Sleepiness vanished before the prickings of their consciences. Lounging on the edge of one of the beds, they began to play a wild game of bridge with Yale and Sonny partners against Beatrice and Cynthia.

Sonny kept bidding seven no trump, insisting that if Yale would play properly with him they could make every hand. They continued to drink until the bottle was empty.

"This is dull. Let's play strip poker," Sonny suggested.

Cynthia giggled. Beatrice, her eyes staring and dull, shook her head emphatically no.

"How do you play it?" Yale asked.

"Simple." Sonny Thompson seemed to have a wealth of devious ideas tucked away in his brain. "Did you ever hear of black jack or vingt et un sometimes known as twenty-one?" Sonny flicked a card down in a circle to each of them. "That's your underneath card. You bet against me. You bet that you'll come closer to twenty-one than I do." He explained the values of the cards. "Actually you have to bet on each hand, checking being unfair in strip poker. I'll work around to each one of you in turn." He flicked a card to Cynthia face up. It was an eight of spades. "What have you got underneath?"

"A king."

"That's worth ten. An ace is worth eleven or one. You can stand on eighteen or take another card hoping to come closer to twenty-one than I will. If you go over, you owe me a piece of clothing. If I am under eighteen or over twenty-one, I owe you a piece. If we are both even, any amount up to and including twenty-one, there is no exchange. Once you take off a piece you can't put it back on even though you win it from someone else."

"It's too complicated," Beatrice complained.

"No, it's really simple. You'll see when we get started."

"It's not fair," Cynthia objected. "You both have more clothes on than we have."

"We'll even up. How many pieces have you got, Bee?"

"None of your business," Bee said and then laughed. "Oh, all right, if you want to know. I've got a dress, a slip, panties, a bra, stockings and shoes. I don't want to play."

Sonny ignored her. "That's eight pieces counting each piece separately. Yale and I have shoes, stockings, pants." He paused, scratching his head as he tried to enumerate what they were wearing. "Underwear, shorts, shirt, a tie and a coat. Let's see, that's ten. We'll take off our ties and coat to even up."

"It's still not even," Beatrice said. "Your underwear top isn't as crucial as our bras!"

Yale leaned back on the pillow. "My God, what complications." There was more discussion. It was finally discovered that both girls were wearing earrings and these were accepted as an extra piece of clothing giving them each nine pieces against eight for Yale and Sonny.

"My mother says that it's bad for people to stand around naked together," Beatrice said in a whimpering voice.

The way she said it struck the three of them with a sense of almost hysterical comedy. Beatrice looked at them indignantly. "What's so funny?"

"Your mother should see you now," Yale said. "Anyway, what's bad about your body?" He actually wanted to know and would have been just as agreeable to starting a discussion about the relativity of morals as to proceeding with the game.

Beatrice looked at him coldly. "If you don't know by this time, Yale Marratt, I'm not going to tell you. This whole thing is bad. If it ever leaked out in Midhaven, we'd all be expelled."

Sonny dealt the cards. Cynthia made twenty-two. Yale stood on eighteen, not showing his underneath nine of clubs. Reluctantly, Beatrice picked up her cards. She refused to show them for a minute but finally acknowledged that she had only seventeen. As the banker, Sonny played his hand. He turned up a king, then a six. He'd have to pay each one of them a piece of clothing if he stood pat. He drew another card and turned it over hesitantly. It was a king.

"Twenty-six," Beatrice said, relieved. "You owe us all a piece."

"Pay up." Yale laughed. "The inventor of the game goes to the cleaners."

Sonny handed Cynthia and Yale a shoe each, and Beatrice a stocking. Yale took the deal and won a piece from them all. Cynthia dealt and lost two stockings and a shoe. It was Beatrice's turn and she dealt, protesting that no matter what happened she wasn't going to undress all the way. Sonny lost to Beatrice and Cynthia tied Yale. Sonny's stockings, shoes and shirt were off in a tangled heap on the bed.

When Yale dealt again he won from all three. He had a pile of stockings and shoes in front of him. He held up Cynthia's silk stockings, laughing.

"It's not fair, you haven't lost a thing," Cynthia said.

"You must be cheating.

Cynthia dealt and lost to Yale. She hesitated, and then remembered her earrings and pulled them off, laughing. "Thought you had me! Didn't you?" Beatrice lost to Cynthia and handed her her earrings. Sonny also lost. He took off his pants and sat in his underwear. When Cynthia dealt again they all made different combinations of twenty-one. No winners or losers.

Sonny passed the whiskey bottle. He winked at Yale as he gave the deal back to Cynthia. The dealer stood the chance of losing three pieces and therefore had the biggest risk.

"I just dealt," Cynthia said.

"No, you didn't," Sonny grinned.

"I did, too. Didn't I, Bee?"

Bee passed her hand over her face. "Darned if I know. I'm tight!"

Cynthia took the cards and dealt. She lost her dress to Yale. Hesitating, she slowly took it off while they watched her. Sonny obviously was enjoying her embarrassment. She sat on the bed in her slip. On the same deal Beatrice lost her dress to Cynthia, and reluctantly took it off and gave it to her.

Sonny, losing to Cynthia, took off his underwear top and handed it to her. Cynthia passed the deal to Beatrice again. Beatrice took the cards dubiously. "I think you're right, Cynthia, you just dealt."

"It's too late now," Cynthia said. "You're stuck."

Beatrice took the cards. She sat on the bed with her legs curled up under her slip. "If I lose, I am through, I'm not going any further."

She dealt and lost to Sonny, and won from Yale and Cynthia. "We're going down at the same pace," Cynthia laughed.

"Are you going to take off your slip?" Beatrice demanded. Cynthia looked at Sonny, grinning at her, as if to say, "I'll bet you don't dare." She shrugged her shoulders. "Why not?"

She pulled her slip over her head and handed it to Beatrice. Nervously, Beatrice took hers off and handed it to Yale. She crossed her arms across her brassiere and blushed.

Sonny picked up the cards. "Here goes someone!" He dealt four cards down.

Yale drew a three underneath. "Hit it."

Sonny flipped an eight of hearts at him.

"Again." A two came next. Yale hesitated. "Again." A jack came next.

"You're over, pay up."

Yale handed him his last stocking.

Sonny dealt a queen underneath to Cynthia and then a six facing up. She looked at her underneath card for a long time trying to decide what to do. She could beat Sonny or try for a card between one and five. She had to play. Sonny would certainly beat sixteen. "Hit it," she said breathlessly. Sonny flipped her a ten of hearts. "Damn," she said nervously.

"Pay up," he laughed. Cynthia looked at Yale. Her eyes said, "Should I?"

"Go ahead. Show him what pretty breasts you have. He's driven me crazy asking."

Cynthia fumbled with the clasp on her brassiere, unhooked it and held it against her for a minute. Finally, blushing, she took it off and handed it to Yale.

"Not bad," Sonny said, examining her breasts with exaggerated interest.

"Keep your comments to yourself!" Cynthia snapped.

Shocked, Beatrice took the deal. "If I weren't drunk I wouldn't do this." She dealt and lost to Cynthia and Yale. "I have only two things left," she wailed.

"Take 'em off," Sonny laughed, examining his cards. "I lost to you so I'm out, too!"

"I'm not going to undress any further," Beatrice said. Cynthia can do what she wants to." Beatrice started to pick up her slip as if she were going to put it on. They were all silent. Her tone of prudishness suddenly made them realize what they were doing. Their revelry fell through a sluice. "Oh, all right!" She got off the bed and took off her brassiere and panties. "There!" she stood naked beside the bed. "I hope you see enough." There was a peculiar anger in her eyes; her voice sounded near the edge of hysteria. Something was needed to save the impending tragedy.

Cynthia hopped off the bed and slid out of her panties. "Come on, Yale. Let's all look at each other like curious kids and get it over with."

Yale and Sonny finished undressing awkwardly. They all sat on the bed, trying not to look at each other too obviously; trying to hide their embarrassment.

A "now-what-are-we-going-to-do" silence filled the cabin. Finally, Beatrice said archly, "If you've all seen enough, I think Cynthia and I will go to bed." She stated it so flatly that there was no room for Sonny's hesitant, "But -- "

Cynthia eyed Yale. "You sleep with Sonny." She said it curtly, and started to draw the chintz curtain across the wire. Yale looked at her body seeing her uplifted breasts, and, as she turned, her white buttocks between her tanned shoulders and legs. He was suddenly amazed at the overwhelming feeling of chasteness and beauty that Cynthia, nude, held for him.

"There's no point in doing that," Yale said. Cynthia gave him a use-your-head look.

Yale walked back to his side of the curtain. He suddenly realized that his love for Cindar was a solitary thing. Even if Beatrice had been willing to sleep with Sonny, the atmosphere of the cabin would have produced a terrible feeling of sordidness. The whole affair that might have been beautiful and tender with Cynthia alone, held the possibility of a cheap orgy. "You won and lost, Sonny. Come on and let's get some sleep."

In bed, after Sonny had ceased telling him that he was a lousy pal, and given up trying to persuade him that they could shift beds later on, Yale listened to the quiet breathing of Cynthia and Beatrice on the other side of the curtain.

It was raining, and the drops fell quietly on the absorbent pine roof. You start out seeking something, he thought, and you wind up miles from where you ever wanted to be. He supposed that he had encouraged Sonny in the game. He couldn't deny his curiosity. He had wondered how Beatrice looked naked. After he had seen her he realized that she was just another normal girl. And while he found it good to look at her without clothing, he sensed that it was in admiration for a generalized aesthetic beauty and not a sexual attraction. Vaguely, he felt that the mores of the American culture were wrong in making nudity such a secret, closeted affair. Perhaps a great deal of the filth and innuendoes associated with sex would be eliminated if the western, cultures accepted the everlasting and amazing mystery of man's and woman's bodies. If all children were brought up with a clear understanding, and taught a real love of man for man. It would have to start, he thought, with the established religions first eliminating the sinfulness of man.

What he wanted was to be lying beside Cindar, alone; by themselves somewhere. He wanted to tell her the ideas careening through his mind and listen to her sympathetic, "Yes, Yale, I understand."

There was so much to learn, and to know. He realized that he was suddenly afraid of dying before he could accomplish the vague plans half formulated in his mind. He didn't know how the fear of death had come upon him but it had been lurking in his brain for weeks.

Walking along College Avenue, or picking up a book, or starting to work on the play which continued to elude him, the idea would suddenly seize him of the uselessness of the whole thing. If he died, he couldn't finish what he started. All the bright beauty of living would be gone. Plans of being with Cindar, and marrying her and living in an atmosphere of quest and study -- all of them were contingent, futile. He would be dead. Maybe tomorrow, maybe tonight. When you want to live so badly, he thought, you lose your balance. He fought the feeling. He knew he was perfectly healthy. He cursed himself for getting such ideas. Why couldn't he live matter-of-factly like Sonny Thompson or any of the host of people that he had met at Midhaven College? They acted as if they were immortal.

Nothing would shake his feeling of impending death. It came on him driving his Ford. He might crash with an oncoming car and be dead. He might step off a bus, and a car would crash into him, and he would be dead. He could visualize himself lying in a crushed heap. He shuddered at the thought. He was mortal. He could die.

Somehow, the pattering of rain on the roof lulled him to sleep and he started to dream.

In his dream he watched himself before the elevator door. "Don't go!" he screamed. "Don't go!" He saw himself stand motionless, unable to pull back from something that was drawing him forward. The room cascaded about him in fountains of whirling colors. It was a dance floor and the dancers were huddled together in the center. The murky blues, vanishing into warm pinks with green tinges, enveloped him. The room was closing in on him in a warm glutinous mass. The walls bent forward and curled in huge ripples like massive sheets of steel snapping under whip-like pressure.

"I'm suffocating!" He could feel himself being pushed irresistibly to the blank, black cavern of the elevator. "Don't go! Don't go! It's a long way down." He watched himself going forward, tons of pressure squeezing against his back.

"The elevator, the elevator. It's empty. I can't go down alone."

He cringed against the wall which was no wall, but an endless tunnel of blackness. Slowly, noiselessly, the door inched closed, the elevator started down. I'm not alone, he thought. I'm not going down alone. The bodies moved closer. They were warm and naked, and their perspiration slid over them wet and sticky. His hand touched a nipple and the deceptive softness of a breast. Against his stomach and buttocks he could feel the crackling wire hair of pubes. The elevator was gaining speed. A warm cloying smell of urine flooded through his nostrils. The elevator began to spin. "The cable, the cable! -- it's broken!" he yelled. The elevator was descending rapidly but now in a completely detached way. The bodies vanished. His head was being drawn up between his legs while his stomach seemed to be pulled up in an opposite direction. The elevator whirled faster turning in a rotary motion. "It'll crash!" he gasped. "Stop it. Stop it! I'm falling!" His body began to spin. "No," he yelled with terror. He watched himself becoming dizzy. He watched his strength ebbing away as he waited for the crash. He heard the deafening grate of scraping steel and screamed.

"Yale! Yale!" He woke up, and looked at Cynthia, not recognizing her for a minute. "Where am I?" He shuddered. The room came into focus and he saw the bright sunlight streaming through the window of the cabin. Cynthia was dressed, sitting on the bed beside him. She caressed his forehead gently and spoke soothingly to him. Sonny and Beatrice looked at him curiously.

"Wow, what a dream!" Yale shook his head, trying to free himself of the memory.

Sonny said, "Come on, get dressed and let's get out of this dump. I need an aspirin and I'm hungry as hell."

As they got into the car, Yale whispered to Cynthia, "You know, I can't remember what that dream was about but it felt as if I were being born." Cynthia squeezed his hand.

6

When Yale looked back on it in later years he would mark the summer between his Junior year and the beginning of his Senior year as a period when his life took off on a new direction. Cynthia had taken a summer job as a counsellor in a girl's camp in Maine. He wrote her almost daily long letters filled with love and confused philosophy. He entreated with her that sometime before their senior year started they must be alone together. They worked out a plan. Yale would come to New Jersey for a weekend just before school started and would stay overnight with her family. Then they would drive back to school together and stop somewhere overnight. Yale went through the summer months buoyed by the thoughts of being with Cynthia again, and alone with her, to really love for the first time.

The summer had been very dry. By mid-July the Mamaputock River was three inches below its normal water level. Unable to navigate his Chris-Craft in the upper reaches of the river, Pat was forced to give up going to work in his speed boat. At seven thirty in the morning he would be waiting restlessly for Yale at the breakfast table, watching impatiently while Yale would cram in a hurried and inadequate breakfast. In Pat's Packard convertible, the top down, Yale would sleepily try to adjust himself to a new day while Pat drove at a furious speed the fifteen miles between home and factory.

Despite his fast, concentrated driving, Pat managed to maintain an endless flow of conversation concerning business, politics, and general developments at the plant. Often his questions to Yale went unanswered, but it didn't deter him, and he kept right on discussing problems at length, and providing his own satisfactory answers.

This morning Pat was in a particularly good mood. Yale was working in the advertising department with Bert Walsh, their new advertising manager. While Pat's plans were to have Yale work in the factory each summer through his junior year in college, the uneasy situation with the Union made this inadvisable. Pat had been pleased with the reports from Bert Walsh that Yale seemed to have a quick mind, together with an unusual grasp of public psychology in preparing advertising campaigns for Marratt products. Pat had hoped that the aggressiveness and drive of Bert Walsh would rub off on Yale. Though Pat would admit it to no one, he was quite impressed with his new advertising manager and Bert's degree of a Master in Business Administration. He intimated to Yale frequently that rounding off his education at Harvard Business School would be an excellent idea. Yale continued to be non-committal. Every time Pat thought he noticed a change in Yale's approach to business, he would discover, to his disgust, that Yale would take the opposite side of the fence and extol the merits of Roosevelt and the value of a planned economy.

Pat discussed it with Doctor Tangle. The President of Midhaven College shrugged it off as growing pains. "Yale has a good mind. He's become an inspiration to the faculty. While some of his ideas are utter nonsense, they are keenly thought out. Don't you worry about him, Pat," Doctor Tangle had continued with his heh-heh chuckle. "He'll come a full circle and someday he'll take over the Marratt Corporation and run it better than you have."

Perhaps Doctor Tangle was right, Pat thought. Yale was just a kid. He grinned to himself as he thought of a conversation with Liz a few nights before.

Liz had rushed into the bathroom while he was showering. "Do you know what I just found out?" she demanded. "I'm so ashamed!" Pat poked his head out of the shower, looking at her with a helpless what-now expression.

"Marie Middleton just told me. Beatrice confessed to her that she and that Cynthia Carnell girl and Yale and his roommate stayed overnight in a tourist cabin!" Pat continued to soap himself, wondering what was coming next. "It was terrible," Liz said. "Beatrice said they played strip poker." There were tears in Liz's eyes. "I don't know what you're going to do with that boy, Pat, but it's simply awful. If Doctor Tangle heard about it, they'd all be expelled from Midhaven."

"Oh, hell, Liz, Yale's got to find out about girls sometime. Stop worrying about it."

It was a part of growing up, he thought, as he turned on to Route 6. He wondered what kind of a cluck the Middleton girl was that she would tell her family. The only real trouble, he reflected, was that the situation with the Jewish girl had gone too damned far. Christ, the first thing he knew Yale would get her pregnant, or they would just suddenly get married. It seemed incredible to him that this puppy-dog love had survived nearly three years. Something definite would have to be done before things reached a real crisis. The trouble was that it was so difficult to talk to Yale. He just listens to me rave, Pat thought, and then does what he damn well feels like doing.

"I hope you're not getting in too deep with that Cynthia Carnell," he said, glancing at Yale slumped down in the seat beside him. "I haven't got anything against Jews but you've got to face it, Yale. You can't mix these things up. Even the Jews realize it. I don't think her family would appreciate her going around with a Gentile."

Yale didn't answer him.

Pat continued, realizing as he spoke that he had said the same thing at least a dozen times to Yale in the past two years. "Besides, boy, you've got your future to think of. You've got responsibilities, you know. Someday, you and I will build the Marratt Corporation into a real giant. After all, what is it now compared with outfits like General Foods and Standard Brands? Once I know you're with me, boy, we'll do a little branching out. I've got some plans that in a few years, with the two of us pulling together, could move the Marratt Corporation right to the top of the heap."

They passed the empty building of the old American Piano Company. Yale could remember helping a gang of boys throw stones at the narrow windows which shattered so perfectly on a direct hit. Radio had come to New England, and in true American fashion, the natives found it easier to listen to someone else who had sweated more perseveringly over the intricacies of flats and sharps than try to learn the piano themselves. The building had been empty for as long as Yale could remember.

"I could pick that building up for a song," Pat said as they passed it. "Being so close to the plant it might come in handy someday. I think I'll talk it over with Frank Middleton."

They pulled into the large parking space that flanked one entire side of the Marratt Corporation factory. Pat was proud of his plant, which had been designed by a New York architectural firm for a substantial fee. Surrounded by green lawns on three sides with the Mamaputock River in back, the quarter-mile-long plant had an air of efficiency and cleanliness in keeping with the quality tradition of the Marratt products. When the plant had been completed Pat had insisted that a reproduction of it be incorporated on the letterhead of the firm.

"We've got something to be proud of, now," he told his executive staff. "The Marratt products are no longer being made in an old pre-Civil War building. Every time the public eats my jam I want them to know it came out of a factory like this."

Over the entrance to the factory, a huge American flag, and below it a flag that carried the Marratt crest, fluttered in the early morning July breeze.

"What do you say to a cup of coffee and a couple of doughnuts?" Pat asked as they walked in the front door. He edged Yale toward the cafeteria.

Yale looked at him surprised. "You just ate breakfast." It wasn't that Yale objected. He actually was in no hurry to put himself behind the desk in the office next to Bert Walsh. It would be a day spent working on inane advertising ideas which Bert hoped that Yale would attempt to develop into complete advertisements.

The unexpected humanness of his father caught Yale off guard. "To tell you the truth, Yale, the coffee this morning was very much on the down side. I've been telling Liz to get a new cook but Amy seems to be all she wants. Since we don't eat home too much, I guess it doesn't matter."

The cafeteria was deserted except for the manager who fawningly placed coffee and doughnuts in front of them. "There's a dance tonight at the Club, Yale," Pat said. "Your mother and I would like to see you there. I'm going to break away about three o'clock and play a few holes of golf with Bert Walsh and Doctor Tangle. Why don't you come along and make it a foursome?"

Yale was about to refuse. Although Yale had once been able to play golf in the middle eighties, the sport held little allure for him. The sharply competitive hole-by-hole betting that Pat engaged in, coupled with endless commentaries about the various courses that Pat had played throughout the country, seemed shallow and purposeless. If he had been left to his own devices, Yale probably never would have learned to play. He would have preferred to spend the time in idle, introspective walks along the Mamaputock River. He decided now, however, in view of his father's good humor, to accept the invitation. He was pleased with Pat's happy reaction as they strolled through the corridor leading to the administrative offices.

Bert Walsh had left several layouts on Yale's desk that were evidently preliminary roughs for a fall advertising campaign on the Marratt line of preserves. Yale looked them over indolently, wondering what Bert expected him to do with them. Trying to pass the slowly dragging time until college started, knowing that he was only a temporary part of the Marratt productive scheme, and feeling that both Bert and Pat were trying desperately to find something for him to do, made each day seem endless. He shoved aside the layouts and shuffled in his desk, locating the first act of a play he had started. He read it over. It wasn't bad, he thought. It seemed incredible that he had started this play nearly two years ago. He remembered reading it to Cindar. He decided that today he would see if he couldn't write the second act. He was scribbling away industriously when Bert Walsh walked in.

Standing beside Yale's desk, Bert looked very polished and crisp. He wore a Palm Beach suit which was perfectly creased and a white shirt with an expertly knotted tie. Yale was wearing a sport shirt, with the collar open at the neck. Compared with Bert, Yale felt a little awkward and then he realized that while he could dress as casually as his father, probably in the last analysis Bert Walsh was afraid to drop the more conventional dress. Either that or he was just the type who would remain always dignified and unruffled; in a way a carbon copy of Frank Middleton, the handsome executive-type whose pictures Yale had examined with dismay in the Fortune magazines that were left in the reception office of the Marratt Corporation. Magazines that never seemed to be read by anyone else except the salesmen who called to sell Marratt.

"Glad to see you getting your teeth into those layouts, Yale. I worked on them until about ten thirty last night. What do you think of that copy? Your father is a great one for a lot of white space. Plenty of prestige. No fill. Just plain facts."

Yale fingered the layouts, trying to conceal his embarrassment. "I haven't read them. If you want to know, I'm writing a play." Yale picked up the rough copy Bert put on his desk and read aloud: "Marratt Jams on your table bring you the incomparable taste thrill of fresh, whole fruits chosen with care and processed in the sunlit Marratt factories. Whenever you serve Marratt Jams -- for breakfast -- for lunch -- for late evening snacks -- you serve the ultimate in fine quality."

Yale shrugged. "And if you can't afford Marratt Jams you can buy the same thing for five cents less with an A & P label. Ye Gods, it would seem to me that if we cared so much for Marratt Jams we wouldn't pack the same jams using private brand labels."

"You may be right," Bert said, "but remember, if we don't pack private brands, some other manufacturer will." Bert gathered up his layouts. "Well, I've got work to do," he said ironically. His yoice implied that Yale being a rich man's son could do what he wished. "What's your play about anyway?" he asked before he left, trying to show a little interest.

Yale grinned. "About the unions and birds like you and my father. By the way, how are we doing with the union? I haven't asked Pat for several days." Bert told him that there was talk of a sit-down strike unless Pat granted a general ten cents an hour increase. "Your father has got them buffaloed. Some of the supervisors had a meeting at Harry Cohen's home in Helltown last night, I understand. Cohen has kept them in an uproar for two years. What have the poor suckers got out of it? A few cents an hour that they would have got anyway without benefit of union dues."

On the way out to the Midhaven Country Club that afternoon Bert sat in front with Pat. Yale, sitting on the back seat, listened to them discuss the union problem further. "I may be wrong," Pat said, "but I think they're getting fed up with this Harry Cohen. After all, what does he know about our situation. He's been here two years now with this damned union. I'm just waiting for one false move. When he makes it I'll can him. Then we'll start a drive on the members and get these union rabble rousers out of the plant." Bert agreed with him. It was a temporary condition, aggravated by Roosevelt who would play footsies with any political group in order to get elected.

In the Club, Pat and Yale went to Pat's private room. Bert took off to the general locker room. Pat had made Bert a temporary member, giving him locker room rights. Pat Marratt and Alfred Latham were the original founders of the Midhaven Country Club. Having purchased the largest portion of the original bond issue, they were instrumental in designing the club so that there were ten private rooms available for the original charter members. Each of these rooms was in reality a miniature apartment with a large sitting room, a kitchenette and a good sized tiled bathroom. The sitting room made a convenient retreat at the various social functions and frequently Pat or Liz used it for private cocktail parties.

"It's nice to have you with me again," Pat said as he changed into his golf clothes. "You ought to do more of this. There's a good gang of fellows out here. Lot of the younger set are your age. You used to play with Jim Latham. He's on the golf team at Harvard. Wait until you see the drive he has developed. Straight as a die. Puts him on the green eight times out of ten. You need to get away from books -- and have more male company."

Yale recognized the veiled reference to the time he spent with Cindar. What was it about Pat, he thought, that kept him so eternally in pursuit of his objective? Even though he might have occasionally enjoyed playing golf, Yale had stayed away from the club purposely, refusing to yield to Pat's insistent desire to recreate him in his own image.

"Golf's all right," Yale said, tying his shoes, "but I've got other fish to fry. . . ."

They walked together downstairs toward the pro shop where their clubs were kept. As they walked along the veranda of the club Pat said, "Speaking of other fish -- I hope you are keeping in mind that there are a great many other fish in the ocean beside gefilte fish. From what I hear . . . you and that Carnell girl got pretty chummy a few weeks ago."

Yale blushed. Before going home for summer vacation, Sonny Thompson discovered that Beatrice had spilled the beans about the tourist cabin to her mother. Evidently the story had gone full circle.

"I'm not prying into your sex life at the moment," Pat said carefully, "but you keep a couple of fundamental things in mind. One: I am going to take up with Doctor Tangle the possibility of your applying for Harvard Business School when you graduate. Two: and perhaps more important, don't get yourself tangled up with any kikes. Believe me, Liz and I are one on the subject. This affair with you and that Jewish girl has nowhere to go . . . the sooner you realize that the better off you'll be."

Yale could feel the anger surging in him. He was about to tell Pat to hell with it; Pat could find someone else for the foursome. But before Yale could reply, Dick Cannon, the Midhaven pro golfer, greeted them.

"Doctor Tangle and Mr. Walsh said for you to join them for a quick one at the bar. I'll have your clubs ready when you come out."

"Good idea," Pat said. They walked into the cool, shadowed interior of the club. Doctor Tangle, dressed in 1920 style knickers, was sitting at the bar with Bert Walsh who wore an immaculate T shirt and pressed white flannel pants. Yale wondered if Doctor Tangle realized how outdated he looked. A baseball cap covered his almost cleanly bald head; a light knitted sweater hugged his paunch.

"We're only having a lime rickey," Doctor Tangle explained. "Got to keep my wits about me playing against you, Pat. How will we match up?" Pat ordered two more lime rickeys.

"Yale and I will take on you and Bert. No handicap. Yale hasn't played for a year and Bert is pretty good. Want to make it a dollar a hole, Yale? I'm paying him thirty a week this summer," Pat explained to Doctor Tangle, proudly. "He's not worth it but I've got to encourage him." He pounded Yale on the back, ignoring Yale's rising color. "What do you think, son, can we take them?"

"So what if we lose?" Yale asked sullenly. "You can give me an increase or I'll work overtime on a play I'm writing." He hoped the remark about the play would stir some interest from Doctor Tangle.

Doctor Tangle showed no interest, however. He turned to Pat. "I've been meaning to come down and talk with you. Been so busy with graduations and cleaning up odds and ends I haven't been able to get to it." He looked up and noticed the bartender was following their conversation. He motioned them toward a table near the window. "You never know who is listening. This will only take a minute, Pat, but I have found some interesting interrelationships in your employee problem. Has anything new developed at the plant?"

Pat shook his head. "You know everything I know. The rumors of a sit-down strike are kicking around. Believe me, they can't afford a strike. Not the way employment is. Cohen was re-appointed Union Steward. We begin another series of bargaining conferences next week. It's a damned waste of time. I've told them not a cent more in wages. Under the Wagner Law I've got to meet with them. They can go to hell. This damned Cohen with his soft, sweet-talking manner. . . . He can shit in his hat."

Doctor Tangle's jaw tightened. He wished that Pat would learn to use better language. "You remember, I wondered about Jack Leonard . . . our professor of sociology."

"You wondered about him, hell," Pat sneered. "I told you he was a pinko. Yale spouts his stuff to me every time I try to teach him sound economics."

"He's not a communist," Yale said, remembering Leonard and his vibrant enthusiasm in discussing economic theory. "He's just a liberal thinker."

"Bull shit," Pat said.

"Your father is right," Doctor Tangle agreed. "Last January when we were talking about him at your house I decided to do a little deeper research into his background. His record seemed clear enough, University of Chicago in nineteen twenty-five. Masters degree in nineteen twenty-seven. Then teaching at a small Maine College nineteen thirty to nineteen thirty-six. Then Midhaven College until this year. Nothing in the book against him anywhere except the missing years nineteen twenty-eight and nineteen twenty-nine. I won't tell you all the details or how we checked that back, but our friend Leonard was a correspondent for the Daily Worker during those two years and is a member of the Communist Party. Now here is something interesting!" Doctor Tangle accented the words. "He and our friend Cohen spend at least one night a week together at Cohen's house in Helltown. My guess is that Leonard is the brains behind your union problem. I also find that Leonard and one of our senior students at Midhaven who is coming back to do graduate work for his Divinity Degree, a chap named Mat Chilling, are close friends. I don't know whether there is any connection, but Chilling has been working summers at Latham Shipyards to pay his tuition. He seems very popular at the yards. Maybe, too popular! It would be a shame if he is mixed up in it. I've more or less considered him a protege -- an ideal man, temperamentally suited for missionary work."

"So what can you do about it? I can't fire Cohen without proof. Communism doesn't seem to worry our present government much."

Doctor Tangle stood up. "Let's get out on the fairways. I knew you would want to know, Pat. I'm calling Leonard in tomorrow. He's through. I don't have to put up with him. I'll just do it easily -- no reference to his past -- we don't want any publicity. These Reds know how to twist things to get sympathy. I'll just tell him that we are cutting overhead; that I have a younger man in mind. Keep your channels open -- you'll find some excuse to get rid of Cohen. I'll give Mat Chilling a thorough going over." Doctor Tangle grimaced sadly as if disbelieving the lack of ethical behavior in the world in general.

As they walked toward the tee-off, Yale pondered the conversation. He had no particular feeling for Professor Leonard, although he liked the drive and the insistent, searching mind of the man. Yale had read the Communist Manifesto , and a good deal of Karl Marx. While he was interested and if questioned would probably have agreed that the workers should share in their productivity: he was on the other hand sufficiently indoctrinated by Pat to rebel against any system which denied individual freedom. Yale knew that mentally he could never adjust himself to an ideal based on group cooperation above all else. During the past few weeks he had been reading Carlyle. Carlyle's notion of history as the movement and direction of leaders guiding the destinies under them appealed to him. Especially so because he envisioned himself as the leader for his time. Certainly not one of the masses. Yale grinned as he recognized the egotism of his own thinking.

While his father teed-up, his thoughts wandered to Mat Chilling. He had talked with him briefly and unaccountably last fall after a class in Philosophy. Professor Zwicker had permitted Mat, who was a senior at Midhaven, to take over the class. The discussion centered on Immortality, and the manifestations of this belief in all the major religious thinking. Mat's deep voice, his careful enunciation, coupled with his more than six foot four inch height and a magnetic expression in his eyes, exerted a tremendous cohesive effect on the class. Through the hour discussion Yale felt almost hypnotized as he listened. He wondered how a person only a few years older than he was had acquired such confidence; plus a platform manner that seemed to embrace, and engulf his listeners.

After class, drawn in a way he found strange to himself, he singled out Mat Chilling and walked with him across the campus. Mat's manner was friendly. He mentioned, after Yale had introduced himself, that he had often admired the Marratt factory.

"Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?" Yale had asked and without waiting for an answer had plunged on. "Have you ever thought about dying?"

Mat didn't answer for a moment. He flipped the pages of a Bible he was carrying, and then smiled slowly.

"Yes, I've thought about dying, Yale. I've thought about it a lot. You can't help thinking about something that is so foreign to you, and yet so inevitable. You build up rationalizations about it -- yet no answer seems satisfactory."

"I'm not afraid of dying," Yale explained, feeling that Mat didn't clearly understand him. "It isn't that. I don't know what it is. It's the confusion and lack of purpose in things that makes me dejected. Where is the world going? I suppose every generation asks the same thing. But it seems that it must be more pronounced now. We are a generation running around with its head cut off, guided by its entrails. Germany is over-running Europe. The Russians are testing themselves in Spain. The British are wavering between their European commitments and peace. We're involved in hundreds of screwy deals. Anyone with half an eye can see war in the offing. What's behind it all? Where does my life and death fit into the picture? I feel the tide of events closing in on me, and I hate and fear it. Ever since I was a kid I have thought as I pleased, done as I pleased. Now my individualism . . . my free will seems to be at stake. People seem to be selling their freedom for a hand-out. Even if we never fight a war, we have become a nation of leaners. Our government is moving closer and closer to a kind of fascism that frightens me. I don't seem to have a place in the sun. Where's the anchor I can tie myself to?"

Mat whistled. Yale had spoken breathlessly, groping for the idea that he wanted to put across. "You obviously don't want me to answer you in terms of Christian theology, do you?" he asked, grinning.

"No! I've been raised wrong for that kind of an answer. My family is typical. Ethically and morally they are Christians, I guess, but religion as such doesn't mean a damn thing to them. Both Pat and Liz go to church because it's the thing to do. Pat's business is his religion. Do and act his byword. Strangely enough he has another side that doesn't fit his personality at all. If you ever saw him playing some of Mozart's piano stuff, you'd see the finest example of complete concentration that I know of. He gets himself lost in some kind of a mysterious religion. Liz, my mother, on the other hand is whacky. She plays bridge like a fiend, can tell you the complete love life of the movie stars, and give you a play by play description of all the soap operas. Yet she goes to church regularly and is active on all the church committees. They are both as incompatible with themselves as I am. But all that still doesn't answer my question."

Mat shook his head. Yale seemed to have an ability to run wild with words. He would forget temporarily where he was going, and then pounce back on the fleeting idea. Mat found it amusing.

"Probably the trouble with you is that you have no faith outside yourself," Mat replied. "Maybe you are looking for something to hang your hat on. When you find that your current enthusiasm turns out to be rubber hook, you and your hat are on the floor again. Even if you do find the answer you're looking for, it won't be a part of you unless you change your tactics. It will still be something outside." Mat waved his hand. "Something you can't rely on. When you're in love -- love becomes a religion; a dangerous religion, because it's based on your expectations of another person's behavior. Human love brings with it a fear of death. Does Cynthia Carnell live up to your requirements?"

Yale winced. "That's unfair."

Mat laughed. "Seriously, I can answer you this way. I am afraid of dying. I'm still wavering on the Christian theory of immortality. I say this to you personally and not for repetition. I think Christianity is negative. It puts too much emphasis on a personal after life. Perhaps a theory of continuous existence is more digestible. But your problem doesn't seem to me to be philosophical. You're a materialist. Your fear of death is that it will put an end to the I called Yale Marratt, and all he enjoys. You're too damned introspective, Yale. Look outward. Eventually you may be able to laugh at yourself and all the foibles of the unpredictable Yale Marratt. After all, you've studied psychology under Bertrand for two years now. You must have asked yourself what is your real self. What is the self of you that will die . . . ?"

"Yale -- for Christ's sake! -- We've all driven off. It's your turn. What are you doing day-dreaming again?"

Yale blushed. He had been conscious enough of his surroundings to know that Bert Walsh had made his usual excellent drive. In fact all three of them were about evenly placed a good distance out on the fairway. As he plunged his tee into the soft earth, he could feel the hot sun beating on his back. Trickles of perspiration ran from under his arms down the inside of his loose jersey.

Even before he swung, he had a premonition that the drive was not going to be successful. The concentrated glance of Pat, Doctor Tangle and Bert Walsh unnerved him. The ball soared out about two hundred yards, and then hooked off inexplicably into a grove of trees.

"Brother," Pat groaned. "We're going to need a handicap. I hope your caddy has his eye on it."

"Golf is a game you've got to stay with," Bert Walsh remarked patronizingly. "Whenever I let up for a few months my score goes to hell." Yale said nothing. He walked part way out the fairway with them until he noticed his caddy gesticulating toward a clump of pine trees.

"I will rejoin you gentlemen on the tee," Yale said sourly. "Count all your strokes, and don't cheat," Doctor Tangle advised.

Yale finally extricated himself from his position behind a pine tree. He made a few more clumsy shots before he got on to the green. The others had completed the hole, and were waiting at the next tee-off. He made a good putt, and joined them.

"No hurry," Doctor Tangle said, mopping his red face. "There's a foursome ahead of us. Quite a crowd out today. Wouldn't believe it with this heat. How did you do?"

"Took me seven," Yale said. He watched Doctor Tangle mark it on the score card.

"Your father and I made it in four. Bert got a three. The Marratts are behind one dollar."

Pat and Bert were sitting in wooden reclining chairs in back of the tee waiting for a group of four players ahead of them.

"Come here," Pat said to Yale. "You haven't seen Jim Latham in a couple of years." Yale walked over and shook hands. He had an impression of a lean tanned face and pearly white teeth beneath a crew-cut.

"Glad to see you," Jim said. "Your father tells me you may apply to Harvard Business School. I'm thinking of it myself. Now that's a switch. Think of what the sports writers could do with that. Yale goes to Harvard." Jim waved his apologies. "Got to tee off. See you back at the club."

Yale watched him drive and then as Jim Latham walked down the fairway, he turned angrily to Pat. "Look, you've got to understand something. I'm not going to Harvard Business School! Even if they would accept me. I am not going! I haven't made up my mind what I'm going to do when I graduate. But that's a year away. Maybe I'll join the Army. Maybe I'll get married." He watched with interest Pat's reaction.

"Listen, my little cocky friend, you'll do what I want you to do. You're not of age yet, and if you think I'm going to let you marry that Jewish girl friend of yours, you are sadly mistaken." Pat turned to Doctor Tangle who was listening to the conversation with a half smile on his face. "Amos, I am counting on you to set the ball rolling. Since Yale's marks are now excellent there should be no trouble. Now, you can prove to me that Midhaven College rates well enough to have a student accepted at Harvard."

"Midhaven College rates well enough, you can be sure of that. There may be other considerations. . . ."

Yale interrupted him. "Just because you and my father are friends doesn't mean that you can decide my future." Yale tried to hold back tears of anger. "You're not running my life anymore, Pat. If you keep it up I'll quit Midhaven and never graduate." He picked up his golf bag. "I'm sick of this needling," he shouted. "You take care of your love life and I'll take care of mine." He snarled the last words and strode furiously across the fairway toward the clubhouse.

He heard Bert Walsh say, "Let him go, Pat. Remember, he's just nineteen. That girl is his first love. . . ."

To hell with you, Bert Walsh, Yale thought. You wise, brown-nosing Master in Business Administration. Pat Marratt will try to own you too before he's through, and he'll succeed because you're after the almighty dollars. Pat will buy you with them! But not me . . . not me.

He realized suddenly that he was cornered. His own car was in the garage at home. Liz might have come out to the club in her car by this time. If he ran into her there would be endless explanations. The key to Pat's Packard was probably in Pat's business suit at the club. It would serve him right to finish playing and find his car gone. Yale grinned as he imagined Pat's consternation. Walking quietly up to the pro-shop, he deposited his clubs with Dick Cannon. "Has my mother been around?"

"Not yet," Dick said, looking at him curiously. "Thought you were playing the course with your old man?"

"Got to go on an emergency errand for him," Yale said. He hurried away. The keys were in Pat's suit coat. Yale changed his clothes quickly and ran out to the parking lot.

It was crazy, he thought, a kid trick to take Pat's car. There would be hell to pay later, but he couldn't stand the embarrassment of seeing Doctor Tangle, and having Bert Walsh try to commiserate with him. What an operator Walsh was, buttering Pat on the one hand and trying to be an understanding older brother to Yale. It was sickening.

Yale turned on the ignition, ground the gears into third. He pushed firmly on the gas pedal before the car got into full momentum.

The motor snorted, coughed and then the car jumped forward going forty miles an hour, along the narrow road leading from the club. He drove into Midhaven at a reckless speed -- not knowing where he was going. Over and over in his mind he reviewed the quarrel and he cursed himself for simply not ignoring Pat as he usually did. If he worked on Liz he would have no trouble. She would cool Pat down. One thing was sure, he was not going to Harvard Business School. Just the thought of being separated from Cynthia for two years after their graduation and a feeling of loneliness and utter dejection swept over him. "Oh, Cindar, Cindar . . . Love me because I need you. . . ."

7

As he drove his anger abated. Without being conscious of direction he found that he was driving toward Helltown. Helltown is actually part of Midhaven and under the jurisdiction of the city governing body. Fifty years earlier it had been a peninsular shaped island jutting into the Atlantic Ocean. An enterprising citizen of earlier times had suggested joining it to the mainland with a bridge and Helltown came into being. As its name suggested it was a place where no respecting citizen of Midhaven would live. If cities could have skeletons in their closets, Helltown was the skeleton in Midhaven's. Periodically, irate citizens had proposed a general clean-up of the section -- or a redevelopment plan. A current idea in City Hall was that some Works Progress Administration money might be suborned to this purpose. The very Republicans who cursed the W.P.A. and its concepts were highly in favor of this; perhaps feeling that the inhabitants of the area might somehow raise themselves by their bootstraps. Had the peninsula remained untouched until later years it might have become a popular real estate development. Surrounded by water and beaches, it was somewhat rocky on all sides. A more prescient real estate promoter might have foreseen the possibility for ranch house living at the edge of the ocean. But cities, being all things to all men, must provide for their poor. And Helltown with its tawdry shacks and run down beach cottages, many without inside toilets and running water, at least gave a roof over the heads of some five thousand Negroes, Jews, Catholics and Protestants who provided Midhaven with its submarginal untrained labor requirements.

Driving across the Helltown bridge Yale noticed the usual group of hopeful fishermen leaning against the railing anxiously watching their drop lines for a nibble. Standing a little distance away from the rest was the lean figure of Mat Chilling. He was idly looking at the water swirling beneath the bridge. Yale stopped his car and yelled "Hi." Turning, Mat looked at Yale, puzzled for a moment, then his face broke into a smile.

"I guess I was daydreaming. I haven't seen you for so long I didn't recognize you."

Yale got out of his car. "Don't tell me you are fishing, too? You'll never get anything from here except maybe a flounder."

"Some people have to fish to eat," Mat said. He looked down at his line. Yale watched him, uncomfortably noticing that Mat's clothes seemed very old. His trousers were almost three inches above his shoes. They were the same trousers he had worn last March when he took over the class in religion for a day. Probably the only trousers he owned.

Mat sensed his discomfort. "I like flounder. Not to mention that fish is supposed to be good for you. Even though you have all the money, you can't always buy fish fresh from the sea. Besides, fishing is a comfortable act. It doesn't interfere with meditation."

"What do you mediate about? God?" Yale asked. He wondered just how one accomplished such an intangible state.

Mat laughed. "Do I look so holy? As a matter of fact, I was wondering if perhaps the ministry was the best thing for me. You know what my real name is? Cotton Mather Chilling. See, like you, I have had a certain amount of pre-conditioning! Your father probably hopes you'll be a businessman. Before he died my father was a minister, and such is man's nature he figured by naming me properly I might become the Evangelical leader of the century. Unfortunately, at the present moment I do not believe in salvation by atoning for Christ but lean more to salvation as a hymn to living."

"I've read a few of Cotton Mather's sermons. I think he was more interested in sex than Christ," Yale said. "Frustrated libido."

"Oh, that's perfect!" Mat said, a smirk on his face. "You are now a true college student. For the remainder of your educated life you will deftly attribute all actions to Freudian complexes, I suppose."

Yale smarted under the attack. "Listen, I read Freud when I was in Buxton Academy. I've also read a good bit of Jung and Adler. I can think in terms other than Freud but, I repeat, I can't remember at the moment whether it was Cotton or Increase Mather, but in one of their essays they refer to Gynecandrical dancing. You won't find the word in any dictionary that I know of but it is obvious what was worrying him. If you worry as much about sex as the Mathers did in their sermons, it is obvious to me without benefit of Freud that you wished you had it yourself. Ergo: Frustrated libido."

"You astound me," Mat said. "I've never bothered to read anything by either of the Mathers. So you win! . . . temporarily at least, until I rectify my oversight. What does your father think of your erudite knowledge of religion?"

"He doesn't suspect, thank God." Yale suddenly remembered the golf game he had left so abruptly. "I'd like to warn you, that you may be in serious trouble."

Mat looked at him questioningly. Yale paused. Was it wise to repeat Doctor Tangle's warning to Pat? If it ever got back to Doctor Tangle that he had forewarned Mat Chilling he would be in hot water. Maybe it was better to let Mat squirm in his own juice. "Oh, I don't know," Yale said. "I'll tell you later. Do you know Professor Leonard?"

"Sure," Mat said, wondering what Yale was concealing. "About thirty minutes ago he was standing just about where you are. He was on his way to see Harry Cohen."

"No kidding!" Yale looked worried. "Boy, he should stay far away from Cohen."

Mat reeled in his line. "I guess I have some other fishing to do. Okay, Yale, what's it all about?"

"Look," Yale parried, "I'd like to talk with Leonard. Do you know where Cohen lives?" Mat admitted he did.

Driving slowly through the hot, tired streets of Helltown, Mat explained that Sarah Cohen had often invited him to eat with them. "Harry came from New York about three years ago. A very nice guy. A little too Communistic for my thinking but then Communism has some good points . . . You turn here."

Yale swung onto an unpaved road and came to a bumping halt in front of a weather-beaten house. It stood in ugly gingerbread detail against a background of marsh grass.

The front porch had several broken planks that slanted tipsily away from the foundation.

"The tide comes right into their back yard," Mat said. "A good storm here is an experience." He pounded on the front door. A voice yelled, "Come on in. We're in back." They walked through the house. Yale had a surprising glimpse of an immaculately clean front room, decorated with water color paintings. A grand piano was piled high with musical scores. Friendly piles of books littered the tables and chairs and spilled over onto the floor.

A man in bathing trunks greeted them in the kitchen. He turned and yelled into the yard. "It's okay, Sarah. It's only Mat." He recognized Yale and looked startled. "And young Mr. Marratt," he added. "What brings us this pleasure on a hot Saturday afternoon?"

Yale was about to answer him when the door opened and a woman about thirty-five, plump, with a friendly, rosy-cheeked face, walked into the kitchen. She was absolutely naked. Yale had a confused impression of large sturdy breasts, a quite round stomach and black pubic hairs. He blushed and turned away. He could see Mat grinning.

"My wife comes from a part of Sweden where they dress casually," Harry Cohen said. "She is gradually making summertime nudists out of all our friends." He introduced her to Yale. Yale took her outstretched hand, trying not to see her large comfortable looking breasts.

"I am sorry if I embarrass you, Mr. Marratt. Come out in the yard. It is quite private. Only the sea, grass and sea gulls. We have some cold beer."

They followed her into the rocky beach that was the back yard for the house. Two boys about eight and nine years old, as naked as their mother, ran up to Mat Chilling and tugged at him joyously. "Mat, Mat, tell us a story," they screamed.

Lying beneath a crude sun shelter built of wood and canvas Yale could see a girl about fifteen or sixteen, naked, leaning on her elbow talking to Professor Leonard, who was also naked.

Jack Leonard waved to Yale without embarrassment. The girl, who was obviously Sarah Cohen's daughter, gave Yale a cold look.

"Daddy," she said angrily, "you aren't being very smart today."

"I guess you are right, honey. Mr. Marratt probably wouldn't understand. You better put on your bathing suit. You, too, Sarah."

Yale smiled. "Don't get dressed for me. It's too hot. Besides, I'm not embarrassed, just a little startled. I didn't know there was anyone in the world besides me who liked to walk around naked."

"Why don't you take off your clothes and relax with us, Mr. Marratt?" Sarah asked. "We are going to cook some frankfurts and you can break bread with us."

Yale looked at Mat. Mat laughed. "When in Rome . . ." He quickly peeled off his shirt, pants and underwear. Yale was shocked to see that Mat was so thin. Like a huge animal that had gradually starved in captivity. While the skeleton structure remained strong and massive, Mat's flesh had tightened until all the bones were visible.

"You see the way Yale looks at me, Sarah? As I have told you before, the male animal is probably better disguised with clothes."

"Mr. Marratt looks at you with the eyes of a man. God made women's eyes differently. I see the body of a man and peering through it the child who needs a woman. I see Mat Chilling, naked, jumping from his stone tub, shouting 'Eureka' to the astounded Greeks, and because his deep, thinking mind frightens me and leaves me a little awe stricken I am pleased to know as a woman, it depends for its very existence on the frailty of the body beneath it. You need a woman, Mat, and a year of good Kishke and flanken dinners to fill you out."

"Not Mat," Jack Leonard said, handing Yale a bottle of beer. "He's the original monk in the desert. Look at him. He is the personification of Paphnutius. All he needs is Thais dancing around him."

Yale took the beer. He sat down on a blanket that Harry Cohen had spread out. A warm breeze drifted over his body. Despite the heat of the day he felt cool and alive. This was preferable to walking around a golf course. The trouble with Pat, he thought, is that he just doesn't know how to be lazy. Even playing golf was just another form of business to him. He wondered what Pat would think . . . and Doctor Tangle. Boy, what a shock for the good Doctor if he could see Yale lying naked in Harry Cohen's back yard with Mat Chilling, Jack Leonard and two women. Yale chuckled and noticed Cohen's daughter still looking at him. Yale returned her glance.

"I like to see women naked," he said, thinking that the only women he had ever really seen naked were Cindar and Beatrice, and neither of them in this easy, unhurried way.

"You think we are sexy and cheap," the girl said, her face flushed with anger. "I told you, mommy. You can't go against conventions! You should have kept him in the house. Now, it will be all around. People just don't understand. If the boys I know thought I would undress and go around naked . . ." She started to sob and put her face in her hands.

"Ruthie, stop crying," Mat said. "Yale is not the kind of person to go around talking. If he is, then I have misjudged him. You see, Harry, I told you and Sarah you'd eventually run into trouble. The only person who can live his life the way he sees fit is the lone person. Once you have married and have children, your Bohemianism, your defiance of custom, becomes a cross that your children have to bear. Children are by nature conformists. They want the crowd approval. Even worse, your dual life can't exist in the work you have chosen. As a union organizer you have to be the greatest conformist of all. The people you are trying to lead don't want your kind of better life. They want more money and they'll listen to you on that score, but if they knew you sat naked in your back yard with your wife and daughter and men friends, they'd tar and feather you. Your working friends, in the Marratt factory or any other factory you may take on, undress in closets, make love in the dark with their clothes on, and look upon their body and its demands as SIN with a capital S-I-N."

"Mat, stop preaching," Harry said. "I know you're right. Ruthie, go ahead and get dressed."

Ruthie had stopped crying and was listening to Mat with great interest. "I've changed my mind. I want to listen to you argue."

Jack Leonard exploded with laughter. "Oh, God, that's wonderful. What's your opinion, Yale?"

Yale looked at Ruthie. "Listen, you can stop worrying. I am not going to tell anyone I sat naked in Harry Cohen's back yard. I am in enough trouble as it is. Furthermore, I admire your father and mother. If they enjoy sitting in their yard naked they have good precedent. William Blake, the poet, used to entertain his friends naked. But, I agree with Mat, Harry. My father is out to get you and this is just the ammunition he needs. I promise you I won't tell but believe me he has ways of finding out things. Doctor Tangle is out for your skin, too, Professor Leonard. He knows that you were a Communist. He knows that you and Harry are friends. He's planning to give you the sack next week."

Yale watched Jack Leonard's face. He was surprised to see no reaction. Sarah Cohen gasped.

"The enemy closes in," Leonard said and took a swallow of beer.

There was a moment of silence, as the implications of Leonard's cool reaction reached the group. "Well, we are all in our skins," Harry Cohen said finally. "Let's bare our souls. Are you a Party man, Jack?"

Yale realized his face showed his surprise. Was this a neat way Harry had of wriggling out of the accusation? He was certain that if Professor Leonard were mixed up with Communism that Harry Cohen was, too.

Leonard idly tossed stones into the marsh grass where they landed with a wet slopping sound. "Okay," he said at last, "I'm not ashamed of it. I carry a card!"

Sarah looked at Harry unhappily. "I told you, Harry, you should be more careful. You can't afford to get mixed up with Communists. You know how they feel about them at union headquarters."

"I'm not mixed up with Communists, Sarah. Jack is our friend. He has his beliefs, I have mine."

Mat asked Harry what his beliefs were.

"I came here to organize the Marratt Corporation. I'm not interested in having the state take over the means of production. We simply need the force exerted by a government which insists that management will sit down with labor and bargain with them fairly for a decent wage. Your old man is a dying breed, Yale. At a certain period he was necessary and hundreds like him; to carve out the means of production, to prove by their individual initiative that we Americans could make a better world. Unfortunately, they have grown too fat with their own power. The race is to the lean. We hope to thin them down a little for their own good . . . to increase their longevity. Fortunately, we have a President who realizes that the next step in our growth as a nation is to share that wealth with the laboring man who helps create it."

"You sound like a Party prospect to me," Leonard said amiably.

"Not at all. I want to simply narrow the profit margin by giving labor its share. I still believe in profits to keep the gears meshing. The difference, Jack, is that you believe in an all powerful state that may or may not wither away. A state which controls the means of production. Me, I want Pat Marratt to run his own factory. He has the drive to make more money for all his employees. All I want is that the stockholders get a little less."

"How do you know my father will be satisfied with a little less?" Yale asked. "The drive for profits is what makes him tick."

"You now enter the area of philosophy, Yale," Harry went on. "I'll leave that to Mat. Men like your father don't really have a money incentive beyond a certain point. I think maybe a Platonic idea of the perfectibility of men and things would be a stronger motivation for men like Pat than money. Pat Marratt earning a thousand dollars a week instead of two thousand dollars a week would be exactly the same man with the same drives."

"I'd like to see you tell that to Pat," Yale said and was surprised when Harry told him that he had discussed it with Pat. They continued to talk, arguing whether capitalism was in its death throes. As Yale listened to Leonard, he realized that Leonard was a dedicated man. Whatever happened to his current teaching job wouldn't really concern him. Probably, he had come to Midhaven with a particular mission of "contacting" Harry Cohen. Or was that the word they used among the fellow travelers? Yale examined Leonard's face trying to find some clue to his personality, something that would identify him as the unwashed Bolshevik.

"Why do you hang onto capitalism with such a frenzy?" Jack was asking. Yale could only see a clean cut, blond young man whose blue eyes flashed with enthusiasm as he talked. "It's not inviolable. After all the world came along for quite a few thousand years without it. I'm thirty. In the past four years I've seen bread lines, starvation and near revolution. I've seen a moral decay in the western world. An occupation with the 'bitch-goddess' Success that bodes no good for this culture. The wealth of the country being depleted by industrialists who don't give a damn for anything or anybody but their own personal power. Capitalism is on its way out, Harry. Even our good President realizes it. There are more sincere Communists in our government than you realize." Jack stood up and looked at the sky. "Lord . . . it's good to stand naked before you and accept all men as my brothers." He paused. "Can you say that, Mat Chilling?"

Mat shook his head. "I'm not certain all men want to be my brothers; particularly if I am planning, 'deus ex machina,' their lives. My occupation is to care for their souls, not plan their economies."

"You can't expect them to find heaven with an empty belly. I've got to leave you good people. I guess my clothes are in the house. Don't get up, Sarah, I'll find them. Thanks for the tip, Yale. I'll shake up the good Doctor a bit by confessing my derelictions to him. Nothing like being able to anticpate your enemy. It throws him off guard."

They watched Jack Leonard walk toward the house. "He's kind of nice," Ruthie said, smiling. "Even if he is nuts."

"Didn't you know he had a card?" Mat asked Harry.

"Never gave it a thought. We liked his company. Outside of Sarah he knows more about music than anyone I ever met. His father is president of a bank in Iowa. In my opinion he's just in rebellion -- a wide-eyed, wet-behind-the-cars revolutionist. He deosn't know what it's all about. These damned intellectuals just muddy up the waters. He doesn't know what it is to starve or stand in a soup line or work in the Marratt factory for a lousy eighteen dollars and fifty cents a week and support a family." Harry looked at Yale sourly. "You are another one just like him . . . the intellectual drinking champagne and dining on caviar while he worries about the plight of the working man."

"I resent that. First, I'm not worried about the working man. Up until this afternoon I never gave him a thought except that mostly he looked unwashed."

"Probably couldn't afford soap," Harry said.

"I'm stabbed," Yale laughed. "Anyhow, I thank you, Harry Cohen, for opening up new doors for me. You've shown me people discussing values instead of golf scores. You've got me thinking so many thoughts that I've been here for two hours, with a stolen car, without even worrying. For the last hour I've forgotten that I'm naked as are you and your wife and your daughter and Mat Chilling. I will think about this. How something which is bad can be good."

"You must come again," Sarah said, taking his hand, as Yale stood up to leave.

Yale blushed. "You are a pretty woman, Mrs. Cohen. But I think Mat is right. You'll probably have to wear a bathing suit."

"Mat, I've been dreaming," Yale said as they drove back to Midhaven. "This afternoon didn't happen. The Cohens aren't nice people. They're bastards and they go around naked for all the world to see. Jack Leonard is a hairy Rasputin spouting evil ideas. You are a disgrace to Midhaven College and the religious fraternity for getting mixed up with such people. That's the truth, isn't it?"

In front of Doctor Tangle's house Mat opened the door and got out. "That's the truth, Yale Marratt. That's the truth as Doctor Amos Tangle would see it. That's the truth as Pat Marratt would see it. What makes you think it isn't the truth? Who are you, Yale Marratt? . . . God or something? It's worth thinking about." He waved, started to walk away from the car and then he grinned at Yale and said, "I live in Doctor Tangle's attic. Did you know that at night I'm closer to the Doctor's heaven than he is. . . ."

8

Yale drove the Packard around the back of the house and left it in place in the four-car garage. Before going in the house he tried to size up the situation. There was going to be hell to pay, that was certain. Pat would be doubly angry -- furious at Yale for disgracing him in front of Doctor Tangle and Bert Walsh, and even more wrathful at being stranded at the club without his car. Saturday afternoon after playing golf he usually came home, showered, had a few drinks and then drove back with Liz.

The Saturday night dinner and dance at the club was an institution religiously attended by the members, who were prominent in Midhaven society. Pat had once speculated that it took an income in excess of twenty thousand a year to be "accepted" at the Midhaven Country Club. The members were friends in inverse relationship to their income. Those at the high end of the monetary scale were Pat, Alfred Latham, Tom Morrison, and Henry Willis. Of the four men with their wives, the Marratts were the nouveau riche. Latham and Willis could trace their wealth and manufacturing lineage back to Civil War days. Morrison was a lawyer with inherited wealth, who had been a Republican Senator before the Rooseveltian deluge. Yale had heard Pat remark that he would be Governor someday. None of the four families were close friends. They seemed to draw their friends from the members of the lower end of the accepted income scale. Each, like a respected feudal lord, Yale thought, had accumulated a satrapy of admiring stooges whose respect was largely based on superior purchasing power. The Marratt coterie of friends represented a good cross section of the Midhaven's wealthier professional class and the more affluent automobile dealers and store owners.

Yale noticed that Liz's car was gone. The garden truck was pulled in behind Yale's Ford. In the room over the garage Yale could see a light which meant that Whit Jones, the gardener and general handy man around the Marratt estate, was home for the day. Barbara Marratt's car was still in the garage. Here it was July, Yale thought, and he had seen Barbara only twice since school closed. A large bathroom separated their rooms. Several times he had heard her puttering around getting ready for a date. She never seemed to eat with the family. From Yale's point of view she lived in another world dominated by sleek young men who arrived in expensive convertibles, talked breezily with Pat or Liz, and then whisked her away to plays in New York, expensive night clubs or weekends at family estates. Liz approved heartily. All this was related to getting Barbara properly married, approximately one year from this July, when she would have her Bryn Mawr credentials. Pat had been already primed for what Yale expected would be the most expensive wedding ceremony in the history of Midhaven.

The lack of contact with her brother didn't seem to bother Barbara. For the past few years conversation with Yale had been in the vein of, "Hi, kid, what's up?" and a variation of sarcastic responses from Yale such as "Not what your boy friend has up." To which Barbara would answer sweetly, "Well, someday you'll be big enough and yours will go up."

Liz heard one of their conversational flurries and had expressed her shock to Barbara. Yale imagined that she probably discussed the quality of being a lady with Barbara, but it hadn't diminished Barbara's fresh, breezy manner.

Walking in the back door, through the kitchen, Yale found Amy, the Marratts' cook and maid, sitting at the kitchen table reading one of her True Story magazines. She hadn't heard him come in.

"And that's how I got pregnant by my husband's brother and ruined all our lives," Yale said, leaning over her shoulder.

Amy jumped. "Boy, you shouldn't tiptoe around like that." She looked at him suspiciously. "It was her stepfather not her husband's brother. You all been reading my magazines?"

Yale grinned. "You bet, Amy. I read anything. It's a vice. Where is everybody?"

"You sure are in trouble, Yale Marratt. Your ma says your father is ready to skin you alive. She's gone out to the club. She had to bring his tuxedo to him. When he called I listened on the kitchen phone. Your father can outswear any man ah ever heard including my poor old George -- God rest his soul. Where you been? . . . Stealin' your father's car." Amy shook her head. "You kids today sure get away with murder."

Yale looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was seven-thirty. The wisest approach would be to face Pat at the club. Earlier, Pat had expected him to come. If he arrived and sat casually at Pat's table there would be little that Pat could say in front of his friends. Later, maybe, Pat would have cooled down and would be more tractable.

"Your sister is upstairs getting ready," Amy said. "Your ma says you could drive Barbara to the club when you came in. She ain't got a date tonight."

Walking upstairs, Yale smiled. Amy knows everything that goes on in this family, he thought. She monitored all the telephone calls, and she wasn't averse to peeping through keyholes. It occurred to him that someday with the proper encouragement he could find out from Amy if there were anything between Liz and Frank Middleton. At the rate things were developing he might need an ally in Liz. It would be handy to know what really was the score with his mother and Middleton.

In his room, he took off his clothes, and looked at himself in the mirror for a second. He brushed off a couple of pebbles that clung to his buttocks, and chuckled as he thought of sitting naked in Harry Cohen's back yard. He opened the bathroom door and walked in. Barbara was sitting in the tub.

"Get out of here," she yelled, and covered her breasts.

"Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle," Yale said, laughing. He sat down on the toilet bowl, facing the tub. "This is my day! I haven't seen my beautiful sister in her birthday suit since she was thirteen years old! You're slipping, sis, old kid. How come you forget to lock my door? Liz wouldn't like it. Tsk, tsk, very careless."

Barbara, her brown eyes wide and angry, her blonde hair tied in a knot on top of her head, looked at him furiously. "If you weren't an adolescent voyeur, you'd have the decency to get out of here."

"Not on your life," Yale grinned. He walked around the bathroom. "Take a look at a man, sis." He sucked in his belly and expanded his chest. "Yahoo -- not one of your Harvard dilly boys." He grabbed the face cloth out of her hands. "Here, I'll wash your back -- no charge. Front, too, if you want."

She screamed as he reached for her breasts. She stood up in the tub.

"Well, you're not so bad for a sister," Yale said admiringly. He picked up the towel. "Come on, I'll dry you -- just to be friendly."

Suddenly, Barbara laughed. "My God, men are funny looking!" She stepped out of the tub. "Go ahead, slave. Dry me!"

Yale snapped the towel at her fanny. "The hell you say. You're too eager." He flung the towel at her, and watched; enjoying the sight of her rubbing her back, while her breasts shook. She bent over to dry her toes. It was strange. She was his sister. In many ways she looked like him with the addition of a wide fanny, and tits. She had even occupied the same womb a few years before him. Was that all? Did the things in common stop there? He guessed they did. It beat all hell how two people, born of the same parents, raised in the same house, could be so apparently different. Was there any common ground between them, any similarity of outlook?

"Have you seen enough?" she asked, standing and looking at him coolly. "Because if you are through looking I'm going to get dressed. You are going to be my date at the club tonight. So wash yourself, and use a deodorant because I don't like to dance with smelly little boys."

Yale turned on the shower. "I've seen enough to know you're a big girl, now but are you still a virgin?" he asked casually.

"Wouldn't you like to know," she said, slamming the door as she walked into her room.

Half an hour later they were driving to the club. Yale felt a little uneasy. Pat might very well make a scene. Time and place were not considered when Pat was angry. He worked on the premise that if he had something on his mind, good or bad, he would say it. It was this come-hell-or-high-water attitude of Pat's that frightened Yale. In this past year Yale recognized that, somehow, he, too, was acquiring the same headlong approach. The real source of trouble between them was that he attacked any problem the same way Pat did. Their difference lay not in approach but in fundamental differences in values, and what constituted the "good" or the "bad" in life.

"What are you thinking about, Yale?" Barbara asked. He took his eyes off the road a second and looked at her. She was wearing a green satin evening gown, deep throated and sleek around her breasts.

"You're a good looking dish," he said. "If you weren't my sister I'd go necking with you."

"As your sister, I can tell you, chum, you're in a heap of trouble! Why did you run off on Pat like that? When he telephoned from the club you could hear his voice all over the house. Liz wouldn't tell me. She just said you had gone too far this time. Was it over your Jewish girl friend?"

"I suppose you have the same attitude toward Cynthia as they do," Yale said bitterly.

"I've never met your little filly, remember?" Barbara squeezed his arm. "I'm on your side, Yale. I don't know anything about Jews. I went out with a Jewish fellow once. No complaints. A perfect gentleman. I wouldn't have married him, though. I met his mother and father. The mother was very glittery. You know, rings on her fingers, rings on her toes, very blonde, very efficient. The father quiet, agreeing with his wife. No, it wasn't them. I suppose they were no better or worse than Pat or Liz. It was their friends. I was in another world. They had their own jokes. If you understood Jewish slang, I guess they were funny. They seemed to live in a world surrounded by enemies, -- goyim -- do you know the word? It doesn't mean enemies, maybe it means someone different -- someone not Jewish -- and I was a goy. Nothing Joe, that was his name, could do, could overcome it for me Barbara's voice trailed off. "And he tried, too . . Joe really was very nice."

Barbara snapped on the car radio. The poignant, seekbig tones of a violin filled the car. Barbara hummed along with it.

"I'm going to meet Cynthia's family in September," Yale said. "I'm going to drive her back to school. I'm not worried. You see, I look upon it simply as an interesting problem. I couldn't become a Jew. Cynthia couldn't become a Christian. We love each other enough, I believe, to simply absorb what we need of each other's religion. I'm coming to believe that most religions are not ultimates. We make progress in other areas. Why not religion? What's that they are playing?"

"It's Beethoven's violin concerto. Nice. Yale, I agree with you, but so what? Why don't you accept the world as it is? You'll never change it. In your lifetime there will be Protestants, Jews and Catholics, and never the three shall meet."

"The world would never change if everyone took your attitude," Yale said bitterly.

"Yale -- why do you always snap at me? I'm not a complete dope, even if you think so."

"You'd never think it to watch you."

Barbara looked at him, hurt.

"Oh, darn it, Bobby, I didn't mean that. I suppose it's because we're so much alike really. Yet you always act superior and older. It gets my goat. You're only twenty. Sure you can have babies, but you're still only a kid."

Barbara leaned against the door of the car. She watched Yale's profile. The lids on her brown eyes were half closed. "I like that music. It makes me feel sad . . . kind of longing for something. Do you remember when we were driving up from Miami?"

Yale nodded.

"That was years ago," Barbara said. A feeling of warmth and nostalgia for times remembered overflowed in her eyes. "Pat was driving the car. We were coming along that narrow concrete highway just before you come into Jacksonville. The night was dark. The headlights of the car caught at those luminescent signs. Flash and then darkness. Like that music. I knew that up ahead was Jacksonville. You could see the pink glow of the city in the sky. A hundred sounds filled my mind. Pat taking a puff on his cigarette, the brush of other automobiles passing us, the throb of the engine, the loneliness of the four of us, sitting there, travelling to a strange city. Then we came into the city, and I was thrilled, Yale. It was a strange feeling. I was in love with the loneliness of those empty streets, the strangeness of the place. We passed a department store and the lights were still on in the window, but nobody was on the sidewalk. And then a cigar store, and a man was standing outside smoking a cigar. He looked at us driving by, and it was if he were intended to be there, just gazing into the night. I wondered who he was . . . and where he was going. Then we parked the car in front of the hotel. Pat went up to the clerk, and the lobby was filled with men talking and smoking. I was dreaming that I was just married . . . that my husband was taking me up to our room. Pat came back and said that he could only get two rooms . . . Liz gave him hell for not making advance reservations. The Braves or the Red Sox or some baseball team was in town and everything was taken. Liz said she would sleep with me, but somehow when we got upstairs it was decided that we could sleep in the same room. Liz was upset, I think. She didn't like the idea. We were too old to sleep in the same room. You were thirteen, I think, but Pat said it would be all right. I guess he wanted to have a time with Liz." Barbara's laughter was warm with her memories.

Yale chuckled. "I remember. They were like a couple of kids about it. Pat with a pout on his face because he thought he was going to have to sleep with me."

The music crowded over their conversation. The violin was leading the orchestra now, and seemed to be skipping in and out of the woodwinds and brasses. Barbara's face was dreamy. "It was funny being alone in a hotel room with you. It wasn't as if you were my brother somehow."

"You undressed in the bathroom," Yale said, remembering how Barbara had walked timidly out of the bathroom in her red pajamas. "Pat had the clerk put a cot in the room for me to sleep on."

Barbara nodded. "And you sat on the edge of the bed. Then Liz and Pat left us, and I knew you didn't want to sleep on the cot, and I didn't want you to." She blushed. "You asked me to take off my pajamas so you could look at me."

Yale grinned. "You thought I was terrible, and yet you did it. It's funny. We are brother and sister, but up to that time and since then I have never seen you without clothes. You'd think there was something sinful in being naked. I had never seen any girl naked. It was just a crazy idea." Yale's voice drifted away in a whisper thinking of Barbara in the tub. "You look like me somehow . . . only with breasts and a bigger fanny. Bobby, you're a good kid. I hereby make a resoluiion. I won't make dirty cracks at you any more."

Barbara furrowed her long nails into the seat of the car. "You don't mean it, but you're nice to say it. Yale, does Cynthia like music?"

"You know it's strange," Yale said, turning into the drive to the club. "If Pat could see Cynthia as a girl -- a woman, instead of a Jew, they might have at least one thing in common. Cynthia can play the piano with a feeling and emotion that brings tears to your eyes. The one time they met, Cynthia was playing. Pat was quite impressed."

"We're here, kid," Barbara said getting out of the car. "Hold your breath and fasten your seat belt. You're on your own. I'm joining the gang. Don't forget, if you see me unattended, it's your duty to take up the slack and dance with me."

Inside the club, Barbara disappeared into the ladies' lounge. Yale knew that she would join the younger group, the just-married, or about to be married twenty-year-olds who came to the club to bask in a new found feeling of maturity. There were about thirty of them who were "regulars." They travelled together, driving around the countryside in new convertibles, spending money freely at roadhouses; emulating and exceeding their parents in sophistication. Most of them had attended the better eastern colleges. They exuded a feeling of confidence and superiority that both troubled and irritated Yale. He knew them all, but it was a distant friendship. In their company he was embarrassed and ill-at-ease. They seemed to have a superficial but positive knowledge of everything from sex to politics. While he was certain that he knew more and at least thought more deeply than most of them, these fellows like Jim Latham could make him feel like a country bumpkin. They had acquired polish, perfect enunciation with Boston accents, and a patronizing manner that gave authority to all their speech. They could say "Well, fella, or well, old man . . . it's not really so vital, you know" . . . dousing Yale's enthusiasm and then carry on discussions of fraternity or sorority problems in a way that showed that here was really something vital and important.

Yale noticed a group of them congregated on the porch that flanked one complete side of the club. They were sitting at tables, the girls drinking Tom Collinses, the fellows mostly drinking Scotch or bourbon. He wondered why he had come. It was a choice of evils --to join them, or seek out Pat and Liz. Pat and Liz would be sitting at their table edging the dance floor. Dinner was over, and the tables would be cleared for drinking. Between dances, as the liquor took effect, some of the club members would move permanently into the bar. It was closer to the source of supply. It solved the problem of having to dance. It also provided a fleeting rendezvous with other men's wives. Any analysis of the female members of the club would have revealed that the less attractive ladies and the women past sixty usually spent the evening sitting at tables by themselves, happily discussing the vagaries of the younger matrons who were testing their sexual attractions on the men at the bar. Many of the men, even those past sixty, bought the younger ladies drinks and cautiously tested their "availability."

The evening had not yet arrived at this point. Pat and Liz were still at their table. Yale recognized the Middletons sitting with them as well as Doctor and Mrs. Henry Castle. He walked up to the table, and said, "Hi." He tried to be casual and imitate the easy manner of Jim Latham. "Sorry about your car. Here's your keys." He dropped them on the table in front of Pat.

Pat, who had just taken a swallow of bourbon, put down his glass and looked at Yale frigidly. "I'm glad you came, Yale. Liz has been begging me not to fight you, so I'm not going to. But don't think I'm pleased . . . I'm not." He turned away, continuing his conversation with Doctor Castle.

The orchestra started playing. "Dance with me, Yale," Liz said, trying to break the tension. "Yale's a good dancer," she said proudly to Marie Middleton, as they glided away.

"Yale, I just don't understand you," Liz said, enjoying the easy way Yale moved her around the floor.

"You don't, why not?" Yale looked into his mother's large blue eyes.

"You just seem to go around looking for trouble. It was a terrible thing to shame Pat like that in front of Doctor Tangle and Bert Walsh. It just wasn't necessary, and then to take his car. I've spent most of the evening trying to calm him down. He was ready to sell your car. Let you walk or ask permission when you needed a car to use his or mine."

Yale grinned. "Code of Hammurabi," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing, it's an old fashioned idea of justice. Eye for an eye . . . tooth for a tooth."

Liz squeezed Yale closer to her. "I don't know why you are so remote, dear. Pat loves you. I love you. He wants you to respect him. He has worked hard to come this far in the world. You don't know what it is to be poor, Yale. Your father and I lived for years on nothing."

"What's being poor got to do with it? If Pat were a garbage man, I suppose he would be killing himself because I wasn't going to some university majoring in Garbage Collecting."

"Yale, your tongue is too quick. You have a chip on your shoulder all the time, lately. Why?"

"Why doesn't Pat let me alone?" Yale asked angrily.

"I suppose he feels that you should benefit from his experience," Liz said. "You'll find out someday that the only thing respected in this world is money. If you don't have it you can be the best educated person in the world, and be nothing. Look at Tom Stephanelli." Liz was referring to a wealthy Italian contractor who lived in Midhaven. "He went through the sixth grade. He can scarcely speak English, yet he's made several million in the past few years. Right in the middle of this depression. Pat and Alfred Latham are inviting him to become a member of this club. Shows you what money can do."

"Oh, shit," Yale said. Liz looked at him horrified.

"I don't care," Yale continued unabashed. "That's the way I feel about this club, and your friends. I could be happy if Pat would stop driving me. If the two of you could stay out of my love-life. That alone would be a help. It's funny. Pat lets you go without interference."

"What do you mean?" Liz demanded.

"Frank Middleton," Yale said. He was pleased to see Liz blush. He had hit home.

"Take me back to the table, Yale," Liz said coldly. "For your information Frank Middleton is a gentlemen. He wouldn't take girls to an overnight cabin and play strip poker. How cheap and common can you be?"

Yale thanked Liz for the dance. He exchanged greetings with Doctor Castle and his wife and went in search of Barbara. She was talking with a boy Yale didn't recognize. He heard his name being called. Beatrice Middleton was waving at him. She was at a table with Jim Latham and two other couples. Yale was introduced and sat down next to Beatrice.

"Where do you keep yourself, Yale?" Beatrice asked. "Here it is July. This is the first time you've been out to the club."

Yale ordered a rye and ginger ale from the waiter. He remembered he hadn't eaten. "Oh, I've been around. Working man, you know."

"Do you work at the Marratt plant?" Jim asked.

Yale nodded. "I'm in the advertising department."

"My pater feels that this summer-vacation-working-in-business is a joke," Jim said. "Play around while you can, he says. I jolly well agree. A fellow lives only once. Next summer, three of us are going to Europe. Bill Swanson, Ken Burke, and myself. Tell your old man, Yale, and come along with us. It's going to be a gay old time." Jim finished his Manhattan.

God, Yale thought, what a crummy bastard.

Jim was sitting casually tipped on his chair, balancing it on two legs. Yale felt an urge to poke it out from under him. He'd like to see the silly ass go splattering on the floor. Instead he drank his highball in two swallows and ordered another. The drinks tasted sickish going down but in a few minutes he felt a warm glow spread through him. Jim was talking to one of the other fellows, Bob some-thing-or-other. Yale listened to him expound the merits of a European "jaunt" before one settled down to the "old grind."

"Do you hear from Cynthia?" Beatrice asked. Her question reminded Yale that he was pretty irked with Beatrice. The absolute dumb dodo. How could she have told her mother about the overnight cabin? Every time this summer he had encountered Frank Middleton at the plant Frank had looked at him curiously. Yale had felt guilty. Now he felt like going up to him and saying, "No one wronged your daughter. Her virtue is still intact."

Yale took another swallow of his third drink. Suddenly he felt a strange power.

"Did you hear me?" Beatrice said, leaning her face closer to him. "It's so noisy. I was asking if you heard from Cynthia."

Yale leaned toward her. "I want to whisper something in your ear," he said flirtatiously.

Beatrice, delighted, turned her ear toward his mouth.

"You absolute, God-awful, stupid bitch," he whispered, still smiling. "You don't know a fart from a breath of perfume. You don't know your ass from a hole in the ground. From now on I'm telling everyone I know that you wear falsies. You're knock-kneed and you have halitosis . . ." Yale had a lot more to say but Beatrice screamed. She tugged at Jim Latham's arm.

"Oh," she gasped. "He insulted me. No one in my whole life has ever said such dirty words to me." She started to cry loudly, attracting the attention of several other tables. A group of people, young and old, gathered around. Jim Latham stood up and grabbed Yale's shoulder.

"I say, fella . . . you can't do a thing like that."

Yale looked at him loathingly. "Keep your mitts off me," he snarled. Almost reflexively he drove his fist into Jim's stomach. Jim doubled over with pain. Yale remembered he had seen a James Cagney picture. The follow-through was to plop them on the chin for a clear knockout. He swung, missed Jim's chin and grazed him on the side of his nose which started to bleed.

Jim did not go down. Too late, Yale remembered that Jim was on the boxing team at Harvard. He tried to stave off Jim's rapid blows. Fists hitting him one after another on the face and the body. He heard people shouting. Somebody grabbed him as he went down. Before he passed out he demanded to be let alone so that he could finish off Jim Latham.

When he was again completely conscious of his surroundings he realized that he was in a car speeding along Route 6. His head ached dully. His right ear stung, and he felt sick to his stomach.

"I volunteered to drive you home," Barbara said.

"What happened?" he mumbled.

"Well, you messed him up a bit," Barbara said cheerily. "But wait until you see yourself."

"I can feel myself," Yale groaned. "Stop the car. I've got to puke."

"Little boys shouldn't drink," Barbara said, holding his head. "Be careful of my dress. I'm going back as soon as I deposit you at home, Brother," she said as she finally led him up the stairs to his room. "You have done it today. Insulting your father. Stealing his car. Insulting Liz. Saying dirty words to little girls. Getting drunk. Starting a brawl with the son of Pat's best friend. Disturbing the peace and dignity of Midhaven Country Club." Yale tumbled on his bed. Barbara undressed him, leaving him in his shorts. She patted his head. "If you think you've got trouble, now. Wait until tomorrow! You'd better hang yourself. . . ."

9

On the Rosh Hoshanah card he had sent Cynthia, Yale had written, "I love you. I can't wait to see you."

Driving toward New Jersey a few days later, it occurred to Yale that Yom Kippur would begin at sundown. He looked at his watch. It was one o'clock. He had already crossed the Pulaski skyway. According to the little map Cynthia had sent he was about two hours from the turnoff to the Carnell farms. He felt a little strange. He knew it would be awkward to arrive a few hours before the most important day in ihe Jewish year.

Cynthia had written him from the girls' camp in Maine. "I know you'll like Daddy and Aunt Adar. I have already told them that you will come down to New Jersey to drive me -- and my huge pile of junk -- back to school. There's no help for it. I suppose Doctor Tangle, or whoever arranges things like opening dates at college, didn't give it a thought. Why should he? I guess there are only about twelve or so Jews in the whole school (enough as you pointed out to establish the lack of prejudice) -- anyhow, my darling, the way it works out school starts the day after Yom Kippur. I know it doesn't mean much to you but if we are to have the day we've waited for, for so long --( imagine a whole wonderful day to ourselves. I will love you, love you to pieces, sweetie . . .) it's going to mean that we have to leave for New York on Yom Kippur. But not before afternoon . If I'm to please Daddy and Aunt Adar, I will be fasting all day, but that will be easy after this long fast for you. Oh, Yale darling, I blush when I write this . . . for while I am not the most religious person in the world, it seems wicked somehow to be planning to spend the night after Yom Kippur with you -- the day after the day of atonement -- when I should have atoned for the wrongs committed against God. But you would try to convince me, wouldn't you? I know you would . . . that God could never conceive of our love as a wrong against Him."

Yale had kept the letter with nearly one hundred others that he had received from Cynthia in the two long summers of separation since they had known each other. No matter what happened this must be the last time they were separated.

While he tried to keep it off his mind and concentrate on the coming day alone with Cindar, the thought of Pat's anger, cold and contained, kept recurring to him. "Your tantrum on the golf course wraps it up, my friend," Pat had said to Yale the next day. "You can hand over the keys to your Ford. You're grounded for a month. Perhaps, that will help you realize that I am not going to be continually embarrassed by your behavior."

They were sitting at the breakfast table. Liz listened quietly to the conversation, feeling the hostility like an actual presence hovering between them.

"I suppose you know that I am planning to drive Cynthia back to school week after next," Yale had said, slowly buttering his toast.

Pat smiled grimly. "I had no idea of your plans but if I had, I would have objected to them, anyway. You can consider the loss of your car a two-edged sword. Kindly give me the keys -- both sets."

Yale flung the keys across the table.

Pat scooped them up. Without comment he put them in his coat pocket.

"Don't bother to wait for me to drive to work with you," Yale snarled. "From now on I'll take the bus."

For two weeks he had avoided Pat, spending most of the time in a frenzy of wondering how he was going to get a car to go to New Jersey. He knew that nothing was going to prevent him from having the "day" that he and Cynthia had planned. Even if he had to steal a car. Right up to last night there had been no solution. He had decided that as a last resort he would try to rent a car. Then he remembered that Pat had given Whit Jones another set of keys to all the cars. It made it easier when Pat wanted to have one of the cars brought downtown to a garage for greasing or overhaul.

A simple excuse to Whit that he had left his keys at the plant and Yale had the problem of the car settled. At least until he returned. But the bitter taste remained, combined with the feeling of uneasiness about meeting Cynthia's family. Cynthia's relatives were just names. They lacked reality. There was Lennie, the younger brother who was Yale's age. He attended Cornell. Michael, the oldest, had finished agricultural college years ago and was helping his father run the farm. Then there was Aunt Adar, who had really brought Cindar up. Yale had a mental picture of the whole family examining him with ill-concealed hostility. Cynthia had told him that her father was quite orthodox. He frowned on the idea of intermarriage. A Jewish version of Pat? It amused him to think that on one thing they would probably agree. Dave Carnell wouldn't care for Gentiles any more than Pat Marratt cared for Jews.

Cynthia was sitting on the fence at the side of the highway when he drove up. She ran to the car, her hair flying. She was wearing rolled up boy jeans and she looked about fifteen. She hugged him excitedly. "Gosh, I thought you would never get here. I've been watching the cars -- and every time a red convertible would appear, I'd think it was you . . . my heart would start to hammer and then the car would go by and I felt just sunk. Aunt Adar came out with my father in the pickup truck about ten minutes ago. She gave me fifteen minutes more. She thinks it's very unladylike to sit around in boys' pants. Besides, I have to change very soon, it will be sundown before you know it. We have to eat. Oh, Yale, darling. I could eat you up." She climbed into the car. Yale kissed her lips for a second and smelled the wonderful warmth of her. "Drive down that dusty road. You can see the house over there. And all around you -- are Carnell tomatoes."

Yale followed her glance, noticing the acres and acres of tomato plants. About a half a mile from the road he could see a white farmhouse and several barns. "I've driven by here lots of times with Pat, on the way to Philadelphia, once coming back from Miami. If I had only known then that you were living right here. . . ."

"What would you have done?"

"I'd have turned the car right down this road, and if I had found you in your front yard playing with your dolls, I'd have run up and asked you to play house and let me be the father."

Bubbling with laughter, Cynthia showed him where to leave his car. "Daddy and Michael are out in one of the sorting sheds. They'll have to come in and change pretty soon. You can come in and meet Aunt Adar . . . then we'll look for Daddy."

Yale liked the friendly look of the large wooden farmhouse. If it had any particular style it might have been called turn of the century Victorian. Some of the pitched roof remained, and the gimcrackery, but the white painted house had the clear earthy appeal of a painting by Charles Burchfield. Even the windows caught the glare of the sinking October sun. As they mounted the steps Yale noted the hammock on the porch and the rocking chairs. He hoped the evening might be warm enough to sit in the hammock with Cindar.

On the right of the door he saw what he was looking for. "Is that a mezuzah?" he asked pointing at the bronzed metal canister.

"I told you, Yale, Daddy is quite religious. We don't have one at every door in the house. He's not that bad."

"Honey, I don't think it's bad for a man to have his beliefs. If I ask a million questions it's only because I want to know. This is the first time I've ever been in a Jewish home. I love you. I want our children to grow up knowing all the Jewish traditions. We will observe the Jewish holidays as well as the Christian ones."

"So we're talking children, already. Before the Chupah even?"

Yale looked up and blushed. Just inside the screen door a woman was standing with her large arms crossed in front of very full breasts. She opened the door and came out. "So this is your young man . . ." She looked at Yale with a severe expression. Cynthia introduced her as Aunt Adar. Yale liked the bright busy look of her. Plain, wearing no make-up, her gray-black hair pulled tight against her head and brought to a pug in the back, Aunt Adar seemed to have an efficient, no-nonsense manner that concealed a tender good humor. She spoke rapidly to Cynthia in Jewish. Yale was surprised to hear Cynthia answer. It pleased him to know that Cynthia could speak another language and he envied this extra knowledge she had acquired as a part of her heritage.

"Hey -- what are you two saying?" Yale demanded.

Cynthia chuckled. "Auntie is nervous that we talk so seriously. She can't believe that I am old enough to be married." As they followed Aunt Adar into the living room Cynthia told him that the Chupah was the wedding canopy which would symbolize their new home.

Yale looked at her curiously. "Do you want to be married in a synagogue?"

"Silly," she smiled. She snuggled quickly against him and whispered, "You look so worried, Yale. I wouldn't care if we were never married -- so long as you would live with me and love me always."

Aunt Adar interrupted any answer Yale might have had by telling Cynthia it was impolite to whisper when others were present. "You change your clothes, now, quickly. We will eat in an hour. Show this young man of yours to Lennie's room. He can sleep there tonight." She turned to Yale. "Cynthia tells us that you know some of our customs. I am glad for that. It seems strange to us to have a Gentile in our house at a time like this. You understand we have a fear of appearing ridiculous . . ." Aunt Adar paused, obviously embarrassed and finally continued. "Anyway, we do not expect you to fast with us."

Yale smiled. "If I did not fast I would feel strange about going to services with you tonight. Cynthia has promised that I may go."

Cynthia took Yale's arm. "Auntie knows you are going to services with us. She's just a worry bug. I told you, Auntie, he's a mensh." She led Yale upstairs.

"What does mensh mean?" Yale asked, following her, dropping his bag near a large feather bed in what he assumed was Lennie's room. He tried to grab Cynthia for a kiss, but she eluded him and stood in the doorway. "Mensh is what you are -- just good and yummy." Unable to resist her impulses longer she ran into his arms. "Oh, Yale, Yale . . . it's been such a long summer, and I've missed you so terribly much."

Holding her in silence, feeling her lips and tongue seeking his mouth, the wonderful pressure of her stomach and breasts against him, Yale enjoyed for the first time in weeks a feeling of unity. Was this ability of Cindar's to polarize the crazy currents of his emotional drives an actual fact -- or something that he imagined? No, it was real enough. Being with Cynthia was like being rejoined to a part of himself that had been lost. He cupped her buttocks in his hands, pulling her against him, feeling the throatiness of her whispered "I love you" in his ear. Suddenly, she pulled away in a panic. Downstairs, he heard a screen door slam. "It's Daddy -- I've got to change." She showed him the bathroom, and told him that after he had washed he could go downstairs. Then, she decided, no. It would take at least half an hour before she would be ready. Grabbing him by the hand, she pulled him toward the stairs. "I'll introduce you to Daddy, first." Halfway downstairs, Cynthia in the lead, pulling Yale by his hand, they bumped into Dave Carnell and Michael. Trying to catch her breath Cynthia said gasping, "This is Yale, Daddy . . . and my brother Michael."

Dave Carnell looked at his daughter wonderingly. "Such energy you have now . . . yet all week you loll around like a sick cat. This must be a very unusual young man to give you such pep." He took Yale's hand in his. Yale could feel the strength of his grasp and the rough farmer's calluses. "I am glad to know you, Yale Marratt. The name is a familiar one in this home. Even before Cynthy met you, we were familiar with the Marratt Corporation."

Yale liked the rough sturdy frame of the man that pushed stoutly against his farmer's overalls. In his dark complexion and frank glance, Yale could recognize the softer expression of his daughter.

"I am glad to be here in your home, Mr. Carnell," Yale said deferentially.

He shook hands with Michael who withdrew his hand quickly, giving Yale a sharp glance of ill-concealed hostility.

"In the old country this would be similar to the King sending his Prince to visit his serfs, would it not?" Michael remarked coldly. "Come on, Pa, we've got to change." He proceeded up the stairs. Cynthia looked at him darkly. "Honestly, Daddy, does he have to be so sour?"

"I suppose," Dave Carnell said, shrugging his shoulders, "in a way we are serfs. The King is your father, Yale, who pays us to grow the products he bottles." Dave started to follow his son up the stairs.

"The fundamental difference is that nothing stops you from bottling Carnell ketchup and competing with the King who raises no tomatoes of his own."

Cynthia's father laughed, enjoying Yale's quick repartee. "Of course, the King has more money to pay another group of serfs who bottle his ketchup."

"I'll tell you for a fact Pat Marratt has a lot of competitors bottling ketchup. Some of them might pay you a better price for your crop than the Marratt Corporation."

"No better prices than Marratt, else we wouldn't deal with them." With a friendly wave, Dave Carnell disappeared down the hall.

"Oh, Daddy likes a discussion," Cynthia sighed. She gave Yale a peck on the cheek. "I've got to run and get the bathroom first."

Yale waited in Lennie's room until the upstairs sounds told him that they had all used the bathroom. Then he washed quickly and joined them downstairs. Cynthia was waiting and led him into the dining room. "We will eat quickly and be at the temple by sundown," she whispered. "I hope you don't get bored to death." Yale squeezed her hand. He took his place at the table beside her. Michael sitting opposite them looked at him coolly. Yale knew that Michael resented him, picturing him as some kind of interloper. He imagined that Cynthia had probably listened to heated discussions as to her need for a Gentile boyfriend.

Before Dave sat down he quietly handed Michael his yartmelke. As Michael put it on Yale looked at Dave and said quietly, "If you don't mind, I would like to observe this custom with you."

"He can wear Lennie's," Cynthia said. She quickly got Lennie's prayer cap from the buffet and handed it to Yale.

"Perhaps, he would like to say the Shema," Michael said sarcastically, inferring that Yale would not understand his reference to the Hebrew prayer.

Yale smiled, as he put on the cap. "I would like to say it, Michael. If I make a mistake will you please correct me?" Yale noticed the startled expression on all their faces, except Cynthia's, as he intoned in perfect Hebrew: "Shema, Yisroel, Adonoi, Elohenu Adonoi Echod." He continued in English . . . "and thou shalt love God with all thine heart, and with all thine soul, and with all thine might. . . ." When he finished saying the verses, Yale said, "I'm sorry I couldn't say it all in Hebrew." He smiled at Cynthia. "Cynthia taught me the Hebrew words."

"She gave you a good accent," Dave grunted, and passed a plate full of chicken. Yale could tell by his abrupt and gruff manner that he was pleased. They passed the dishes quietly to each other. Dave asked Yale about his courses at Midhaven College, and whether he planned to work with his father when he graduated.

Yale wondered what Cynthia might have said. He decided to be truthful. "I hope to go to Columbia," Yale said. "I am not interested in business. I would enjoy teaching. Cynthia and I hope to be married a year from now with your blessing, Mr. Carnell."

Aunt Adar gasped. She started to sob.

"Hush, Adar," Dave said. "This is no surprise. All that Cynthia has talked about for two years is this young man. Now at least we have no more secrets. We know what they are planning." He chewed thoughtfully for a minute. "A year is a long time. I won't say I approve or disapprove. If my daughter cares for you and you care for her, sometime soon we should meet your family. There are many things for families to discuss."

Yale tried to conceal his dismay. Of course, he thought, the normal thing was that Pat and Liz and Barbara would meet Dave and Aunt Adar and Lennie and Michael. He had a vision of Pat, towering, red-faced, examining this hard-fibred rock of a man, Dave Carnell. The immovable force and the irresistible object, for sure. Between them Cynthia and Yale reduced to ashes in the explosion.

"Yes," he mumbled, avoiding Cynthia's glance. "You should meet my mother and father soon." For a moment he felt the hopelessness of their love for each other. While he would be willing to defy Pat and marry Cynthia tomorrow even . . . he sensed that Cynthia, rooted to her family, would want to have a more traditional marriage. A marriage surrounded by relatives from both sides of the family. A marriage where hatred did not exist.

He was still thinking about it as they walked into the synagogue. There was no solution. He and Cynthia would have to be married quickly in a civil marriage. He was so occupied with his thoughts he almost missed Dave's question.

"Have you ever been to a Kol Nidre service, Yale?"

"No. I have been to the synagogue in Midhaven with Cynthia during Passover, and on several Sabbaths."

The synagogue was a small unpretentious building. At capacity it couldn't accommodate more than a couple of hundred people. About fifty people were sitting quietly waiting for the Rabbi.

"There aren't many Jews in this area," Dave said, "but those we have are strongly religious. We have a very learned Rabbi."

To his surprise Yale discovered that Cynthia and Aunt Adar sat together with a group of other females. Evidently, Yale thought, this was a more orthodox Jewish group than in Midhaven where males and females sat together.

Sitting beside Michael, a Pentateuch in his lap, Yale watched as the Scroll of Laws was taken out. Then the cantor began to sing in a melodious chant that was familiar to Yale.

"That's the Kol Nidre prayer!" Michael whispered.

Yale nodded. "I never heard it sung before, but I know the music. It's very beautiful." Yale looked at Michael and smiled. "I'd like it if you would sort of guide me as Cynthia does. Otherwise, I get lost."

For the first time since they had met, Michael's remote and distant manner toward Yale disappeared. "It's not always easy to understand. You almost have to be born a Jew," he grinned. "I doubt if we'll convert you."

During the remainder of the service he guided Yale in the translated Torah. In whispers he explained the Al Het, and how the congregation response asks for the forgiveness of God.

Dave drove back to the farm. They talked of mundane things as if none of them wished to be the first to probe Yale's reaction to the Kol Nidre service. Each of them in his own way had seen the ceremony for the first time through the eyes of an outsider. For Dave and Aunt Adar it was slight annoyance, as if Yale had been admitted to a sanctuary in which he had no right to be. For Michael therewas a sense of being mocked, as if Yale were watching like an anthropologist enjoying some primitive tribal rite without ever being able to understand its meaning for the participants. But for Cynthia there was only pride and her sure knowledge that Yale with his searching and curious mind had enjoyed the evening on a plane of understanding equal to theirs.

Sitting in the hammock on the veranda, Cynthia beside him, Yale listened to the warm sounds of the October night; an occasional cricket, and the faint rustling of nearly dead leaves in the lonely elm that guarded the house like a tremendous black sentinel in the night.

Dave sat in a rocking chair. Despite Adar's protest he lighted his pipe. "God would not object to the solace it gives me, even on Yom Kippur. I miss your mother, Cynthia. Even more on the holidays. . . ."

Aunt Adar, in a stiff-backed wicker chair, knitted silently. Michael sat on the rail, clinging with one arm to a post that supported the porch roof. Occasionally, Dave Carnell sucked on the pipe. The flare from the pipe's bowl lighted his face for an instant, and then, like the others, he became a dark shadow again. It was a pleasant way to converse, disembodied voices in the night, not revealing their facial expressions, daring them to say the thoughts they might not wish to reveal in full light.

Dave confessed his worries first. "We only want Cynthy to be happy. I'm afraid she doesn't know too much about hatred."

"Mixed marriages don't work," Aunt Adar said bluntly. "Families won't let them work."

Yale squeezed Cynthia's hand. He felt the pressure of her response. "I enjoyed the service tonight," he said, trying to divert their thinking. "You see, for two years now I have been really studying religion on a comparative basis. Tonight when they sang the Yigdal I recognized in the translation the creed of Maimonides. . . ."

"The thirteen Principles of our faith . . ." Dave interrupted. Yale could see the outline of a pleased nod. A puff of smoke surrounded his head.

Yale continued, "The first five Principles are at the basis of most Western religions. The first: 'I believe with perfect faith that the Creator is the author and guide of everything that has been created, and that He alone does make and will make all things' . . . Even Mohammedism accepts that." They listened in silence as Yale spoke. "The second: 'I believe with perfect faith that the Creator is a unity, and there is no unity in any manner like unto His, and that He alone is our God, who was, is and will be.' . . ."

"The Catholics won't accept that," Michael said. "They have a Trinity."

"I don't know," Yale said. "From a philosophic point of view the Catholics have provided for the bridge between the perfect and the imperfect with the concept of Christ."

"Well, it took a Jew to do it," Michael said, laughing.

"Anyway," Yale said, "I think even Catholics actually accept this Principle in the idea of an indivisible Trinity. The third and fourth, also: 'I believe with perfect faith that the Creator is not a body, and that He is free from all the properties of matter, and that He has no form wihatsoever.' And fourth: 'I believe with perfect faith that the Creator is the first and last.' . . ."

"The fifth . . . here is a horse of another color," Michael said triumphantly. " 'I believe with perfect faith that to the Creator and to the Creator alone, it is right to pray, and it is not right to pray to any being beside him.' Here your Jew goes his own way."

"Followed by quite a few Protestants. . ." Cynthia said.

"What about the other eight Principles?" Dave asked. "These are what make a Jew, is it not so?"

Yale nodded. He listened to the squeaking of the hammock chains. It was strange, he thought. Men always wanted to be unique; to have their little groups that set them apart from their fellow men . . . to give them a delusion of importance. In a smaller way, functioning within the larger religious groups were the Masons, the Knights of Columbus, the Rotarians, the Moose, the Elks and thousands upon thousands of societies and associations that existed basically only to convey a sense of distinction and individuality. Maimonides' final Principles codified for Jews their uniqueness. Yale spoke his thoughts aloud trying to show Dave and Michael that all men should seek to share their common beliefs and build their lives on their humanity rather than the divisive factors in their experience.

"This boy of yours is a lambden," Dave said. "But even scholars must commit themselves. What do you believe?" They waited in silence to hear what Yale would say. Yale, forced for the first time in his life to commit himself on his beliefs, knew that whatever his answer would be it would not satisfy Dave or Aunt Adar. He decided to be painfully honest. "I accept your beliefs, Mr. Carnell, and the beliefs of all men, but I see no need to believe in a Jewish God or a Protestant God or a Catholic God or any God conceived by men. Since all we can ever know is man himself . . . I see no reason to go further. Each day to me is a revelation of the endless wonder and dignity of man."

"Man can hate," Dave said. "Man can kill."

Yale grinned. "Man has given God the same abilities, but this does not prove that God is a hater or a destroyer. If there is any reason to believe in God at all, it is in the simple fact that buried in each and every man is the possibility of love for another person. I don't mean sexual love. I mean love that transcends most human acts. Love that properly cultivated from birth in the human mind would bind each man to another in a chain so strong that the twelfth Principle of Maimonides would come true."

Dave got up and patted Yale on the head. "Cynthy, this boy is too idealistic. I fear for him. I'm going to bed before he confuses me. Come on, Adar, and Michael. Let them have the night alone for awhile."

As they walked in the house they heard Aunt Adar say to Dave, "This conversation I do not understand. Simple people just believe . . . no 'pilpul.' What is the twelfth Principle? I have forgotten."

"I believe in the coming of the Messiah," they heard Michael say. Cynthia turned to Yale. She hugged him, kissing his face fervently. "Oh, God, God. I love you," she breathed huskily. "Why does it have to be so complicated?"

10

Driving toward New York City, Cynthia seemed unusually quiet. She sat beside Yale, legs curled up beneath her, her skirt primly tight over her knees. She stared at the flat New Jersey landscape, the endless rows of filling stations, ice cream and hot dog stands, and innumerable roadside restaurants dedicated to a particular aspect of exotic dining vanishing before her eyes.

Occasionally Yale would look away from the road. The graceful line of her jaw, the fullness of her lips, the animation of her hair blowing in soft waves against her forehead and cheeks, seemed to have a personality and essence of their own that was Cynthia and at the same time, unbeknown to her, carried on an independent existence. Yale felt a strong desire to stop the car and hug her, and say, "Oh, Cindar. I love you so very much. I am so happy that we are going to have this night together. It will be good and beautiful, I'll always love you and years from now when we are married we will look back and remember this." Instead he said, "What's the matter, Cindar? You're so quiet. Are you getting cold feet? Do you want to forget it and just go back to Midhaven?"

Actually she was wondering what was going to happen. She couldn't picture herself walking across a hotel lobby and standing near a registration desk while Yale signed the register "Mr. & Mrs. Yale Marratt." She was sure she would blush. They looked too young to be married. The clerk would know. What if he refused to give them a room? Maybe he would ask for their marriage license? It had been different going to that cabin last spring with Sonny and Beatrice. Then, it had been flagrant and out in the open. They weren't pretending to be married and there were four of them. If they had been refused, so what? . . . it was a lark. There was something about this that was secret -- a sharing between two people of the guilt and deceit necessary to be together as well as the physical love that would follow. Did she love Yale that way? Was it wrong to go to bed with someone when you weren't entirely sure you loved him? But she did love Yale. Only sometimes when he looked at her and she could see the naked hunger and yearning in his eyes, and in the gentleness of his touch, she was frightened. She wondered whether she deserved -- or anyone deserved -- such devotion . . . bordering on adoration.

"Of course, I want to go, Yale." She touched his arm. "Only, I can't help feeling guilty. Daddy looked so pathetic when he hugged me. These last few weeks since I got back from camp have been real family weeks. Lennie, Mike and Aunt Adar, all of us have been so close. Being the youngest and the only girl I guess it has been hard on Daddy -- my going away to school, and then taking the counsellor's job. Gosh, it seems only yesterday when after supper I used to climb on his lap and snuggle against his neck, and play with his ear while he told me about the work he had done that day. Aunt Adar used to look at me in her prudish way and tell him that he was spoiling me, and I was getting too old to act like that with my father. You know, Yale, he has had a lonely life since my mother died. You would have liked her, too. She came from Vienna. She was very pretty and gentle -- the kind of woman you would call a real lady. Very feminine . . . not like a lot of mothers."

"Not like Liz, you mean," Yale grinned. "Well, Liz is the epitome of the modern woman, and most modern women lack that femininity. Actually they probably prefer not to show the soft and quiet approach. Not you, Cindar, you are very much a female. You know, I think that American men may be at fault. They want their wives to be self-sufficient. Women being women adapt to their environment, very readily. Result . . . very thorough, efficient wives. I read in Fortune the other day that a fellow died who owned a big glass factory. His wife is running it better than he did. Showing a profit for the first time in years. I would guess she was not very feminine, somehow."

They were approaching the Pulaski skyway. "We'll go in through the Holland Tunnel." Yale laughed nervously. "Don't know any other way as a matter of fact."

"Don't you feel guilty, Yale. . . ."

Yale shook his head. "No, I love you. For the next twenty or so hours I want to be with you and have fun and make love to you, and I don't feel anything wrong about it. When we finish college I want to marry you and live with you until you are a gray-haired little old lady."

"It says in all the books that girls read that a girl should wait until she is married. That when you let a boy have intercourse with you before you are married it cheapens you, and the boy will think you are just loose. I read somewhere that every man wants to marry a virgin." Cynthia's voice was wistful. She wondered if she should tell Yale. It was so silly. How could you tell such a thing to even your husband? And Yale wasn't her husband! How could she tell anyone that one rainy afternoon two summers ago when she had been alone in the house . . . not knowing what had possessed her, but feeling a terrible loneliness and a hunger to be loved, she had taken off all her clothes. She had walked idly around the house and then into Lennie's room and sat on his bed and smelled the boy smell of sweaty football clothes and the musty odor that clung forever to the boards of the old farmhouse. She had stopped in front of Lennie's mirror. Slowly she shook her breasts at her own image, and then her hand had touched her belly and felt her wiry pubic hairs.

As if in a dream she had walked downstairs into the cold closet where Aunt Adar kept the vegetables and she had surrendered wildly to some unknown and primitive desire. When the terrible emotion vanished, she was on the floor with blood on her legs. The shock, the fear, the utter distastefulness of what she had done to herself left her emotionally spent. She had cried until there were no more tears, and her eyes burned, and her throat was wracked with sobbing. Somehow in the ensuing days the act was forgotten, although occasionally the memory would return and she would hastily try to think of something else. But now it would come out. Sin never has its remission, she thought, because even in a thing like that you sin not against yourself but against the strong moral fibre of the world that one day will catch up with you. She was a virgin. If she told Yale, he would think she was horrible, a sex maniac. Or worse, he would think she made it up to cover up that she had actually had intercourse with another boy. Maybe he would even think she had had intercourse with many boys. Jewish girls were supposed to be very hot. What a horrible untruth. All last year at college she had listened with prim dismay to her roommate, Sue Wallace, describe her sexual encounters. "Sure, I've been laid (the word made Cynthia shudder). Every once in a while, I need it." Sue told her, "I don't let the boy know. I even fight him off. But if he's nice, I know I'll end up doing it with him eventually." That was Sue. Sue was typical of many of the girls she had known in high school and at Midhaven College.

But Yale was the only boy Cynthia had ever gone steady with. Even with Yale and despite the many times they had been together, he had never touched her "there."

And she knew, too, that he had held back because of a strong aesthetic sense. A desire to love her to the limits of his devotion -- alone in beauty. Not furtively clutching in a parked car or rolling on a blanket in the woods, near the college, as some of her classmates had done. She knew that Yale's love had a strong religious coloring -- not fanatic -- but adorational. Now she was going to have to reveal herself as more common clay.

Sensitive, as always, to the nuances of her emotions, Yale turned off the road in front of a roadside ice cream stand. "Honey, what's the matter? You think because I didn't answer you that I think you're not a virgin."

She nodded and there were tears in her eyes.

"Oh, Yale, I am a virgin -- I am! . . . but . . ." She put her face against his shoulder and whispered . . . "I have no hymen. I won't bleed." And amidst sobs she told him everything. Even as she told him she couldn't justify herself. "I am so ashamed. I must be queer or something."

Gently, Yale lifted her face from his shoulder and held it between his hands. He looked at her tear streaked cheeks and her wide-apart brown eyes. When he kissed her her lips were soft and salty.

"Honey . . . I'm nineteen. I have masturbated. I've got a book I'll lend you. I read it last year. It's written by a woman anthropologist -- somebody named Meade. A study of sex in primitive tribes. The youngsters in those tribes don't masturbate at all or have any neurotic sex ideas. You know why?

"Because, you dumb-bunny, when they are growing up and before the girls menstruate, they just go out in the bushes and have intercourse. In our society we don't let boys and girls, who are vastly ready to make babies, get near each other until they marry . . . which is usually ten years too late. Stop crying . . . tonight I'll tell you how I would know you were a virgin -- even if you didn't bleed," Yale laughed. "The trouble with you is right at this moment you are starving to death." He looked at his watch. "It's six-thirty. I think we have obeyed the letter of the law. Yom Kippur is over. Let's eat."

Sitting opposite him in a Howard Johnson's booth while they ravenously ate hamburgers, Cynthia felt a strange and wonderful sense of joy. The feeling of guilt was gone, replaced by the knowledge of her secret shared and understood. She knew for the first time how deeply committed she was to this tousled haired boy who somehow had a depth of understanding she had only previously experienced with her father. No . . . not even with her father, because with fathers and mothers there was always a pale of experience beyond which you could not go.

"Aren't you scared," Cynthia said as they drove up in front of the Hotel Pennsylvania. "What if they look at us funny? We don't look old enough to be married. What if they start asking questions?"

"Jiminy --" Yale said. "You are going to have me a nervous wreck. Of course, I'm scared. But they'll never know it." I'll act just like Pat, he thought. Very cool. Very certain.

He had picked the Hotel Pennsylvania because he was familiar with the location. Pat had taken him there once to a grocers' convention. The Marratt Corporation had had a suite of rooms to entertain visiting buyers. Yale remembered he had hung around for a while watching the interminable drinking . . . mostly men and an occasional woman buyer topping each other with the dirty jokes, one after another. Bored, he had left the room and spent the evening walking around Times Square, marvelling at the bookstores that stayed open until early morning. He had spent all his money on books, putting together such a collection that it had been necessary to take a taxi back to the hotel. At three in the morning Pat had still not returned to their room. Yale gathered from the conversation at breakfast that there had been a stag show. "You probably should have been there," Pat had said, thoughtfully. "It would have been a good experience for you."

Yale left his car with the doorman. Followed by a bellboy carrying their bags, with Cynthia hanging tightly onto his arm, he made the long trek from the door to the registration desk.

It was surprisingly easy. "We are on our honeymoon," he said, trying to keep his voice level. "We'd like a two-room suite for the night." The room clerk expressed no interest. He fumbled through reservation cards and shoved a registration card in front of Yale.

While Yale signed "Mr. & Mrs. Yale Marratt, Midhaven, Connecticut" the clerk passed the key to the bellboy. "Twelfth floor," he said. "A very nice suite. Twenty-five dollars a day."

When the bellboy closed the door of their room and they were finally alone Cynthia slumped down on a huge sofa. "I can't believe it," she gasped. "I wouldn't go through that again for a million dollars. Wow, the way that bellboy kept looking at us in the elevator. I know he knew! I turned my mother's ring around. See," she said gaily and flung off her coat. "It looks like a wedding ring." She put her arms around Yale. "Oh I love you so very much. Look at this room, isn't it beautiful. I've never stayed in a hotel. Do you know that?"

She flitted around the sitting room, touching the chairs. Yale watched her happily. "Come here," she ordered and poked her head into the bedroom.

"Did you ever see such a big bed?" She ran and dove onto it. Caught up with her high spirits, Yale jumped on the bed beside her. The bed creaked and shook as if it might collapse. Laughing hysterically, Yale hugged her. "I'll bet no two people under fifty ever slept on this bed." He bounced up and down. "I'll bet no two people under twenty ever slept on it for sure. We'll wreck it!"

As they kissed, their breaths mingling in laughter, Yale felt the soft touch of her cheek. Leaning on his elbow, he looked at her. "You are beautiful, do you know it?"

"Yup," she giggled. "And you are handsome. Do you know it?"

"Yup," he said.

She got up and threw a pillow at him. Suddenly she was serious. "Do you feel guilty?"

Yale lay on the bed looking at her. "No, I don't, Cindar. How can I feel guilty when I love you? You know I've read a lot of books on love and marriage in the past year. I think most people have the wrong idea of love. They can't get it out of their minds that it is dirty. The courses I have taken in comparative religion started me trying to dig back. Love of man and woman is all mixed up with religious dictum. I began to wonder how the belief in God came about. What were the beliefs of the ancient people before the Jewish tribes, before Christ came on the scene? You know something? I found a book in the stacks at the Midhaven College library that I'll bet you and Doctor Tangle didn't even know was there. It's called, The Worship of the Generative Powers , by Thomas Wright. It was written in the 1800's. Some minister must have had it in a collection that he donated to the school. I decided to steal it before someone else did. I'll give it to you to read. Do you realize that in practically every country of the world original worship was worship of the phallus and the female organ? When you think about it it was quite a natural idea. Those ancient people depended on fertility -- human fertility, as well as fertility of the crops for their very existence. This worship was fundamental. I think religion has gotten away from the fundamental. We worship at the wrong altars. We should worship the most amazing thing within our comprehension . . . the utter complete beauty and wonder of man and woman, creating and transforming their environment. Wouldn't we really be worshipping God if we did that? Because I love you, I love God. Can God ask for more?"

Cynthia listened to him, fascinated by his words and the dreamy expression on his face. "You know you would make a good minister."

Yale laughed. "Ladies and gentlemen, my sermon for today is, 'Adore Your Wife. How beautiful are her feet, and the joints of her thighs are like jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning workman. Her navel is like a round goblet which wanteth not liquor. Her belly is like a heap of wheat set about with lilies. Her breasts are like two twin roses. Her neck is a tower of ivory. How fair and how pleasant is she, O Love, for delights' . . . there you are right from the Bible." Yale laughed. "I'll betcha I'd get tossed out of church."

"You stay there!" Cynthia said mischievously. "You think because you have read the Bible through that you are the only one who can quote from the Bible. I'll show you." She walked into the sitting room. In a few minutes she returned and stood in the doorway of the bedroom. She had taken off all her clothes. As she walked slowly toward him, Yale felt tears come to his eyes. He tried to grasp and hold the impression of her dainty, spring-like loveliness. "'I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valley,'" she said. "'As the apple tree among the tree of wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste'" . . . Yale put his arms around her. "Don't stop me," she pouted. "I can remember more." He kissed her lips . . . "Later . . ." he said.

He undressed and lay beside her. He could feel her legs trembling against him. "You'll take care that I don't get pregnant, won't you, Yale?" He nodded. For the first time in his life, in a drugstore near the college he had bought contraceptives. "I have some things. I have never put them on before. When I do, if you laugh, I'll choke you!" He kissed her breasts, and her belly, and gently opened her legs. "I want to look at you."

"Why? . . . no . . . no . . . Yale, you make me embarrassed! Don't look at me!"

Yale bent over and kissed the wiry hairs that formed a triangle below her stomach. "Ouch," she laughed, "you tickle." He pressed his face against her belly and blew. The noise was like a muffled machine gun fire. They tumbled together laughing. She rolled on top of Yale. Her expression suddenly changed. Her eyes opened wide and then she gasped and buried her face in Yale's neck. "Oh . . . oh . . . you are inside me." She sobbed her delight. "I love you so much . . . be with me always." Her fingernails raked his back and she whimpered her apology.

They lay together. Night came gradually to the city. The sunlight that drifted into the room vanished and the soft gray shadows of twilight embraced them. From far below in the streets the noise of traffic and the occasional honking of an automobile horn, distant and in another world, reached their ears. The five o'clock exodus from the city had begun. Alone and in the wonder of each other, they whispered their love, and while they talked of their delight, Yale could feel the rhythmic embrace of her vagina, and she could feel within her the towering strength of the man she loved.

Later when he had awkwardly put on the contraceptive, she hadn't laughed, but drew him down against her, and she liked the weight of him against her breasts, and the climax of their love held within it a sharp ecstasy that kept them sleepily joined for nearly an hour afterwards.

"We've got to eat, don't you think," Yale opened his eyes and the room was dark.

"Mmmm I'll eat you," she said sleepily, ". . . with peanut butter."

"I'm too tough."

"No you're not, you're tender." She bit his arm. He yelled and slapped her on the buttocks. "You have a very pretty behind."

"I like it," she said. "It's so useful for sitting on."

He put on the light beside the bed. "Come on, my lovely princess, I will take you into the motley crowds, and show them what they are missing while you daintily eat a big steak."

She stood up on the bed. "Take me like this."

"Sure, come on. He grabbed her arm, and pulled her through the sitting room. As she screamed her protest he opened the door into the hall. An elderly man and woman were walking by. They looked at them startled. Yale slammed the door. He and Cynthia fell on the floor of the room laughing wildly.

"Oooh, we'll be thrown out," Cynthia said.

Doubled over with laughter, Yale said, "You should have seen their faces. Gosh . . . did you see the old lady? I thought she would scream.

"I have to go to the bathroom," Cynthia announced.

"What for?" Yale said.

"Dummy, I have to go."

"Oh, I'll watch you!"

"No you won't." She ran into the bathroom. He heard the lock being snapped.

Yale walked over to the window. The curtains fluttered in the warm October breeze. Sticking his head out he looked down in the street and then across the roof of the Penn Station toward the river. The city twinkled beneath him in a myriad of lights. For the first time in his life he felt that he belonged. He was a part of this wonderful, ceaseless motion. These millions of people with their millions of lights driving back the darkness were his brothers. The loneliness that always seemed to pervade his thoughts and cling to his very being was gone. He was no longer alone. His island was joined to a mainland of life by Cindar's wonderful, good love.

He heard water running in the bathtub. "Hey," he said, pounding on the door. "I want to take a bath with you." She opened the door, and grinned at him. "Come on!"

Cynthia got in first. "It's hot," she screamed.

Yale tried to climb in alongside of her. Finding that impossible, he got in and sat with his back to the spigot. He tried to lean forward and soap her breasts. She wiggled her toes against his penis. In a second the bathroom was dripping with water as he splashed her and she returned his splash. Water slurped over the side of the tub. Yale, blinded for a moment, couldn't see anything. "Help," he yelled, rubbing his eyes, and then she was kneeling in front of him, solicitously drying his face with a face cloth and carefully wiping the soap from the corner of his eyes.

As she knelt before him in the tub, Yale looked into her face. What is beauty, he thought? What is it that makes Cindar beautiful beyond saying to me? Is it her eyes wide apart -- maybe too wide apart for any perfect standard of beauty? Is it the shape of her face and her high cheekbones? Is it her body so trim and nice to hold? Or is it the warm intensity of her? The racial Jewish feeling that she exuded that this-is-my-man; come sickness his head will be on my breast, come health and I will walk alone proudly with him carrying his children or bearing with him his problems and worries.

"There," she said, kissing him tenderly. "Enough of sex. If you don't feed me soon, I'll be so faint you'll have to carry me to the table."

Walking with Cynthia through the hotel lobby, Yale was on tiptoe with happiness. Cynthia wore a light polo coat. Her black hair fell loosely on her shoulders. Yale held her arm. He returned the smiles of older faces that seemed to light up as he and Cindar passed, reflecting for a moment the glow and vitality of their youth.

They walked from 33rd Street uptown, heading in the general direction of Times Square.

"This is such fun," Cynthia said, skipping with delight. "I've never been in New York City except with my family. I feel so happy. Oh, Yale, is this what love does to you? Does it make you glow with being alive? I feel as if I love all these people bustling by. I love these stores with their lights on, and this lovely evening with the stars twinkling way up there beyond the buildings. The world is a wondrous place, isn't it, Yale?"

Yale tightened his hold on her arm. "Let's make a solemn agreement, Cindar. No matter what! Through the rest of our lives, let's be alive and curious and never lose the feeling of wonder. Let's always be crazily alive, if necessary. No matter what, let's be aware of the mystery and strangeness of living and loving. If I love you a million years, I promise to find you wondrous."

She stopped and kissed him and said solemnly, "I do. And let's be a little practical too. Have you enough money? That room is expensive."

"Oh, I am rich," Yale said. "I saved practically my whole pay all summer. Remember, I am a rich man's son. Thirty bucks a week . . . for doing nothing."

Cynthia remembered. She remembered Pat Marratt sitting in his wing chair, glaring at her and hating her Jewishness. Suddenly the gaiety was gone. The world had intruded. She walked along silently, thinking of how impossible this all was. Yale could never escape his father. The power and dominance that Pat exuded in his every action would swallow Yale up. She remembered last night. Aunt Adar had come into her room. "Yes, yes, he's nice, Cynthy, but don't forget he is a Gentile. And for his family you are an outsider, too. These things don't usually work out. Be careful, my little one, don't get yourself hurt."

Weeks ago when she talked with her father about Yale and asked his permission to drive back to school with him, he had rumpled her hair. "I love you, Cynthy -- you are so much like your mother -- you wear your heart on your sleeve. It's a strange world. I changed my name to Carnell, and our farm grew. The buyers who heard the name Carnetsky could see my nose, perhaps? You have your mother's nose and a pretty name, Carnell. Mr. Patrick Marratt's memory goes back a long way. I met him once when I was Carnetsky. Years ago. Now I see only his buyer. A good steady customer. Surprises me, though, that he buys from Jews. Is it good, do you think, Cynthy, to have a rich man's son for a friend? Like him, but try not to love him." He had looked so sad when he said it that Cynthia hugged him. "But I do love him, Daddy," she had said. "I do love him."

Sitting across the table from Yale in Toffenetti's, Cynthia toyed with a large baked potato. The trouble was, she thought, she was in love with Yale and he was just a boy. This love of theirs, so precious, so delicate, would never withstand a future directed by Pat Marratt.

Yale watched her, and wondered what had changed her mood. "You know I read that after intercourse a man, or even a woman, may be sad. A man because in creating, supposedly dies a little. I have never been inside any other woman, Cindar. I never will be. And I think 'post coitum triste' is nonsense."

"Maybe the sadness comes much later," Cynthia said. "Maybe it doesn't come until you have loved many times, and wonder is gone and the man you love hates you because you are a Jewess!"

"Cynthia, for God sakes," Yale said. "After all these months, you think I could ever feel that way! I'm not my father. I haven't an ounce of prejudice or hatred in me for anyone -- for Jews, Negroes, anyone. I don't even hate Pat. I'll fight his ideas. I'll fight hatred, but I won't hate those who hate."

Cynthia looked at him, love in her sad smile. "You are the intellectual. The one who sees shades of gray. Never black and white. But your father lives in a world of good guys and bad guys. He defeats the bad guys by hating them. Hitler in Germany is like that. No. You'll never win unless you learn to hate, too."

Yale laughed, enjoying the discussion for its own sake. "The meek shall inherit the earth," he said. And then seriously, "Cynthia, I don't have any religion, particularly a religion that can justify hatred or killing or any act of violence, but I do understand myself enough to know that while I am not my father, some day I will be the stronger of the two of us. Not an Oedipus complex," he grinned, twisting a spoon in his hands, "but a very deep feeling that I am putting together a philosophy of life based on love -- not hate. Some day this philosophy will sweep up Pat and everybody else who hates." Yale said the last words with an intensity that frightened Cynthia. He was his father's son, she thought, but a tree growing from different soil.

"What is this philosophy?" she asked.

Yale shook his head. "I don't know enough about it to tell you yet," he admitted. "Or, myself for that matter. I just know that Pat won't own me. But you will, Cindar, always. Come on, let's walk around Times Square."

In the glow of lights, and the throb and hum of the Square, Cynthia's happiness returned. There was no answer, she thought. You couldn't live for a tomorrow that might be years away. When the time came they would get married or they wouldn't get married. But for now it couldn't he wrong to love and be loved, or to trust and be trusted; for perhaps trust and love were in many ways one.

Yale tugged her into a bookstore they were passing. "Look," he said, "all these books selling for forty-nine cents each. Isn't it wonderful . . . so much knowledge waiting quietly in those millions of pages -- just waiting to be read."

Like two happy archaeologists digging in ruins, they explored the piles of books in the shop exclaiming with joy at their discoveries. By the time they were back on the street Cynthia had a bundle of five books. Yale had three. "I bought you a copy of Of Time and the River ," he said. "Look at the size of it. Isn't it fabulous? Come on. Let's go back to the hotel. While you read it to me, I'll kiss your breasts and blow on your belly.

"But you can't do that," she said when they were back lying together in their bed. "When you put your tongue on my breasts, I can't concentrate! Look, I haven't read three pages."

Yale took the book from her hands, and dropped it gently on the floor. She leaned back in his arms and he snuggled against her breast. "Cindar," he whispered, "isn't it nice that you love me? Isn't it nice that I love you?"

And Cynthia thought it was nice, and accepted Yale into her body. . . .

11

"Well, kiddo, this is it! We've made it. Proud, august, seniors about to graduate." Sonny shook Yale's bed, threatening to tip it sideways and tumble the bedding, mattress and Yale on the floor. "Get up! It's ten o'clock, a beautiful, beautiful May day. Brother, have I got things to do."

"You do them," Yale yawned. "I haven't a darn thing to do until twelve. This is a day I've been looking forward to since last September. Imagine, no more classes, no studying. I'm going on a picnic and just loaf."

"With Cynthia?"

"Sure, who else? You can run your graduation dances and worry about reception lines and orchestras and refreshments and all that slush. Not for me, boy, I am going on a picnic with my girl and if you're nice, tomorrow I'll promise you something. If you're real nice, after graduation Cynthia and I will go to your dance and I'll help you spike the punch."

Sonny hit him with his pillow. "Some do the work and some take all the enjoyment. I don't know what in hell this little old college is going to do without me to organize things."

Yale rolled over and looked at Sonny. "Right now, chum, somewhere there's a little snotty-nosed high school senior who is planning to come here in September and take over -- right where you leave off."

"You may be right. One thing is sure. It will be a millennium before another Romeo and Juliet like you and Cynthia appear on the Midhaven scene."

"Go to hell!"

"I'm there, lover boy. When are you and Cynthia getting married? Jeez, I'll never figure how you managed all these years to keep her from getting knocked up."

Yale sighed. "It's going to be one great relief to be rid of your nosey prying ways. Go on, get about your business. I have some more sleeping to do."

With one eye half open, he watched Sonny get dressed. For a long time Sonny examined his face in the mirror, changing his expression back and forth from a happy grimace to a stern expression of wise maturity.

"See you, kid," he said finally as he was ready to leave. "You're not quite rid of me yet. I'm going home for a couple of weeks, and then I'm coming back. I was hired yesterday for eighteen bucks a week to assist the fearless editor of the Midhaven Herald make something out of his lousy rag. At the same time, unbeknownst to him, I plan to find out what gives in a political way in Midhaven."

Yale groaned. Sonny was an incubus. Or was it a succubus? He snuggled into his sheets, feeling the warm May breeze stirring at the window. It was going to be a beautiful day. Really a hot one. Ideal for a picnic. In about an hour he'd walk down to Mama Pepperelli's and get some "guinea grinders" and then next door in the package store get some beer. Then he would walk up to Cynthia's dormitory and they would hike out to Strawberry Hill.

It had been inconvenient not having a car, but if he never drove again he wasn't going to beg Pat. He could keep his damned automobile, and his money, too. Yale remembered the night that he came back from New York. Last October. The months had passed so quickly it seemed scarcely weeks ago. He had driven Cynthia to her dormitory. It was a Sunday. When he left her to unpack, he decided that he would go home and face the music. Pat met him at the door.

"Did you have a nice trip?" he asked coldly. "Have you been accepted as a convert?"

"What do you mean?" Yale asked.

"I mean that I presume Mr. Carnell is looking forward to having a wealthy son-in-law. If he is, he can start now and change his mind. Give me the registration of your Ford."

Yale fumbled in his wallet and handed it to him. He watched, unbelievingly, as Pat tore it in pieces, and flung them on the ground. "The insurance has been cancelled. If you want a car . . . buy your own! I warned you not to go to New Jersey. You and your little Jewish friend can enjoy each other's presence on foot. I hope she has a good allowance. You can draw your allowance in the future from the bursar's office. Your tuition and room is completely paid. The bursar will pay you four dollars each Friday afternoon." Pat strode back into the house. "If you can't get along on four dollars a week -- earn your own money. It's more than I had at your age."

Yale followed him in slowly. Liz rushed up as he started for his room. Yale twisted out of her grasp. The anger in him was beyond words. In his room he lay on the bed staring at the ceiling for a long time. The next morning he took a bus to the college. He hadn't been home since nor had he seen Pat. Every week he called Liz and talked with her, generally about school. When she begged him to make it up with Pat, Yale told her, "I'm not angry, I just have nothing to say to him."

Explaining to Cynthia had not been easy. The lack of an automobile was difficult enough. It had been practically impossible to find a way to be with her alone. Worse was trying to tell her the reason for losing the car and still allay her fears.

She grasped what had happened. "It's because of me, isn't it, Yale? Because you visited my family and drove me back. Do you suppose they found out about our staying in New York?"

The entire year had been clouded by the loss of his car. Not having a car they were limited to Mama Pepperelli's which was always crowded with students, or the reception room of Cynthia's dormitory which afforded no privacy at all since it was under the constant surveillance of Mrs. Wicker, the house mother. The only way they could be alone was to go for a long walk, or huddle together at night in the doorway of some college building.

Cold and shivering, Cynthia would worry about the future. Yale wanted to get married in September. He planned to take a summer course at Columbia, and pass his teaching requirements. Then he felt sure he could get a teaching job. It wouldn't be much money but they could live. When Cynthia, more practically, wanted to know whether Pat would give him the money for Columbia, or how they could possibly earn enough, even with both of them working, to pay rent and buy food, Yale would kiss her and tell her that she was a worry bug and had no confidence in him.

While their plans didn't seem as hopeless to Yale as they did to Cynthia, he was a little uneasy. Doctor Tangle had called him to his office just before mid-years and told him that his father expected him to apply for Harvard Business School. Doctor Tangle put the application forms completely filled out even to photographs before him. Yale looked at them in dismay. "Just sign them, Yale, and I'll send them along for you. Believe me, we don't do this for all our students." When Yale told him flatly that he was not going to Harvard Business School, Doctor Tangle said quietly, "If you want my recommendation for any other place then I advise you to apply. You don't have to go to Harvard if something else comes up." Reluctantly Yale signed the application but he didn't tell Cynthia.

By February their desire to be together culminated in a plan to go to Boston and stay in a hotel. By living frugally Yale had accumulated eighty-five dollars. Fifty dollars of it was the remains of his summer earnings at the Marratt Corporation. In February, just before mid-years there was a college vacation period. Some students remained to study for mid-year examinations. Others went home. Cynthia wrote her father that she was going to stay at the college. She and Yale packed their books. On a Saturday afternoon they took a train to Boston.

Lying in bed, half-awake, Yale could recall every minute of that wonderful week. "It's like being really married," Cynthia had said leaning out of the window of the hotel and looking across Boston Common. The bellhop had left the room and Yale stood behind her, kissing her neck and caressing her breasts. She turned and put her arms around his neck, holding him almost in anguish. "I'm not Jewish, Yale," she said. Her eyes were liquid with tears. "I'm just Cynthia and I'll always love you."

Yale tumbled on the bed with her. "Honey dearest, you are Jewish. You're Ruth. You're Naomi -- you bring me all the wonderful love of a Jewish woman. The pride and love that you have is your heritage from centuries of Jewish women before you. Maybe you are a re-incarnation of some lovely Jewish wife who helped her husband escape from the bondage of Egypt. I love you because you are Cynthia. I love you too because of your fierce Jewish love for me."

As she undressed, between kisses and giggles, she said, "If I am Jewish, my darling, then I am not a good follower of my religion, because I am here with you and we are not married and that is not being a good Jew or a good Christian -- but I'm glad I'm here."

It was a week filled with the easy simplicity of new love. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing did. They sat on the bed, mornings, naked, peeling oranges, and throwing the peelings at each other, high score going to the one who could hit the other in the most vulnerable places. Amidst hilarious laughter, she told him it wasn't fair that he had only one "place" and she had three. They made love in the morning and then studied their courses until noon. After showering together they ate twenty-five cent lunches in Childs. In the afternoon they went visiting historical places. Yale showed her Goodspeed's fascinating bookstore under the Old South Church. They bought a copy of Thomas Wolfe's new book The Web and the Rock . In the evening while Yale studied a course in Physics, which he had belatedly taken to complete his Science requirements, and which threatened to keep him from making Phi Beta Kappa, Cynthia read avidly.

"Yale, Yale," she said excitedly. "Look, listen! Let me read this to you. Thomas Wolfe was in love with a Jewish woman." She read him about Mrs. Jack in the novel. "Wolfe never wrote anything that wasn't partly autobiographical. This happened to him, I know it did!" But as she read she grew sad because the love affair in the book didn't come out happily. She continued to read to Yale, drawn by the story of George Webber and Mrs. Jack.

"But, she was married to someone else," Yale pointed out. "They didn't break up because she was Jewish."

"I know it," Cynthia said despondently, "but I like her. I wanted them to be married."

There were two days that it snowed all day. Yale went out to a delicatessen and bought cheese and peanut butter and milk. They stayed in bed for most of the two days and talked about every conceivable subject from how many children they would have to erudite problems in philosophy. Cynthia had developed a knack of leading Yale's thinking. When he got himself in muddy waters she seemed to know how to say the right words to guide him back. More completely than in the nearly three years they had known each other, they discovered the depth of their love. There was no flaw. They were a perfect meshing of personalities both intellectually and emotionally. Emotionally, they couldn't seem to enjoy the wonder of each other's bodies enough. Yale would wake up to find Cynthia snuggled into his arms, kissing his cheeks softly. In a moment they were joined in a warm alliance that lasted for hours, finally erupting into a passion that left them spent, and sometimes helpless with laughter.

She would look at him tenderly yet with a playful grin on her face. "You're a demon lover, my darling." Yale, his lips on her breast, would murmur, "You know something? In the novels I have read, having intercourse is such a frightfully serious thing. Why hasn't someone written that people can make love, how should I say it 'L'Allegro' instead of 'Il Penseroso'? I guess it's because most religions only tolerate the love of man and woman. They look upon it as competition for love of God. They say it is a 'fall' from grace, and make it evil. I'm sure God would prefer happy laughter or he wouldn't have made spring the time of fertility and birth so delightful, and autumn, the season of death, so sad."

Yale looked at his watch, and jumped out of bed. It was eleven thirty. He was to meet Cynthia at her dormitory at twelve thirty. Shit, shower, shave, shampoo. He grinned as he recalled Sonny's expression. It epitomized the organizer that Sonny was . . . everything fast, thorough and efficiently done. Everything that counted to Sonny, that was. Certainly not studies or learning for Sonny. But "doing" -- ah, yes. And that was where the rub came. It was going to take some "doing" in the next few months. "Doing" instead of thinking to end up married to Cindar.

Yale was beginning to realize that in order to accomplish it he would have to compromise his integrity. And what is my integrity, he thought, as he shaved? Is it so important that I make the break with Pat? Wouldn't it be easier to play Pat's own game? A compromise -- in exchange for his marriage with Cindar in September, an agreement to go to Harvard Business School and take his place with Marratt Corporation. Could he find happiness that way? Could the problems of marketing jams and soups intrigue him enough or would he just become a "yes" man to Pat. No, it was impossible, he couldn't take "business" seriously. Not in the way that Pat did with "business" dominating his very living from one day to the next. Nor would Pat ever accept the condition. It was amazing how deeply hatred could be rooted. He doubted that Pat had ever had a bad experience with a Jew. Sharp in their dealings, certainly, but they'd have to get up early in the morning to be shrewder than Pat. No, Pat's hatred was the irrational, middle-class hatred, created from a lifetime in an environment of little, scared men who built their very egos on the false nourishment that Jews were tricky, sharp, clannish . . . and hated you, too. Many men in the world had the Aryan complex whether they knew it or not.

As Yale dressed, he remembered that tomorrow was his sister Barbara's wedding. When Liz had made the plans with Barbara she hadn't known it would be Yale's graduation day, too. The wedding was at seven o'clock with a reception at the Marratt home. Yale could imagine the preparations. At this point and for the next twenty-four hours the Marratt house would be the scene of the wildest kind of confusion.

Yale hadn't known Barbara was going to be married until Liz had told him in one of his weekly telephone calls. Yale wondered what the guy was like. Rich, Liz had said. From Texas. His father owned a tremendous cattle ranch as well as oil property. Thomas Lawson Eames, II. A graduate of Harvard, of course. Barbara had met Tom in February when she had spent a week in Miami at a girl friend's house. Come to think of it, Yale thought, amused, it must have been about the same week that he and Cindar went to Boston.

Tomorrow was going to be a mess. He would have to go to the wedding and Pat would have to come to his graduation. After almost a year there was going to be a strained, awkward moment and then some kind of reconciliation. It would come after the graduation ceremonies. Pat would have to congratulate him. He wondered if Pat knew that he had been accepted to Harvard Business School. Probably. Doctor Tangle could have found out easily enough. Yale made up his mind, there would be no discussion. No matter what Pat said he would refuse to get in an argument.

Walking up the steps to Cynthia's dormitory, carrying a bag with beer and guinea grinders, he remembered he hadn't sent a wedding present to Barbara. Well, how the hell could he, he wondered? He had about seventy-five cents left of his four dollars. Liz had offered to give him money several times in the year but he had refused it. He would have to ask her for at least twenty dollars tomorrow to pay for the dance tickets. Should he ask to borrow her car? No, that would simply precipitate an argument with Liz that he owed it to Barbara to be at the reception and party after the wedding ceremony. If he went to the reception, he couldn't bring Cynthia. She wouldn't want to go anyway. What a cock-eyed world, he thought, bitterly.

In the dormitory, he passed Mrs. Wicker.

"Cynthia isn't here, Yale. I saw her go out about ten o'clock."

He sat down in the heavily furnished reception room, smelling the dust embedded in the over-stuffed furniture. He looked at his watch. It was quarter of one. Where did she go, he wondered? He wiped his face with a handkerchief. It was really a hot day. . . .

12

Cynthia awoke to her name being yelled in the hall of the dormitory. "Hey, Cynthia Carnell . . . Cynthia you've got a phone call!" As she walked sleepily in pajamas down to the wall phone, a happy feeling surged through her. It was Friday -- no more classes! Tomorrow was graduation day -- and today, oh, today -- a wonderful, wonderful day. She hurried toward the phone. It must be Yale. Anxious to get started on the picnic; anxious, too, to be with her, to make love. Oh, my hungry darling. I want to love you, too! It had been February since they had really loved. February since they had really been alone. In a way it was good that the year was over. Once you started to love -- to have intercourse -- and you cared for each other the way she and Yale did -- there was no going back. It was like eating peanuts. She smiled at the thought. She wanted more. She wanted the warm, good feeling of Yale in her arms -- Yale inside her -- always. She prayed that somehow they would be married in September.

She picked up the phone. The voice that answered her "Hello" was strange and abrupt. She gasped when she recognized it.

"Miss Carnell. This is Yale's father, Patrick Marratt. I wonder jf I could meet you for lunch. Say twelve o'clock at the Weathersham Hotel. I'll send a car for you. I think we should have a little talk."

Cynthia looked at the phone unbelievingly. Why did he want to talk with her? It had been more than three years since she had seen him. Had Yale talked with Pat? Oh, my God, she thought, what shall I say to him?

"Mr. Marratt, I can't have lunch with you. I have another engagement." Would he know that it was with Yale?

There was a pause. She could hear Pat talking with someone else. "Look, Miss Carnell, I must talk with you. It's nine thirty, I'll have a company car in front of your dormitory in half an hour. Would you come to my office? It won't take very long. It concerns your father."

"What's the matter with my father?" Cynthia asked nervously.

"Nothing is the matter. As you know, we buy heavily from him. I want to talk with you about it. I'd think you would be wise to say nothing about this to Yale until we have talked."

She told him she would come. A feeling of something-terrible-about-to- happen engulfed her. It was no longer a sunny May day. It was hot and humid and she could feel the flush in her face and nervous perspiration gathering on her forehead and under her arms. What could he want? Had Yale told him that they were going to be married? Was he going to give her his blessing? Not likely. She could remember that evening long ago in March; Pat questioning her, and she, cringing under his penetrating voice and glaring eyes. She had tried to be cool. She remembered her legs and arms throbbing with tension and fear. Then . . . Yale was just a friend. How would she act now? Would Pat be able to tell that she loved his son desperately? Would she dare tell him?

Should she call Yale? It was ten thirty. She looked out the dormitory window. There was a beach wagon in front of the dormitory with gold and blue lettering on the door "Marratt Corporation, Midhaven." There wasn't time to call Yale. She'd just go.

She ran down the stairs to the car. The driver, an elderly man, got out and opened the door. "Miss Carnell?" She nodded and got in. The ride to the plant was torture. The driver was talkative. He introduced himself as Johnny Mitchell. He talked about the unusually hot weather, told her he had been driving the company car for ten years and had known Pat Marratt since he was a young man. A good man, Mr. Marratt, firm but good to his workers. Johnny Mitchell liked him no matter what anyone said. Johnny Mitchell talked and talked and Cynthia confused, nervous, ready to cry from the tension and fear building up in her tried to answer. Oh, dear God, she prayed, please let Mr. Marratt be nice to me.

If Pat Marratt could have really seen Cynthia when she walked into his office, he would have seen more than just a girl dressed in a white, princess style dress that shaped her hips and clung to her uplifted breasts. He would have seen more than her soft dark hair framing her round face, and large questioning brown eyes. He would have seen the youthfulness of her and recognized the fear and despair of a child entering an adult world. But, to Pat, she was just a problem. Perhaps, a little more personal, but a problem similar to many he encountered daily. Something, or someone stood in the way of his plans. You could side-step a problem, but that meant it was still there. Pat's way was more realistic. Simply cut the problem down to size, and stamp it out.

"Sit down, Miss Carnell," he said pointing at a leather chair next to his desk. "I understand from his mother that you and Yale are seriously intending to get married!"

"We love each other, Mr. Marratt. I want you to know that I would do anything to have Yale happy with you and his mother, and have your blessing."

Pat looked at her searchingly for a moment. This technique of delaying a reply and studying his "man" always worked effectively. It created an uneasy feeling and gave Pat an advantage. "I am going to ask you to do something. You know, of course, that Yale has been accepted at Harvard Business School?"

Cynthia didn't answer. She hoped Pat couldn't see the surprise in her face. She knew Yale had signed the application. Yale had told her the day Doctor Tangle had called him into his office. He hadn't told her he had been accepted. Why, she wondered?

"I'm going to ask that you wait until Yale is finished at Harvard before you get married."

"If Yale wants to go to Harvard, I would certainly encourage him."

"That's not an answer, Miss Carnell," Pat said coldly.

"I don't think Yale and I should wait another two years," Cynthia said, blinking through her tears. How could they wait, she thought? They needed each other too much. She had a vision of months without Yale and furtive meetings in hotels. Could their love survive that?

"You're not pregnant, are you?" Pat demanded.

"No, I am not, Mr. Marratt." Cynthia's voice reflected a tiny bit of anger. How crass could Pat Marratt be? "If Yale wants to go to Harvard, we could be married, Mr. Marratt. Many graduate students get married, I could get a job in Boston. I could help him with his studies."

He was going to have to go all the way, Pat thought. Too bad. The girl should have been a little more pliable. Tell him she would wait for Yale. If she had, Pat would have been friendly. Shook hands with her. Give it another two years and he was sure this love affair would fall apart. But this girl was too adamant.

"The point, Miss Carnell, is that I think Yale is too young to get married. Furthermore there are problems here that Yale's mother and I agree would not make for a good marriage." Pat picked a paper off his desk. "Here's our annual contract with the Carnell Farms. Did you ever see this, Miss Carnell?" He handed the paper to Cynthia. "We place several of these with New Jersey farmers. We buy on the open market, of course, but these are placed to protect ourselves. There's been a contract like this with your father every year for the past twelve years. I've been wondering whether to renew for next year?" He paused and stared at Cynthia.

"You mean that if Yale and I get married you won't buy from my father?"

"That sums it up exactly."

"My father could sell to other companies," she said defiantly.

"Look, Miss Carnell. If you wish I'll pick up this phone and get your father on the line. I'll put it to him bluntly that I don't want my son marrying a Jew. I'll suggest to him that under the circumstances he, himself, wouldn't want a 'goy' in his family. How do you suppose he will react?"

Cynthia couldn't hold back a sob. "He would be sick at heart." She could see her father. Not cold and remote like Pat. Her father would have tears in his eyes and there would be sorrow on his face. "I'd like to leave, Mr. Marratt." Cynthia stood up. For a second the expression of utter hopelessness on her face pierced Pat's frigid manner. He almost felt sorry. It was a rotten thing to do, he thought. He recovered quickly. She would get over it. She must know that it was for the best. "Wait, I'll call Jimmy. He'll drive you back to college."

Cynthia had reached the door. Her cheeks were wet with tears. "Thank you, no, Mr. Marratt. I'd prefer to take a bus. I'm sorry that you hate so much."

Walking down the long corridor, she passed several office girls who turned to look at her. "Oh, God, let me get out of here without going to pieces."

She got to the bus stop and leaned, faintly, against a telegraph pole. "I am going to cry. I'm going to cry and cry, and the tears won't stop." But somehow she held her tears back. Finally, a bus came headed toward the College. She boarded it and slumped into a seat. Dazed, she watched the traffic sweep by.

What should she do? She felt numb. Yet, uncontrollably, the nerves in her legs and chest and arms shuddered and leaped spasmodically, as if she were somehow being wrenched apart. The clock on the Midhaven Herald building caught her eyes. It was twelve thirty. Yale would be waiting for her at the dormitory. She couldn't see him now! She had to think. What should she do? The bus stopped. She jumped up and got off. She watched it disappear along Midhaven Avenue, breathing the acrid fumes from its exhaust. She felt the enervating heat of the day. Almost stumbling she walked in the direction of the college. Then suddenly it was no longer possible to hold it back. She retched, miserably vomiting against the side of a building. A woman passing by turned back and offered to help her. "I'm sick," she gasped. "It must be the heat." The woman led her into a small dress shop and another woman, evidently the owner of the store, guided her into a back room.

"I'm so sorry to bother you," Cynthia murmured.

"Don't you worry a bit," the woman said. She patted Cynthia's face with a damp cloth. "It's probably the heat. It's a terribly hot day for May. Lie down here for a moment. You'll feel better. Are you getting your monthly, dear?" Cynthia nodded. It was a convenient explanation to cover the inexplicable.

It was one thirty. Yale sat on the front steps of the dormitory greeting various senior girls who went in and out, answering their pleasantries about graduation. And agreeing with them: "Yes, he was waiting for Cynthia."

Where could she be? He tried to assure himself that she could be any of a dozen places. A professor wanted to see her? Unlikely. She had gone shopping for a dress? Maybe. No. She already had her graduation gown. He hadn't seen it, but she had told him that it was "extra-specially" nice, so she would look pretty for him. Would Sue Wallace, her roommate, know where she was? He was about to go back in the dormitory and ring for Sue, when a Chevrolet stopped in front of the dormitory. Cynthia got out.

"Gosh," he breathed his relief. "Where have you been?" As Cynthia walked toward him, he noticed her blanched face. He sensed something wrong. "What's the matter, Cindar? Don't you feel well?"

"I'll be all right." She forced a smile. "Are we going on our picnic?"

Yale nodded. "I've got the sandwiches and the beer."

"Okay," she said, trying to force a gay sound into her voice. "I just want to change and wash up. I'll be down in a minute."

She fled into the dormitory ignoring Yale's "Where the heck have you been?"

Lying in the back room of Mrs. Hearn's dress shop, she had decided what to do. It was hopeless. She should have known it from the beginning. She would never marry Yale. As much as they loved each other, there were problems that love alone would not solve. If she told Yale about this morning, he would immediately break with Pat. But what would happen then? She knew that Pat was not the kind of man who threatened idly. In the end Yale would come under his domination. Even now Yale hadn't told her that he had been accepted to Harvard Business School. It would mean that he had decided it was best to give in to Pat. Certainly, Yale's plans about going to Columbia and trying to get a teaching job in September were vague. The best thing she could do was to make this, their last afternoon, a warm, pleasant memory, and then tomorrow after graduation, go home.

A hike of about a mile and a half, and a picnic on Strawberry Hill is a favorite springtime attraction for Midhaven College students. Strawberry Hill overlooks the Atlantic, dropping in a sharp eroded cliff into the sea. From the top of Strawberry Hill looking inland you can see the Midhaven College campus and beyond the campus the taller buildings of the city outlined against the horizon. To the east are the sky and ocean merging and endless.

As they climbed the wooded path leading to the top of the hill Yale mentioned, as he had before, "This would be a wonderful place for a home, Cindar. Maybe someday we could find out who owns it and build a house here."

Cynthia didn't answer. We'll never live here or anywhere , she thought.

Yale liked the feeling of discovery that came to him when he stood at the summit. He ran ahead. "Yale Marratt discovers the Atlantic!" he shouted, grinning and happy. She walked toward him tears in her eyes.

"Cindar, you are so sad and quiet today. What's the trouble?"

"Nothing, nothing, I'm just drinking in the sight of you. Boyish. Your hair messy. You look so impish. I would like to hug you and remember you like this always."

In one of his walks Yale had discovered a sheltered ledge on the Atlantic side of the hill. It was difficult to get to, because parts of the hill, particularly the windward side, grew lush with a thorny beach rose. In June the roses bloomed briefly and the hill turned deep red. From the sea, to a passing boat, the high cliff looked like a huge strawberry. Now, the leaves on thorny creepers that in some places reached almost shoulder high had just started to bud. Yale led the way trying to hold the pointed vines away from Cynthia.

They reached the secluded ledge. A hot breeze from the sea seared their faces. Two hundred feet below they could see a rocky beach where the tide had gone and left the stones burning and dry in the sun.

Yale spread out a blanket and opened two cans of beer. It was still cool. They drank silently, watching the ocean below.

"I love you very much, Cindar. I don't know how I would be without you. These years have been wonderful, but I am glad they are over. Now, at last, we can be married."

"Yale, how do you know our love isn't just physical? How do you know that it wasn't just a physical something or other that pulled us together in this little circumscribed college world? Maybe if we had met somewhere else we would have just made love, enjoyed a moment's passion, and then have been glad to be rid of each other."

Yale took her hands in his. "Cindar, of course I love you physically, but you should know that it is a great deal more than just physical. You are me . . . only female. I wish I could tell you what you are for me. Even just physically. When I look at your body it is you and even more than you. You have a beauty for me that is the essence of everything beautiful. The abstract beauty that the philosophers like to discuss is very much a part of the beauty that is you -- Cynthia." Yale smiled. "You do get the silliest ideas. Is that why you have been so sadly quiet all day? I think you are getting your period. Well . . . next week anyway."

She laughed. "Yale, you know too much about women. You have a female second-sense. I think lots of women would love you."

"But, I want only your love."

She sighed. What could she say to him? Thoughts of this morning with Pat Marratt swarmed back into her mind. If I only could hate him. If I could meet fire with fire instead of shriveling into myself.

After they had eaten their sandwiches she and Yale lay side by side, each thinking their own thoughts. Feeling keenly each other's presence, they would day-dream or talk sporadically or lapse into silence. Today Cindar was glad they didn't have to talk. She knew that she was too close to tears, too close to confessing to Yale everything that had happened.

Later in the afternoon when the sun was low over the ocean, Yale reached over and undid the zipper on her skirt. Passively, she permitted him to take it off. In a moment he had undressed her. He kissed her belly and breasts tenderly, touching his hand lightly over her legs and mons. She shivered. It was cool despite the heat. Oh God, she thought. I want to love you, Yale. But now their love no longer seemed a clean and good thing.

He tugged one of the hairs on her mound as he had often done before. A loving pull. She ordinarily would have responded by pulling his pubic hair, and they would have giggled joyously.

"No, Yale, no . . . not today! I don't want to." Her voice was choked with misery.

"But Cindar -- honey -- what's the matter? It's been so long. Please. What have I done?" Yale looked at her unbelievingly.

She wanted to capitulate, but something drove her on. "Please, don't plead. You should never beg any woman." Cynthia stood up and started to pull on her skirt. Yale grabbed it. "No, darling. No! Today we must love!" He stood up and held her, trying to excite her with searching hands.

"Give me my skirt!" Cynthia demanded, and the anger and hate that she so desperately needed swelled up in her. "I don't want you to touch me!" she heard herself scream. It was as if she were listening to a stranger. "If you love me how can you treat me like this? Making me stand naked here for the whole world to see?"

Please, Cindar, Yale thought, desperately. Oh, my darling, what is wrong? I only want to be close to you. To be quiet and warm inside you. But he didn't say it. He tried to be lighthearted.

"You are a lovely, angry Goddess, and the world would be frightened if they saw you, but they would adore you and love you as I do. Come on, Cindar, after we have loved your tension will be all gone."

She started to cry, sobbing convulsively. "You're just like every man, Yale Marratt, all you think about is sex! I hate you! I hate you!" She ran, twisting out of his grasp, in complete horror with herself and the words she had never before spoken in her life.

"For God's sake, Cindar, stop! Here's your skirt. I'm sorry." But Cynthia didn't stop. She ran heedlessly, naked, crashing through the underbrush, and the rose thorns. As she ran along the edge of the cliff, her foot caught, in a creeper. She staggered, caught herself, and then sobbing, inarticulate in her despair, she plunged headlong down the cliff, the wild thorns catching at her face and body and tearing deep gashes in her skin. She ran crazily, falling, getting up, falling and running again.

Bewildered, Yale ran after her. When he caught her she was nearly on the beach, at the bottom of the cliff. Her body was streaked with angry welts and her face lashed cruelly. She lay limp in his arms.

"Cindar, my God! my God! . . . What has gotten into you?" He took his handkerchief and tried to staunch the blood from the cuts on her face. "Talk to me. Are you all right?"

"I hate you," she gasped.

"You've gone crazy. What's come over you?" He tried to kiss her. She fought him wildly, scratching him with her nails. "I'll fix you! You're a bitch, too! I'll fuck you whether you want me to or not."

"Go ahead," Cindar snarled. "Rape me. Go ahead! I'm just a kike! A hebe! I'm made backwards. I'm not like other women. My people killed Christ! Go ahead. Rape me!"

Yale picked her up in his arms. "I don't know what I have done, Cindar, but I never could love you against your will." He struggled up the cliff with her. She sobbed hysterically. He looked at her poor torn face and scarred body, and whispered, "I'm sorry I used such a word to you. It's a cheap word, and nothing you could ever do would make our love cheap."

Somehow, he got her back to the top of the hill. In silence he helped her dress. As they walked toward the college they could see the city silhouetted against the early evening sky. On the distant campus, a few early lights in the college buildings seemed remote and lonely. Strawberry Hill was enveloped in a strange stillness. The chatter of night insects made the silence seem more intense.

Neither of them spoke. Cynthia felt empty and hollow. The trumped-up anger had gone out of her. Her body stung and ached. The blood had dried and her skin stuck uncomfortably to her clothes. I am really close to panic and I am destroying the person I love most in the world.

When they came on to the road leading to the campus it was nearly dark.

"I can't go to my room, Yale. Sue would ask a million questions.

Yale tried to put his arm around her. "I want to ask you a million questions, too, but I think you should see a doctor. Your face is badly cut. My God, Cindar, what have I done? What's gone wrong . . . ?"

13

It was nearly seven o'clock when Mat Chilling climbed the four flights of stairs to his room. After six years of lonely living in Doctor Tangle's attic apartment he no longer noticed the furnishings. The first flight was carefully carpeted with figured green broadloom rug. The second flight was likewise carpeted with broadloom, but the nap was severely worn, indicating that the economical Mrs. Tangle had transferred this covering from the first flight of stairs. Climbing to his room, Mat thought, was somewhat like shaking off the material vestments of the world, and assuming the more ascetic character of the seeker after Heaven. Not only did the broadloom rug change to a linoleum on the third floor, but on the fourth floor it gave way to bare wooden stairs. On the top floor there was no vestige of the carefully picked floral wallpaper or the artistic hunting scene tapestry that decorated the stairwell of the second and third floors.

Except for a small cot, a plain wooden table and books scattered in wild disorder, the room was empty and unadorned. "A good room for a future minister," Doctor Tangle had said approvingly when Mat had first taken it. A room conducive to self-contemplation for only four dollars a week. No electric appliances -- and no female visitors. Dr. Tangle had stated the conditions with his usual grim, take-it-or-leave-it manner. Mat had accepted with alacrity.

When he opened the door, a blast of heat greeted him. Wearily mopping the sweat off his forehead, he opened the small window that looked out over the campus. Thank God, he thought. He was nearly finished with Midhaven College. Tomorrow he would officially become the Reverend C. M. Chilling. Then, would begin the long struggle through a series of assistant ministerships until one day he obtained his own church. Taking off his work clothes he noticed that his underwear was still damp from the swim he had taken. It had been a crazy day, he thought, completely outside of the normal ministerial way he should live his life. It worried him that within a few short hours he could so completely break into a different pattern of living. He wondered, as he had many times in the past year, whether he was adapted for the pious, devotional sort of life that would be expected of him. A life of justifying God's seeming impersonality toward man.

Through arrangements with the personnel department of the yard, he had been assigned the noon to six thirty shift which fortunately had no conflict with his morning class. In the past two years he picked up enough knowledge of welding from Joe Pepperelli so that he was reasonably competent. Without the money that he had earned at Latham's, he would never have been able to finish and obtain his Divinity degree. It had been a year of drudgery, and he knew that he would probably have to continue working at Latham's through the summer until he had accumulated a little bit of money, or received an assistant's appointment in some church.

At two o'clock he had been unable to stand the heat in the gasoline compartment of the partially completed hull of #301. He had climbed to the open deck of the tanker and the full glare of the sunlight blinded him. He tried to avoid looking at the Mamaputock River, drifting listlessly to sea like a stream of hot steel pouring out of an electric furnace. No man in the Latham Shipyard looked at that mirror of sunlight long without feeling his eyes contract painfully. It was like the continuous flare from a welder's torch. Mat swabbed his face with his hand. The taste of salt made his mouth feel dry. It was incredible that it could be so hot in May. Everyone was praying for a shift in the wind that would bring a cool east breeze from the Atlantic. He watched the men going dully about their jobs. Below him, a welder sat on an "I" beam, his goggles around his neck, staring at his feet and cursing. "Christ, Chilling, I can feel the heat of these plates right through these boots. Another day like this and you will find me at Midhaven Beach, enjoying the cool ocean breezes. They can take this cruiser and shove it up Alfred Latham's ass."

"It certainly is hot," Mat said. "Have you seen Joe Pepperelli?"

"Yeah, Reverend, he's down in the forward bulkhead." Mat felt his way gingerly across the deck. Down a steel ladder and into the hull, he inched his way slowly forward. The shadow of a man was sihouetted in the flare of a welder's torch just a few yards ahead of him. The air in the bulkhead was oppressive and lifeless.

"Pepperelli? Joe?"

The man turned and lowered his goggles. His face was grimy, his eyes rimmed with smudge.

"Yeah, Mat, what you want? Look, some son of a bitch weld this whole damn thing wrong I can raise hell with him, for sure."

"Joe, I got to go -- I feel pretty rotten. I think the heat has got me."

"Sure, Mat. I fix it so you get your time. I punch you out at six. Can you get by the gate?" Pepperelli asked.

"I know the guard, I think. I'm not going through that rigamarole of reporting sick."

"Okay. Mat, see you tonight, maybe?"

Mat nodded. He took another look at the seam; the weld was uneven and bumpy.

"What a mess! They certainly got a bunch of amateurs working here."

Mat walked across the yard. He jumped out of the way of men carrying valves and pipes and ducked under a crane swinging steel plates through the air. The chatter of riveters and the fumes from gasoline engines seemed to intensify the heat of the day. He felt so nauseated that he thought he might be sick before he got out of the yard. At the corner of the plate shop, he sat down in the shade of the building. He leaned against the wall for support. The pace of the past two years had really worn him out. Trying to earn a degree while he slaved on these damned ships, trying to mix religion and shipbuilding, had been almost an impossibility. Plodding between work and books, and back to work again, for the past two years he had just been existing. There had been no social life. He had made no attempt to have a date with a girl since his sophomore year, nearly five years ago.

He tried to remember the girl. He had taken her to one of the Midhaven College dances -- Marjorie something or other. Had she been blonde or brunette? He shook his head; all he could remember were her breasts, they bobbled so nicely.

He stood up, feeling better. If I get out of the sun for a while, I'll be all right, he thought. The guard at the gate was new. Mat did not recognize him. "You guys think you can walk out of this place like you owned it." He looked at Mat suspiciously. "I'll have to report you for leaving early today."

"I don't give a damn what you do," Mat snapped. "Just open that gate and let me out of here."

Across the street from Latham Shipyard the sign on Marty's Taproom caught his eye, and he decided that he would have a bottle of beer. Sitting in the barroom, he looked at the varnished, wainscotted walls and at the plaster chipping off the ceiling. It was an unsavory place, reeking with the odor of stale beer. What a place for a future minister to be caught in, he thought. Well, why not? A minister has to live too, doesn't he? Maybe he didn't have the right stuff for a minister. Mat knew that he was much too individualistic to adjust to a narrow Christian outlook like Dr. Tangle's. At the thought of the Reverend, President of Midhaven College, Mat ordered another bottle of beer. The cold liquid griped his stomach. He doubled over with pain.

"What's the matter, bud?" Marty patted him on the shoulder. "Wanta puke? Just go ahead out back. Make you feel better."

Impatiently, Mat shook off his solicitude. "The sun's got me -- let me alone." When the pain subsided, Mat staggered out of the barroom. The screen door banged against his unsteady feet.

Past rows of parking lots, and endless automobiles, left almost anywhere as their owners ran to punch in before the deadline, Mat walked, stretching his long legs in an unsteady pace. Ahead of him the road seemed like a rippling ribbon, waving in the wind. "I'm drunk," he thought. He laughed crazily.

He was beyond the sprawling Latham Yards now. Scraggly trees and brush sheltered the Mamaputock River from his view. He crashed through the undergrowth, anxious, with an unreasonable desire, to wet his face in the water. It was hot water, but it was water. He was on fire. What a fool he had been to drink that beer.

The small patch of woods smelled dry and dead. Sudenly he felt cold. He shivered. Perspiration trickled unpleasantly down his back. He rubbed his fingers. They felt shriveled and limp. "I'm going to have a stroke," he thought.

"What am I doing here, anyhow?" The smell of his own sweat nauseated him. He clung to a tree. What was this odor he smelled? It swelled up against his brain. Pepperelli, that was it! Good old Pepperelli . . . stinking in that bulkhead . . . stinking with sweat, flavored with garlic he had eaten for breakfast.

God! The thought hit him bluntly. He felt cold with fright. The guard would turn his name in for leaving early. Pepperelli was punching him out at six. When the payroll department put the two facts together, there would be hell to pay. He'd go back. He'd . . .

"Hello!"

Dimly Mat was aware that the owner of the voice was a girl. A colored girl, with warm brown eyes.

"Hello," he answered miserably. He could feel himself about to vomit. "I'm sick, awfully sick; I think I've had too much sun. . . ."

When he opened his eyes again, Mat realized that he must have fainted. The girl was sitting beside him, smiling down at his face. Her teeth were white and her eyes tender.

"Do you feel any better?"

"Yeah, much, much better."

Mat felt a wet cloth on his face. The girl had evidently tried to cool his forehead and wrists. He noticed that his belt was undone.

She saw him looking at his pants. "You are supposed to undo anything that constricts the flow of blood when a person has a sunstroke."

"You are right," Mat said. "You've been very nice -- who are you?"

"Honey Johnson -- I've seen you before . . . fishing off the Helltown Bridge. I live in Helltown."

Mat looked at her carefully. She was slim and boyish in appearance. Her lips were full and expressive. She returned his stare.

"What are you looking at?"

"You are a very pretty girl," Mat said. He realized it sounded foolish.

"You mean I'm pretty for a colored girl," she answered.

"I didn't mean that, but it's probably true. We all tend to judge other races by the standards we like in our own."

She didn't answer.

"Do you mind if I take a swim?"

She laughed. "So I can see how pretty your white body is?"

Mat stood up. "As a matter of fact, my body is not pretty, but rather hairy." He took off his pants, and walked into the river with his underwear on. The water was hot, but it made him feel better. The mud oozed between his toes. He enjoyed the cool squishing of it. Finally, he came cut of the water and sat down in the shade of a tree.

"I wish you'd get dressed; someone might see you and think it funny."

"You don't know how funny it is," Mat said, looking at his bony knees. He wondered what Dr. Tangle would say if he could see him. "Do you know I haven't been swimming in nearly three years? I've been so busy reading about God and contemplating theological matters that I haven't had time to sit down and enjoy His work."

She looked at him curiously. "You must go to Midhaven College?"

Mat nodded. "I graduate from Divinity School tomorrow. How did you guess?"

"There's a lot of queers like you there."

"Who said so?"

"Pa. My father. I told him I wanted to go there, but he said I could learn a lot more just reading by myself. Besides, I guess they have no room for Negroes."

"That's right," Mat nodded. "They have no room for Negroes. Some of our dear white children might get blemished with the contact." He wondered who determined the policy. Obviously no overt statement had ever been made. As a matter of fact, until the past two or three years, when an influx of Negroes into the Helltown area had occurred, there had been no need for a stated policy or a hidden one. It was unlikely that any of the Negroes living in Helltown could afford even the moderate tuition at Midhaven College.

"What does your father do?"

"My father is a minister," she said, proudly. "He reads a lot of books, too. Most of the colored folks around here aren't very religious. Right now he works at the Weathersham Hotel . . . in the kitchen. He is a good cook, too." Honey spoke the words simply. She looked out across the river. "I wish you'd get dressed." Mat pulled on his pants and shirt over his damp underwear. He looked at the book that Honey had been reading. It was a book of essays for freshmen college students. "Why are you reading that?"

"Because I like to know about things. This man sees things about nature I could never have thought myself." She pointed to an essay by Emerson. Mat was about to remark that Emerson was all words and had no sound philosophical scheme. He held the words back, realizing that such a remark was pointless. It shows my own lack of comprehension, he thought. This girl was gaining something from Emerson. She was reading him because she wanted to. It was a lot more than most of the Midhaven freshmen could say. He would like to take this girl to the graduation dance tomorrow night. Without weighing the idea, he asked her if she would go.

Honey stood up. Her dark hair whipped against her face. She looked at him solicitously. "Do you really feel all right?"

"Fine," he said. He bent over and kissed her cheek quickly. "I really mean it -- I would like to have you go," he mumbled into her surprised face.

"I've never been to a dance like that," she said wistfully. "But it's really a rather silly idea. When you think it over a minute, I'm sure you'll agree." She walked toward the road. "So long, Mister, I'll see you sometime."

Mat walked back along the road leading to Latham. A long line of automobiles had already turned in from Route 6 jamming the narrower road that led into the shipyard. The new shift was arriving.

He walked by the slowly moving cars, noticing the occupants. All of them looked tired and exasperated. One red-faced man kept opening the door of his car, holding one hand on the wheel, and one foot on the running board, while be peered anxiously over the roofs of the cars ahead of him. Six other men were crowded into one car. They kept asking him what the trouble was. "Leave the damn car here and let's walk," a belligerent voice yelled. "Alfred Latham better get this road fixed. We need some parking place around here if he expects to build these ships so damned fast."

Work, work, Mat thought. They all hate it . . . yet they are all in a fever to get there and punch the clock. Gasoline fumes drifting low on the humid air filled his nostrils. He felt a return of his nausea. He kept thinking about Honey. What had possessed him to ask her to the dance? . . . and then to kiss her cheek? He knew that if he ever walked through the reception line, introducing Honey Johnson to the faculty, particularly Dr. and Mrs. Tangle, he would be embroiled in trouble. Nothing would actually happen. Doctor Tangle would be coldly cordial, but in the glint of his eyes would be the certainty that the next morning Mat Chilling would be called into his office and the lid would blow off. Alms and prayers for the colored; that was a duty demanded by God. But to take a Negro to the social event of the college year was something that your future parishioners simply would not tolerate.

Yet, Mat knew that he wasn't being fully honest with himself. He felt depressed. He knew that his motive in asking Honey to the dance was not based on any sudden interest in the lot of Negroes in Helltown. He simply had a childish urge to thumb his nose at Doctor Tangle. To do it, he had considered involving a trusting, unsophisticated colored girl. It worried him to find depths of his personality revealed in such an unpleasant light. Was Mat Chilling going to be a real servant of God, or a charlatan willing to sacrifice an innocent girl to a wild obsession?

Deep in his thoughts, Mat trudged wearily in the gutter of the road toward the bus stop. An automobile edged close to him. He jumped away and continued walking, oblivious.

"For the good Lord's sake! Mat Chilling! Do you want a lift into Midhaven, or don't you?"

Startled, Mat turned. It was Peoples McGroaty, editor and owner of the Midhaven Herald.

"I've been tooting this damned horn at you for the past five minutes, but you continued to walk along thinking your heavenly thoughts."

"I'm afraid my thoughts weren't very spiritual, Peoples." Mat got into the car.

He had met McGroaty five years before at a church supper. He remembered that he had attended it largely to obtain a square meal. He had discovered in Peoples a kindred soul. Like Mat, the wiry, wrinkled-faced editor had the kind of probing mind that was developing a constantly evolving philosophy of life. Nothing was too small or insignificant to come under the scalpel of his intellect.

After that evening, Mat became a frequent visitor to Peoples' famous office. He would listen with wonder as Peoples roamed the world with penetrating comments on people and politics while Mat sat next to him in a broken-down leather chair surrounded by what he estimated must be five thousand books that filled the room from ceiling to floor. The bookcases that lined the walls had been filled years ago. Now books were piled tipsily four and five feet high. Books were everywhere . . . on nearly every available part of the floor. Peoples explained that he had a mania -- he couldn't surrender one single book. If a book came into his hands he had to read it; worse, he had to keep it. It had gotten so bad that Peoples was looking for a man to screen the daily offerings of review copies from the nation's publishers. Someone to decide what was really worth reading. Not until he had met Mat had Peoples found a person he trusted to do the job. Once a week, Mat went through the new book arrivals. His only pay for the job had been an unending supply of books on every subject from better cooking to zoology. Mat made twenty dollars a week or more selling them at reduced rates to a local bookstore. He wondered what Peoples' reaction to this graft might be. One day Peoples bluntly asked him how much he was making peddling books. "I hope you are clearing fifteen bucks or so a week, else I'd feel it necessary to put you on the payroll," he had said, rubbing his leathery face without a trace of a smile.

Peoples looked at Mat, now, with interest. "What in hell have you been doing? You look as if you've been on a binge. Didn't you work today?" One hand on the wheel, Peoples fiddled with his underwear, evidently trying to pull it down. "This weather I get creeping underwear. You know it was one hundred and two degrees at noon. Tonight is going to be rough -- no relief in sight." He stopped the car at a red light. They watched a thin, raggedly dressed boy scooping tar bubbles off the road. The boy wound the tar on a stick and then blissfully chewed some of it. Peoples laughed. "You know I haven't chewed tar since I was a kid. Tastes lousy." Peoples shifted the gears as the light changed. "Well, are you going to confide in me or keep it to yourself?"

Mat shrugged. "I've been trying to decide what kind of heel I am." He told Peoples about Honey Johnson. He explained his own reactions and his childish desire to horrify Doctor Tangle. Almost a form of suicide, so far as his ministerial career was concerned.

Peoples listened in silence. Finally, he said, "You're overlooking the very obvious fact, Mat, that you felt a normal sexual attraction for the girl. You're so bottled up inside yourself that you responded with all the timidity and tenderness of a young man who feels the girl might reject him."

Mat felt the angry blush on his face. "Why does it always have to be a sexual motive?"

"When have you had a woman last? You are twenty-three. The sperm flows strong at that age. Man of God or not."

Mat looked out the window of the car. Should he tell Peoples the truth; that he had never had a woman. That his only release had been an occasional "wet dream" that freed him temporarily from his nocturnal imaginings. That he had spent so much of his life studying and earning the money to pay for his studies that he simply didn't know how to approach a girl to ask for a date . . . let alone go further than that.

"You know, Mat Chilling, your Honey Johnson has a sister Evelyn who has been picked up a couple of times for whoring. Whether your motives were sexual or whether they were hedonistic . . . or even whether you have a deep sympathy for the plight of our Negro friends in Helltown . . . no matter what your feelings may be, the plain truth is that this young Miss Johnson will sooner or later lose her virginity . . . if she hasn't already. I would suggest she couldn't lose it to a better prospect than you. I had a colored girl once . . . they can be very affectionate."

Mat shook his head. "I know that you seem to think I have inherited some chivalrous ideas from the Middle Ages, Peoples, but I can't view people or women or any particular woman -- even Honey Johnson -- simply as a sexual object. To me she is very much a feeling, breathing person. You may be right that I want to go to bed with her; but if I could, it would be with a girl named Honey Johnson and I would be forever in her debt." Mat smiled. He continued, slowly, feeling for the words to evoke his thoughts . . . "I would be my sister's keeper, because I share the intimacy of her fears, her hopes, her despair. I wouldn't want her otherwise. Too many men view sex as an open vagina; a clutching of legs and a grovelling of bodies. I look on it as a commitment of one individual to another, a total involvement of which the congress is an ultimate manifestation."

Peoples laughed. "You believe so much in human dignity, don't you, Mat? I won't argue with you, but I'm afraid most people are a long way from accepting your views." He lighted a cigarette and inhaled, blowing the smoke in a cloud around his head. "No . . . men do not change. We lose sight of this historically, because we lose, in an impossible accumulation of words, the details that make history intimate on a day-to-day basis. Are the Nazis in their persecutions of the Jews different, basically, than a previous generation? Last night I was reading some sidelights on the French Revolution, the period seventeen ninety-two to seventeen ninety-four, the Reign of Terror. Have you ever read some of the eye-witness accounts? Thousands upon thousands of people were brutally slaughtered by the tribunals of the Republic. Given the emotional impetus, the individual for most men becomes nothing. There's a horrible account of what happened to the Princesse de Lamballa, one of thousands who were murdered. She was in the household of the Queen, accused of plotting against the Republic. She was tossed into a courtyard filled with massacred bodies of the aristocracy, bashed on the head with a sabre, stripped, her breasts hacked off, her body opened up and her heart torn out, her head cut off and placed on the end of a pike which they later paraded before Louis XVI and his family. . . ."

Mat shuddered, listening to the recital. "That's not all," Peoples continued grimly. "One of the ruffians was seen later chewing on her heart, another cut off the lips of her vagina and made mustaches . . . while others loaded cannons with her legs. Let's see . . . that was about one hundred and sixty years ago . . . some of the stories that have come out of Germany recently seem to have a remarkable similarity."

"What are you trying to prove?" Mat asked.

Peoples shrugged. "Nothing, I guess. I hope you retain your idealism. The fact at the moment is that you do need a woman, and fate, destiny, Karma, call it what you will, says that inevitably Honey Johnson will engage in some dispassionate use of her vagina with a man, white or dark, who just wants to release his sperm, and in all probability this man will care not one whit about Honey as an individual."

"I don't care," Mat said. "Someday I may have the courage to fight for the Honey Johnsons and their lousy destinies. At the moment, I'll have to live by what I believe."

Peoples turned his car into College Avenue, driving toward the campus. "Have you heard about the shindig tomorrow?" he asked. "Biggest social event in the whole year. Everybody who is anybody in the city will be there."

Mat knew that he was referring to Barbara Marratt's wedding. Doctor Tangle was officiating. "I'm sorry," Mat laughed, "you are discussing something outside my social ken. I would be better understood by the Honey Johnsons of this world. I've met Yale Marratt and talked with him several times after classes. I've heard Doctor Tangle complain about young Marratt's interest in one of the female students. That's the extent of my knowledge of the Marratts."

Peoples pulled the car up in front of Doctor Tangle's house and stopped. "Guess you don't read the Midhaven Herald . . . this is a marriage of millions. The bridegroom's father owns Texas ranches and oil wells. Local estimates are that Pat Marratt, father of the bride, is personally worth at least three or four million dollars."

Mat wondered what Peoples was trying to tell him. It wasn't like Peoples to recite the gossip from his own paper. "What do the Marratts have to do with my problem, and the whole subject of human dignity and destiny?"

Peoples' eyes were twinkling. "Ah, you sensed that I was about to make an important generalization."

"Stop being so damned pompous, Peoples," Mat said. He opened the car door. "Come on, out with it, I've got to get out of these stinking clothes."

"Well, I thought you might have known Yale better. Unless you do, my point is lost. You see, in a larger sense he is caught in the same web as Honey Johnson. You tell me that she is trying to escape from her environment . . . a world she never made. Young Marratt is trying to do likewise. Both of them are up against forces stronger than they are." Peoples smiled wistfully. "Human dignity can't persevere in the face of dismemberment. Honey Johnson won't have her legs stuffed in a cannon and Yale Marratt may never lose his head, but as they make their 'truce with necessity' the dignity they once possessed will shrivel and attenuate."

Mat shook his head. "Sometimes, I think you read too much, Peoples! You won't make a good newspaper editor when you grow up." He walked up Doctor Tangle's front steps followed by an explosion of laughter from Peoples' car.

14

Yes, it had been a strange day, revealing undercurrents in his feelings that he had suppressed too long. As Mat lay on his cot, trying to get up energy to take a bath, he had made at least one decision. No matter what openings there might be, no matter what Doctor Tangle might suggest, he was going to spend the summer working at Latham's. For three months he was going to forget God, religion and theology. After having pursued God in an effort to find himself, perhaps by searching his own personal thinking he would find the kind of God that was necessary for his own wellbeing as well as a God he could bring to others. Mat had a feeling growing in him that it would not be the God of orthodox Protestantism that he had studied so carefully these past years.

He heard a cautious knock on his door. If it were Mrs. Tangle he was not in a very presentable condition. He opened the door warily and peered into the hall. He recognized Yale Marratt. The coincidence of his recent conversation with Peoples and the fact that Yale Marratt was standing on his landing flashed through his mind.

"Yale. What brings you around on such a warm night?"

"I don't know just how to tell you, Mat. But I need your help." As Yale walked into the room, Mat was shocked at his appearance. He had been crying. His face was smudged with dirt. His shirt was torn.

"For heaven's sake, Yale! What is it?"

"Cynthia . . . you know her . . . my girl friend . . . is badly hurt. She's down near the chapel. I wonder if I could bring her up here."

Mat tried to conceal his amazement. "Chum, you must he affected by the heat. Don't you know this is Doctor Tangle's house?"

"He's not home. I just saw him go out with Mrs. Tangle. Please, Mat." Yale's voice bordered on hysteria. "I'll go get her."

"Use some sense," Mat said. "You better take her to the infirmary. How did she get hurt, anyway?"

"Look, Mat. I can't explain. I don't know why the hell she did it, but it was practically suicide. Will you please help me?"

Reluctantly Mat followed Yale down the stairs. They found Cynthia huddled in the shadows of one of the buttresses of the college chapel. In the light of a street lamp, Mat caught a glimpse of her face and whistled. "Good Lord, young lady, what happened to you?"

Cynthia looked away from him. He could tell that she was in pain. As she walked she swayed, and nearly fell. Mat and Yale steadied her and listened in dismay to her hushed sobbing as she let herself be slowly guided up the four flights of stairs to Mat's room.

Mat latched the door. Seeing Cynthia in the light he was shocked. She looked as if she had been beaten by a sex maniac. Her face was a mess; bruised, with long torn gashes in several places. One gash came perilously close to her eyes. Her blouse was stained with blood.

"Were you attacked?" Mat asked. "Who did this to you?"

Cynthia slumped in a worn mohair chair. "I did it to myself," she said. "It's no one's faalt. Would you help me get my skirt off? I can't reach the zipper. My arms feel as if they were dead."

Yale looked at Mat and around the room. There was no place for privacy, except a tiny four-by-five bathroom. Yale nodded at the bathroom. "Will you excuse us, Mat?" he asked.

"Oh, Yale," Cynthia said wearily. "This is no time to be a prude. I need help." She fumbled with the zipper and finally undid it, letting her skirt drop to the floor.

Yale hissed at her to please have a little modesty.

"Stop worrying," Mat said, looking in dismay at Cynthia. Her brassiere and panties were stained brown with blood. Her entire body looked as if she had been whipped with a lash embedded with thorns.

"Help me undo my brassiere," Cynthia said, wincing, as she took off her blouse.

Yale looked at her amazed. He wanted to shout. No, no! Cynthia! Suddenly all his emancipated ideas about nudity vanished. This was Cynthia, the girl he loved. He didn't want her standing naked in front of Mat Chilling. It was cheap, awful.

"Mr. Chilling," Cynthia turned her back to Mat, "if Yale feels so proper, you do it!" She turned her back to Mat. "Please," she insisted.

Awkwardly, Mat undid the clasp and drew away from her.

Cynthia stepped out of her panties. She took off her bra. "Stop looking so surprised, Yale. It was all right to be naked two years ago when we played strip poker." Mat and Yale watched her go in the bathroom and close the door. They heard the water running in the tub. Mat picked up a book and fingered it nervously. "She should see a doctor. She may be hurt internally."

"I suppose you think I tried to rape her," Yale's voice was pitched with anger.

Mat shrugged. "I'm not asking questions, Yale. I'm just wondering what you are going to do. She must see a doctor."

"Mat, I'm going crazy, I think. I don't know what to do. You know how long Cynthia and I have been going together. There never has been a quarrel or a misunderstanding. Then today, God . . . oh God . . . what did I do?" He tried to explain to Mat what happened and found it impossible. It was too private, too close to the actual act of love. How could he explain why Cynthia had been naked? What explanation was there of her maniacal running down that cliff . . . or her horrible "Rape me, go ahead, rape me," words that weren't Cynthia's at all?

The door of the bathroom opened and Cynthia walked out. She was still naked. Her eyes were hard. Her face almost ugly, with a harsh expression grotesquely accentuating the bruises on her cheeks. Her breasts that had been so beautiful to Yale were lacerated and bloody. Her body, from her neck down, was inscribed with torn welts and cuts, some of which were still bleeding.

"Mr. Chilling," she said. "I am afraid that Yale is quite shocked with me. You see he still has a great deal to learn about women." She lay down on Mat's bed, raising her knees and spreading her legs. "I have a thorn badly imbedded here." she said, pointing to the inside of her thigh. "Will one of you help me get it out? There's some tweezers in my handbag."

Yale shouted, "For Christ's sake, Cindar, have a little modesty."

"You see, Mr. Chilling," Cynthia said, speaking very coolly, not looking at Yale. "Yale doesn't realize that many women are whores at heart. They like to have men look at them. You better go, Yale. I'm going to ask Mr. Chilling to do me a favor and let me stay here tonight."

Watching Cynthia, Mat was torn between his sudden amazement at seeing a woman so intimately naked, sitting before him, revealing herself so unconcernedly, and the fear that Doctor Tangle might return and hear them. Good God, what would Doctor Tangle say? His career as a minister would be concluded before it began. "You can't stay here," he muttered.

Yale pleaded with Cynthia to please get dressed. They both started to talk at once.

"Stop it, do you hear!" Cynthia screamed. Mat jumped and held his hand over her mouth. She bit his finger. He looked at her in dismay. "I've got to stay here tonight, at least. I can't go back to the dormitory. Mrs. Wicker and every girl in the place would know about me in five minutes. I am very sure I wouldn't be welcome at Yale's home . . . or would I, Yale?"

Yale stared at her in misery and said nothing.

"So, I stay here tonight. I've got to see if I can fix my face. Yale, you go now. If you don't I'll scream again."

"You better go, Yale," Mat said. "No one will know she is here." Fearing that Cynthia would actually scream as she promised, Mat edged Yale to the door. He walked down the stairs with him. On the porch Mat looked at Yale. Tears were streaming down his face. Mat patted him on the shoulder. "I'll find out what it's all about, Yale. She's not pregnant, is she?" he whispered, embarrassed at using the word.

"I don't think so," Yale mumbled, wiping his tears on his shirt sleeve. Of course, Cynthia wasn't pregnant, he thought bitterly. They hadn't had intercourse since February. It was rotten having to discuss Cynthia like this, revealing their private wonderful love to a stranger. Oh, my God! Cindar, what has happened to us? Yale started back up the stairs. Mat grabbed him. "Yale, Yale, go back to the dormitory. I'll take care of her."

Yale looked at him, unable to speak. "All right, Mat, I'll go but I'm coming right back. You've got to help us figure out something to do. I'll see if I can get a car."

Cynthia was in the bathroom sitting on the toilet and vomiting into the tub.

"Mr. Chilling, forgive me," she sobbed. "I had to do it. Oh, God, I had to do it, and I'm so sick." She slid onto the floor, crying uncontrollably. Mat picked her up and carried her to his bed. He soaked a towel with the coldest water he could get, wrung it out, and gently patted her face. Finally, she stopped crying, and stared at the ceiling.

"What happened, Cynthia?" Mat asked and his deep voice was soothing.

"I'm a Jew, Mr. Chilling. Do you know that?"

"Please call me Mat, Cynthia. I'm only about four years older than you. I know you're Jewish. So does Yale, I presume."

"Well, we can't ever be married. Not ever, do you understand. . . ." Cynthia got off the cot. She pulled on her panties and put on her skirt. Mat snapped the hook on her brassiere. He helped her button her blouse. As he helped her he felt her skin. It was hot and dry to his touch.

"You've got a fever," he said, alarmed.

"I've got to go. Yale will come back." Cynthia tried to smile. Her lips moved, forming the words "I'm sorry." Mat caught her as she fainted. Thank God for a flash of inspiration! There was one person who could help . . . Sarah Cohen. He would take her there.

Mat sweated through the graduation ceremony. The walls of the little chapel were damp with moisture. Outside an intermittent drizzle of rain flicked against the stained glass window. The rain had brought no relief. The air in the chapel was heavy and humid.

Dr. Henry Twidell was receiving an honorary degree for his work with a mission in Africa. As Dr. Twidell mouthed the graduation platitudes, Mat looked around as much of the chapel as he could see without turning completely around and being obvious. He recognized Pat Marratt and what must be Mrs. Marratt sitting beside him. Yale was there somewhere lost in the front rows among his fellow students in their caps and gowns.

But Cynthia wasn't there. Cynthia very definitely wasn't there. She was in Sarah Cohen's bed with a temperature of 102. He prayed that she was better, then shook his head worriedly. Instead of seeing her pitifully small beneath the white sheets while the Doctor whom Harry Cohen had called examined her . . . instead of remembering her as she shuddered with feverish chills . . . the thought of her stretched out on his cot, naked, kept recurring to him. It was the first time he had been alone with a naked woman. He had been surprised at the tenderness that welled up in him when he had patted Cynthia's poor, bruised body with his damp towel. What had caused the feeling? Was it because she was a woman and hence unlike him? Was it strictly a sexual impulse? No, it was more than that. Over and beyond any characteristics of Cynthia as a sexual object he had found her body, bruised and swollen though it was, to be beautiful. It was trite. It was certainly not good theology. But it was true, nonetheless, that seeing Cynthia's body had been a definite religious experience for him. Woman really was an incarnation of God. Something to lead a man not only to sexual fulfillment but to inspire him with the awe and inexpressible feeling that woman was not evil but a lovely, nourishing receptacle of life. Mat grinned to himself. He was really writing a sermon to contradict the idea of the Fall.

His thoughts returned to last night. Using Doctor Tangle's telephone he had called a taxi and then carried Cynthia down to the street. The cooler night air had revived her and she looked at him in consternation. He explained that he knew a family where he thought she could stay.

"I've got to call my father," she said. Paying no attention to his worry about her fever, she made him stop at a drugstore. He had watched her in the telephone booth talking frantically. Finally she came out. Her face was dripping with perspiration. The clerk in the drugstore was watching them curiously. Back in the taxi, tears in her eyes, she said, "He was leaving with Aunt Adar tomorrow at seven. That's the worst thing I have ever done. But, God, he couldn't come and see me like this. Oh, Daddy, forgive me -- forgive me." She sobbed against Mat's shoulder.

"What did you tell him?" Mat asked.

"I told him . . ." Cynthia paused. "I told him that I had met a man I had fallen in love with . . . not Yale . . . I told him we met two months ago. Oh God, I told him I was pregnant . . . that I was running away tonight to be married. Oh, Mat, he didn't believe me. I just kept talking, saying crazy things . . . I told him I would call him in a few days, that I would be home in a few weeks with my new husband. You see, he couldn't come here . . . he just couldn't come here tomorrow. Do you understand?"

"No, I don't see, and I don't understand."

Cynthia closed her eyes and turned away from him. "I can't tell you any more than that . . . please don't ask me.

Mat held her hand. It was hot. He touched her forehead and urged the cab driver to hurry.

Harry Cohen peered through his front door, opening it but an inch in answer to Mat's impatient knock.

"For God's sake, let me in, Harry! It's Mat Chilling." Harry opened the door, Mat looked at him disgustedly. "It seems to me, Harry, it's too damned much trouble to go around naked if you have to be so infernally cautious."

Harry grinned. "You're using rather violent language for a minister, aren't you?"

Sarah Cohen, naked also, had seen Cynthia. Sarah ran to her. "Mat, what have you done to this poor girl? You poor thing." Sarah's arms went out to Cynthia. She held Cynthia's head against her breasts. Mat knew they must feel cool to Cynthia's feverish face.

Mat stayed with the Cohens until one-thirty in the morning. They helped Cynthia upstairs into Sarah's bed. Mat had been embarrassed at the doctor's questions. He knew that the doctor had not believed him when he told him he knew nothing, not even how Cynthia had got into this condition. Cynthia refused to talk.

"She's had a bad shock, I would guess," the doctor said. "Keep her in bed for a few days." He gave Sarah a prescription for a sedative and an ointment to soothe her bruises. As they were leaving, Cynthia grabbed Mat's arm. "You must tell Yale I've gone home. Promise me, Mat. You helped me get on a bus to New Jersey. That's the way it must be."

Mat could never remember telling a deliberate lie. When he got back to the campus, Yale was sitting despondently on the front porch of Doctor Tangle's house. He demanded to know where Cynthia was, and looked at Mat incredulously when Mat told him that Cynthia insisted on going home. "She wouldn't go home looking like that," Yale had said.

"She did," Mat said softly. "She told me to tell you that I helped her get on the bus. Yale, I think I should know why she did this to herself."

"I don't know. Honestly, Mat, I don't know. It had something to do with her being Jewish and my being God-knows-what . . . certainly not a Gentile. We discussed religion hundreds of times. She must know that I have no infantile prejudices."

Mat felt very hypocritical when Yale thanked him. He began to worry when Yale said he would call Cynthia tomorrow. Suddenly Mat remembered that Cynthia had told her father that she was eloping with another man. What was Yale going to think when he discovered what had really happened?

Listening to Doctor Twidell make his concluding remarks, Mat wondered if Yale would accost him after the ceremonies. If Yale had called Cynthia's home, he would know the truth. Would Yale make a scene? He wondered what had happened to him in the past twenty-four hours. From almost getting drunk, to asking a colored girl for a date, to getting involved in what might be a sex tragedy, was too much for him to encompass.

Doctor Tangle's voice boomed into Mat's reverie. Like a signal from the master, the rain turned into a downpour, and throbbed against the arched roof of the chapel. Mat was bored with the ceremony. He found the phrases trite. There was complete inability on the part of the speakers to link the graduating class into the chaotic world. Gone were the hopeful speeches of 1936 when he had received his bachelor's degree. Now there was bewilderment and groping. The speeches had the same tinge of bright hopefulness . . . but in the long distant future if the country avoided European entanglements. What was going to happen for the graduating class, tomorrow, next week or next year, no speaker cared to dwell upon.

The rain was trickling through one of the leaded glass windows and down the cheek of a red and blue saint when Cynthia's name was called up for her degree.

Cynthia was Phi Beta Kappa. Three names separated her in the top grouping from Yale's name. Mat noticed that one of the faculty members took Cynthia's diploma. It made him feel sad. This should have been her day -- with her parents beaming proudly and Yale to receive her outside the chapel with a happy hug and a kiss. Instead there was this terrible furtiveness.

Sarah Cohen had called him on Doctor Tangle's phone at eight-thirty. He met her at Joe Pepperelli's. Cynthia was all right. She had had a terrible experience. "Really terrible, Mat. It's an awful shame."

"Yes," she admitted finally in answer to Mat's prodding. "I know what happened. But I promised to tell no one. It wouldn't do you any good to know, Mat. If only this affair with Yale Marratt hadn't lasted so long. If only she had broken with him years ago. Whether the way she has done it now is right or not is none of my business or yours, Mat." Sarah looked at Mat intently. "I can tell you one thing -- not because she is Jewish either -- but that girl is a fine person."

Sarah told him that she was going to the college and get Cynthia's clothes. "I called the Dean of Women this morning. I told her I was Cynthia's sister -- that Cynthia hadn't been feeling well and had come home -- that I would get her things and collect her diploma. I finally had to talk with your friend Doctor Tangle. He believed me. See -- you never would have thought I could tell such a story. Doctor Tangle praised Cynthia highly. He told me he would talk with me after the graduation."

Before the ceremonies, Sarah met Mat standing outside the chapel in his doctoral robes. "This is a big day for you, Mat. I am happy for you, and wish that you have your degree always in good health." She nudged Mat and asked him to point out Patrick Marratt. Mat looked through the crowd and spotted Pat in a group of parents and faculty members. "So that's Mr. Marratt." Sarah turned away. "I wish I could spit on him."

Mat laughed. "Has Harry convinced you that he's that bad?"

"Not bad . . . just very, very stupid!" Sarah went inside to find a seat.

The interminable ceremony finally ended. Mat, holding his degree, walked through the family groups gathered on the lawn in front of the chapel. He kept praying that he could slip through without encountering Yale. One thing was a relief. He had no relatives proudly smiling at him.

He was in luck. Yale was standing on College Avenue with Pat Marratt and several families near a new Ford convertible. Mat heard someone say, "Boy, you are a lucky dog, Yale! What a present!" Mat realized that the new car was a graduation gift. He could see Yale looking over the heads of the people gathered around the car, a distraught look on his face. He's looking for me, Mat thought. Had Yale telephoned New Jersey? It would be embarrassing to be caught in a bare-faced lie. Mat hurried away from the campus. At least, he reflected, Yale has an extraordinary graduation gift -- a new car -- to take his mind off Cynthia. He wondered what it would be like to receive such a present. Probably, no feeling at all, if you had lost a person you loved. Probably, no feeling anyway. Yale was a rich man's son and the wealthy took such gifts casually.

Mat stopped on the corner of College Avenue. He slid out of his graduation gown. Folding it in a clumsy roll, he walked toward his room. It was still raining and he was wearing his only good suit. The same brown suit in which he had received his A. B. degree in 1936. Someday he must buy a new one.

The greyness of the day, the dripping of the wet chestnut and elm trees lining the walks of the college pleased him. The world looked washed. The rain had cleansed the heat from the air, leaving a damp earthy smell that was invigorating with its stir of new life taking root. Everything seemed in sharp focus. Looking down College Avenue be noticed, as he had every summer, that the approaches to the college, ordinarily made through a section of dreary old houses that had seen better days, had now receded behind a foreground of spring loveliness. A leafy arch of elms bending from either side of the street to touch in the middle canopied the street. Old cobblestones still remaining in the center of the street, between two unused street car tracks, glistened like wet cakes of naphtha soap. Tiny rivulets of water trickled along the gutter, seeming for a moment to have a gay permanence. The world seemed to have its arm around Mat's shoulder, whispering happily in his ear.

He dropped his cap and gown in his room and wrote a note for Doctor Tangle. "I'm going home for awhile. Please hold my room. I plan to work at Latham's starting in July for a few months. I'll talk with you when I return."

He packed a small cloth suit case. If his luck continued, he could still avoid meeting Yale. Harry Cohen would let him sleep out in his yard. The nights would be warm enough. Without caring why he had the thought, he knew that he wanted to stay near Cynthia. She needed help, and in some way not unpleasing to Mat, had involved herself in his life.

15

Yale wished that he could cry -- wished that like some figure from a Greek tragedy he could claw his eyes and moan his grief to the heavens. There must be some way to relieve the dull despair that left him sitting in his room, hearing but not feeling the gaiety of the orchestra that played on the grounds below. "This is your sister's wedding reception," Liz had said. "Please, tonight of all nights don't mope. You can't sit up here alone. Everyone in Midhaven who counts is here. Your father would like it if you were among the guests.

Yes, Pat would like it. And Liz would like it. And Barbara would like it. But what did they care about him? Liz had been astonished when he said, "I've lost the only person in my life who ever loved me."

"You mean that Jewish girl! Yale, you know we couldn't invite her to the wedding. There are no Jews here tonight. Can't you appreciate, Yale, that this is a family affair? Tom's mother and father wouldn't understand anything like that -- or any of Pat's friends for that matter."

Yale looked at her bitterly. "Leave me alone, Liz. If you call five hundred or more people out there on the lawn, dancing in those tents, getting sloppily drunk, a family affair, that's your business. How much did this family affair set Pat back anyway? Nothing under ten thousand dollars I'll bet."

"You are a very unappreciative boy, Yale Marratt. Pat gave you a brand new car today that cost him more than a thousand dollars. This is your only sister's wedding. In an hour she'll be gone on her honeymoon. You can see your girl friend anytime. I'm sure she would realize that she is not one of our friends or your sister's friends. If you had any decency you would come downstairs. Pat is very proud of you. Now that this last terrible year has been forgotten, you should do everything possible to make up with him."

Yale wanted to say to her: Liz, you're my mother, can't you understand? Can't you believe I have loved Cindar as much and more, perhaps, than Barbara loves this fellow Tom? Can't you realize that a wedding ceremony doesn't make a marriage -- that I am married to Cindar for a lifetime? He said nothing because this would only be the "ravings of puppy love" to Liz.

There was no hope. That afternoon after graduation he had telephoned Dave Carnell. Cynthia's father had been crying. He could tell by his husky voice.

"Yale. is that you? Oh, my God, Yale what has happened?" Carnell's voice broke. Yale could hear him trying to clear his throat. "Tell me it isn't true, Yale! To Cynthia, how could this happen?"

Yale couldn't grasp his meaning. Mat Chilling had told him that Cynthia had gone home. Was her father referring to her condition? Yale thought of the cruel gash on her face and shuddered.

"Dave. Mr. Carnell, I don't know why she did it. I love her very much. Please, Mr. Carnell, let me talk to her."

"Talk to her? Talk to her? She isn't here! 'Where is she? Do you know? Who did she marry? How is it possible? Only last week, she writes Adar all about you."

"Marry? Mr. Carnell, marry! What do you mean? She's going to marry me!"

He heard Dave Carnell groan. "Oh, my poor boy. You didn't know. She didn't tell you, either! She's run away with some man. She's only known him for two months. She called me last night. My heart should break. She sounded so cold. Adar and I were ready to come for graduation. Today -- we have looked forward to -- for so long. My only daughter. What could have made this happen?"

Piecing together the information he had from Dave, Yale knew that there was only one answer. Mat Chilling was involved. Mat was hiding Cynthia. Crazy with anger, Yale had gone to Doctor Tangle's house demanding to know where Mat was.

"I didn't know you were friends with Mat," Doctor Tangle answered. "He's gone home to Maine." Doctor Tangle handed Yale Mat's note. "I can't understand what's come over Mat in the past few months. Something has disturbed his religious thinking." Doctor Tangle beamed at Yale. "Well, most of us in the cloth pass through that at one time or another. Mat has character. He'll come through. Why don't you come in for a cup of tea? It's a custom with us on graduation day. Quite a few of our compatriots are in the living room."

Yale declined. He asked Doctor Tangle if he knew Mat's home address. It was Bridgeton or Lisbon Falls . . . or was it Presque Isle? Doctor Tangle wasn't positive. He would look it up for him Monday. As Yale was leaving, Doctor Tangle promised to see him. later at Barbara's wedding. "Quite a day for the Marratts," he chuckled. "A Phi Beta Kappa graduate and a wealthy son-in-law all in one day. Pat must be very happy."

Where could Mat and Cynthia have gone? They had no car. Could they have taken a bus? Was it true? Was it true that Cynthia had run away with Mat Chilling? It simply couldn't be true. But what had come over her yesterday? After three years of knowing her and loving her, could he have suspected that she could have changed character so Completely? He remembered her naked, bloody, her hair disheveled, screaming, "Go ahead -- rape me!" That wasn't any Cynthia he had known. It was as if a tiny, soft kitten had suddenly metamorphosed into a snarling tigress. Did everyone have within him a Mr. Hyde aspect, he wondered? Even he had not recognized himself saying "I'll fuck you." A word he had never used before, or even thought in relation to the act of love.

Oh, God, what a confused, miserable day this had been. Every minute he had been trapped by events, balked in his search for Cynthia.

It had started last night. Had he known that Mat had been lying, he could have forced an answer then. He should never have left Cynthia. But he had had no choice. Cynthia had forced him to leave. It had seemed logical that Cynthia would go home. Certainly, he had no refuge to offer her. Knowing her pride, knowing that she wouldn't want a barrage of questions from the girls in the dormitory, it had seemed plausible that she would return to the shelter of her family.

Staying awake half the night, Yale had planned, immediately after Barbara's wedding, to drive to New Jersey. When he found Cynthia he would make her confess to him what he had done. Why she had acted so crazily? But now he knew the mistake he had made was not to have called New Jersey in the morning. If he had done that he would have known. He could have cornered Mat at graduation and found where Cynthia was. She must have stayed with Mat all night in his room. The thought of what might have happened made Yale blush with anger. Could she have done that? Would they have made love? No -- God, no! Cynthia wasn't promiscuous. But she had stayed somewhere and Mat was at the graduation. . . .

He had planned to talk with Mat right after the ceremony. But it had been impossible. There was Pat, happy, grinning like a kid, waiting for him. Yale had felt a sudden remorse over his behavior of the past year. Pat was a tyrant, that was for sure, but today he had tried to be human. He had put his hand out to shake hands and then, overcome with emotion, had pulled Yale into his arms and hugged him. "I'm damned proud of you, son. Never thought I would have a son graduate Phi Beta Kappa. By God, I knew you had something locked up in that skull of yours. Shall we let bygones be bygones?"

Seeing the tears in the corner of Pat's eyes, Yale knew that at that moment he couldn't break away, that he must wait to talk with Mat Chilling. And then Pat had proudly directed him across the street and pointed out the new car. "It's yours, Yale. Brand new, hottest Ford on the market. Wait till you try it out. The pick-up is terrific."

Only half-hearing him, trying to be enthusiastic about the car, Yale had caught a glimpse of Mat walking down College Avenue.

Thinking now how he had missed the opportunity, Yale pounded his pillow in dismay. He was unable to hold back his tears. God, why hadn't he run after Mat? If only he had said, "Pat, I must talk with that man! You see he knows where Cynthia is. I must! I must find her." Instead, he had tried to be the good son. Tried to avoid the showdown that he knew would occur at the mention of Cynthia's name.

Leaning out his bedroom window, with a feeling of loss so deep that it was as if he had sustained an actual physical blow, Yale brushed the tears from his cheeks. Below him, covering nearly an acre of lawn strung with hundreds of pale orange lights, he watched the carnival that Pat had created for Barbara's wedding reception. In the center of the west lawn a green and white tent bad been erected. Yale estimated it was big enough to house a three-ring circus. Flanking this tent were two smaller tents. One was erected to accommodate a champagne bar.

Four hundred invitations had been sent out. This was the event of the season that the mothers of Midhaven daughters would try in the future to emulate and never quite succeed. Pat had spared no expense, Yale mused, as he listened to the romantic strings and muted trumpets of Jeffrey Gardner's famous society orchestra. The lawn was vibrant with the movement of the carefully gowned Midhaven women, comparing their dresses and their men with the thirty or more female guests who had arrived yesterday with the bridegroom's contingent from Texas. Everywhere that he looked Yale could see flashbulbs popping as reporters from as far away as New York recorded the event. In the church just before the ceremony Pat had proudly mentioned to Yale that Henry Luce was sending down a few photographers from Life .

"Al Latham knows him," Pat explained. "Al feels that a story of this kind in Life would do a lot for Midhaven. Help attract new industry. Make people realize that in addition to fine rail and sea facilities, Midhaven has a top-drawer social group."

Yale looked at his watch. It was nine-fifteen. The catered dinner of shrimp cocktails, lobster newburg, squabs, and an inexhaustible choice of delicacies from caviar to rattlesnake meat had been served and eaten. Activity at the champagne tent showed a sharp increase as waiters dressed in deep red tuxedos mingled with the more impatient guests who couldn't wait for table service. Soon the bride and groom would leave for New York and their European honeymoon. After their departure some of the more sedate guests would leave. But the drinking majority would stay, for it was only the "shank of the evening" and this was the party of the season.

Yale realized that he was hungry. Other than a light breakfast he had eaten only a sandwich. All this time he should have been sitting at the bridal table, eating and drinking. Many of the guests would have asked Pat and Liz where he was. The apologies that would be made for him would anger them even more. It was impossible to give their friends a rational explanation of Yale's behavior. In plain words he was in the dog-house again. The sweetness and light that had occurred with Pat for a few hours after graduation would have vanished. By now his refusal to appear at the reception would be one more count against him, topping a long series of his irrational actions.

Yale snapped on the lamp near his bed and looked at himself in the mirror. His suit was rumpled. His eyes were bloodshot. To hell with it. If Cynthia could care so little for him as to do this, to deliberately hide from him, to run away with someone like Mat Chilling; then, to hell with her! Hurriedly, be changed into his tuxedo. Within minutes, his face ruddy from the cold water he had splashed on it, he was on his way downstairs.

He met Barbara on the stairs. She looked at him disdainfully. "Well, at last the prodigal brother puts in his appearance. Better late than never."

"I'm sorry, Bobby. It was nothing personal. Up to a minute ago I just couldn't face all those people. Now, I think I'll have a few drinks in memory of your soon to be vanished virginity."

Barbara ignored the sarcasm. "What's the matter, Yale? I thought you and Pat made up this afternoon? Liz was so happy to have the family united again."

"Happy . . . shit," Yale snarled. "There was nothing the matter that you or Liz couldn't have prevented by sending one of those fancy engraved wedding invitations to just one person." Yale noticed the chagrined look on Barbara's face. "Just one more invitation among the four hundred. I can see by your expression that the budget just wouldn't stand it. One more person and there wouldn't have been enough food to go around." Yale patted her on the shoulder. "Bye, bye, Bobby. I know it probably isn't your fault. Good luck. Your man from Texas looks like a good egg. Let me know when I'm an uncle."

When Yale walked into the tent, the orchestra was taking an intermission. Striding across the dance floor to the bridal table he wondered how many of the guests were noticing him. From the tables surrounding the circular dance floor he thought he detected a discernible drop in the hum of laughter and conversation. He knew that it was probably his imagination, but he blushed, anyway. There were four round tables in the bridal group each seating eight couples. Walking up to where Pat and Liz were seated Yale smiled uncomfortably. "Sorry to be late," he said, smiling warily at them and at Tom's parents, who eyed him coolly.

Pat, who had been talking to the elder Eames, looked at Yale grimly and continued his conversation. Liz held Yale's arm. She pulled him close to her. "This is my baby," she said to the woman next to her whom Yale recognized as Sarah Latham.

Smelling the liquor on her breath, Yale knew that Liz was feeling very gay. "He's kind of stubborn and pig-headed once in awhile, but Pat and I love him." Reluctantly Yale nuzzled his face against hers. "Your place is right there waiting for you," Liz said, pointing to the table next to them. "Beside Margie Latham, dear. Isn't she sweet?"

Taking a quick look at the people seated at the table, Yale sat down. Marge Latham ignored him. He nodded across the table to Katherine Harvey and Tom's sister, whom he had met earlier in the afternoon just before the wedding. She smiled politely. A very coo], distant type, Yale thought. Quite aware of her family money. Katherine was seated near Bob Baker, who had roomed with Tom at Princeton. Next to them were Jim Latham and Leslie Ames. The empty seats next to Marge Latham, Yale realized, must have been occupied by Tom and Barbara, who were changing into their going away clothes. It occurred to him that Liz had arranged the tables purposely in this way; that she had paired him with Marge Latham. Without a table companion for nearly two hours, Yale imagined that Marge was probably at a boiling point. He smiled in her direction, noticing that she wore her brown hair in a page boy style, low on her bare shoulders. Yale told the waiter hovering near him to bring him two double Old Granddad's and soda. He turned to Marge conversationally. "I haven't seen you in years. Where have you been keeping yourself?"

Marge turned toward him. "Are you speaking to me?" she asked coldly.

"Oh, no, it was six other people," Yale said trying to stare down her cold blue eyes.

"Well, you'll excuse me, I hope, but that chair has been empty so long it seems strange to have it occupied. Has the world's greatest brain been occupied with some world-shaking problem, or have you simply deigned to spend a moment with the common herd?"

Yale took the drink the waiter had put on the table. "I didn't know you cared, Marge," he said, drinking the highball, thinking to hell with you, Marge Latham. I had a girl who would make two of you. He remembered suddenly that he didn't have Cynthia any more. Again he felt an overwhelming grief.

This was the kind of girl that his family expected bim to marry . . . this Marge Latham, poised, sophisticated, socially acceptable, and this was the kind of wedding reception it would be, and afterward he would bed down with the wealthy Marge Latham and within weeks he would join the club, become part of the cocktail, bridge-playing set, and be looked upon as one of the rising young men in Midhaven social life. With his education completed at Harvard, there could be the possibility of a political life. A future congressman or senator from the First District. Yale shook his head, finished his drink and started on another. No! Whatever he did want out of life, married and settled into the boredom of Midhaven society was not it. He grinned at his imaginings. In a second he could not only picture himself married to Marge Latham, but getting ready to divorce her. What would she think of his thoughts?

His sister had returned to the tent. The orchestra did a fanfare for silence. Barbara was dressed to leave on her honeymoon. She was about to throw her bridal bouquet. Yale watched Marge and Leslie Ames as they walked toward the dance floor. Marge's red satin evening gown clung to her buttocks. He noticed that Jim Latham, across the table, was watching him. He grinned at him. "Your sister has grown up, Jim. Where's she been all these years?"

Jim laughed. "Marge has been around every summer. Winters she goes to a dramatic school in New York. Watch out for her, she's a future Katherine Cornell. Where do you keep yourself, fella? I haven't seen you since last summer."

"You should have told me you were a boxing champ," Yale said, trying to be agreeable. No, he thought, even if Marge were a good partner in bed, I couldn't stand you, Jim Latham, for a brother-in-law. You're just too damned good to be true. The perfect son. Harvard graduate. Semi-pro golfer. Nearly all-American last fall, and now you are going to Harvard Business School. After Harvard back to Latham Shipyards to continue a tradition.

Marge returned to the table with Leslie Ames and Katherine Harvey. Leslie had caught Barbara's bouquet. Doesn't it make you nervous?" Marge asked her. "You're supposed to be next. What a fate! Marriage, kids, and one foot in the grave before you're forty."

Yale could tell by Leslie Ames' expression as she smiled at Jim Latham that she couldn't think of a more lovely fate.

"I'm glad you don't want to get married, Marge," Yale said, feeling slightly dizzy from the liquor he had drunk so quickly. He warned himself to be careful. Not having eaten much since breakfast he could get very drunk.

Marge shook off the arm Yale had put around her. She looked at him crossly. "What makes you so glad?"

"I just couldn't hear to think of feverish male hands exploring your lovely white body," Yale sobbed. Half in earnest that sob was, Margie old girl. Half in earnest, but not for you!

Not completely aware of where he was being led, he followed Marge and the crowd of guests to the drive in front of the house. Barbara and Tom emerged. They stood smiling while photographers recorded the event. Then they rushed to Tom's Cadillac convertible, showered with rice by the guests.

Yale waved a forlorn goodbye. "Farewell, old one-foot-in-the-grave, sister of mine. Farewell to that good old maidenhead, untouched by human hands."

He felt Marge's hand grab his arm. "Shut up, you damned fool," she hissed, "everyone is watching you." She led him back to the tent. The orchestra had started playing again. They danced. The first dizziness from the liquor suddenly vanished. Yale was surprised to find how easily Marge danced with him.

After several dances they went to the champagne tent which was dimly lighted and furnished night club style with tiny intimate tables. Yale didn't know whether to mix champagne with the bourbon. His acquaintance with champagne was fairly limited. He told Marge his problem.

"I thought you were a big man, little boy. I have been drinking gin rickeys for the past two hours. Now comes the time to drink champagne . . . with Yale Marratt, no less . . . the great lover."

Yale looked at her surprised. She held up her glass of champagne and gulped it. "My old lady talks to your old lady," she said, blinking at him. "How is your Jewish babe? Scandal of Midhaven, old boy. Worse than old Higgins who married a female chimpanzee. Poor old Higgins. . . . Hey, let's get us a bottle of this stuff and go neck somewhere."

A good idea, Yale thought, but I don't want to neck with you, Marge. Oh, God, Cindar. I want you! You! He said: "Christ, you don't have any privacy in this town, do you?"

"Plenty of places for privacy," Marge said, purposely misunderstanding him. "Trouble is the grass is too wet. Say how about taking me for a ride in your father's Chris-Craft. I'm bored with this party."

Yale looked at her, astonished. "You know something. That's a good idea. I'll take you zippety-doo-dah up the river." He grabbed the arm of a waiter who was passing near their table. "Do you know me?" he asked, tipping his head sideways and looking at the waiter owlishly.

"Yes, sir, you're young Mr. Marratt."

Yale pulled him closer. "Now, look, do what I say and it'll get you ten bucks. Just stick six bottles of that champagne, nice and cold, in a box. Cover it with a napkin and follow us." The waiter shrugged as if to say you're the boss.

"What are you going to do?" Marge asked curiously.

"You and I are going on a cruise . . . a sneaky champagne cruise up the river." Yale watched the waiter walk toward the bar. He wondered if he would ignore the request. No, he was going behind the bar. In a few seconds they saw him in front of the tent carrying a box. "Come on, Marge, follow me! Silent like a bunny. Don't pick up any strangers."

Yale led Marge around the back of the main tent and across the driveway. As they slunk toward the boathouse, Yale knew that they must appear to anyone who was watching them, like a couple of tipsy prowlers out of some old Hal Roach moving picture. They were accosted several times by equally happy revellers who demanded to know where they were going. Yale shook them off. Finally, they reached the footpath in back of the house that led to the boathouse. The noise of the party receded in the distance. The quieter sounds of the river lapping against the wharf and the honking of a frog seemed a pleasant respite to Yale.

Marge saw Pat's Chris-Craft tied against the dock. Gathering her evening gown in her hands she ran toward it. "Say, this is a beauty. I think it's bigger than Daddy's." She climbed aboard and sat behind the wheel. "I want to drive it. I'm going to take you on a ride you'll never forget."

Yale tipped the waiter and took the champagne. Almost before he could untie the boat and get aboard Marge had punched the starter. The engine caught with a roar. Yale lurched into the seat beside her. Before he could stop her the boat was leaping forward, leaving a white spray of water behind them glistening in the moonlight. Yale thought he heard someone yelling from the boathouse but it was too late to turn back.

"For Christ's sake, Marge. Watch out! There are a lot of rocks in this part of the river."

She looked at him, laughing. "I love to go fast. Don't worry, little man, I'll get you back safely."

Yale looked at her profile. Marge's hair was streaming behind her in the wind. Marge Latham was pretty. There was no denying that. But she had a cool sophisticated manner that was impenetrable to Yale and somehow frightening. Yale wondered if girls like Marge ever stood aside from themselves for a moment and observed the façade they had erected. Probably not. Probably their very certainty came from the sure knowledge that they were wanted. In Marge's case, wanted for her feminine aloofness as well as her eventual inheritance.

Marge was driving the Chris-Craft at top speed. The trees edging the river passed so swiftly they seemed blended into a solid dark mass. It made Yale dizzy to look around.

"Slow down," he yelled. "Come on, slow down before we take right off the water and start to fly."

She shook her head, and twisted the boat into a left curve, tipping Yale's side up in the air. Yale heard the champagne bottles clink together. Drunk as he was, he knew that Marge was challenging him. He flipped the key in the ignition to the off position. The boat sputtered to a stop.

"That was a hell of a thing to do," she said crossly, smoothing her hair. "What's the matter, scared?"

"You crazy little bitch, you don't know this part of the river. There are a lot of outcroppings. You wreck this boat, and I'll never hear the end of it . . . or will you. I'd like to see the expression on your father's face if he could have seen you. He'd probably beat your little bottom red, white, and blue. Big lady . . . just eighteen. You're just a hoked up little kid."

She looked at him archly. "I'm big enough to have done anything you've done, Mr. Brain."

Yale pulled her away from the wheel. He slid into the driver's seat. "What's all this Mr. Brain stuff?" he wanted to know. He started the engine, and drove the Chris-Craft quietly down the river. He estimated that they had come at least a mile. He heard her fumbling with one of the champagne bottles. Just as it occurred to him what she was going to do, it was too late. The cork popped off belting him on the side of the head; followed by a shower of champagne. She kept shaking the bottle and aiming it at him until he was blinded with the force of it striking his eyes and nose. Dripping with champagne, he looked at her furiously. She was choking with laughter. Angrily, he snapped off the engine again. He grabbed another bottle, spun off the wire, popped the cork, and sprayed her with the entire contents, finally pouring what wouldn't come out over her head.

She continued to laugh tauntingly at him. "Look at my gown," she said finally. "It cost me one hundred and fifty dollars. You've ruined it."

"Well," Yale said, grinning at the ludicrous appearance of her face. Champagne trickled down from her hair, making rivulets in her heavy makeup. "You started it. I don't think this tuxedo will ever go to another party. Why do you keep calling me Mr. Brain, and why are you mad at me?"

"We've got four bottles left," she said, ignoring the question as she tried to dry her face with a small handkerchief. "Do you suppose we could drink the next two?"

Yale opened another bottle, losing only a little of its quick effervescence. He handed it to her. She took a long swallow and passed it back to him. In a few minutes they emptied it and started on another bottle.

Conscious that they were drifting, Yale's only concern was to keep the boat as near to the middle of the river as possible. He flicked the wheel occasionally to hold direction. Twisting in his seat, leaning against the splash rail, he watched Marge trailing her fingers in the water. From the noise of the orchestra and the confusion of the party to the wild roar of the Chris-Craft's engine, they now seemed to have been reclaimed by the black silence of the river, as it moved to the ocean. Marge's voice, as she softly sang the words of "Stardust," reached into the deep pockets of darkness on either side of the river.

Yale knew they had drifted at least as far down the river as the picnic grounds owned by Midhaven College and he thought of Cindar and that day nearly four years ago when they had met and got tipsy and had gone swimming. Four years ago and he had known the wonder of love and being loved.

Not once had there been any denunciation of that love. A few months ago Cindar had been reading Stendhal "On Love." She read parts of it to him. He remembered her saying, "I used to like Stendhal until I read this book . . . now I don't. Love isn't the cool calculating thing that he describes, is it, Yale?"

But it had become a calculating thing, hadn't it, Cindar? Were all the affairs of men destined to arc eventually like a skyrocket and plunge back to earth? He couldn't believe it. If you were really in love there was no peak, just a constant ascension, quieter and not so heady as you grew older, but still never culminating.

"It's hot and I'm sticky from the champagne," Marge announced. She stood up on the seat, unhooked her evening gown and let it fall in a heap. To Yale's surprise the only thing else she was wearing was a pair of shoes, and what looked like small pieces of adhesive tape across her nipples. Yale roared with laughter. "What are those? Your underwear?" he asked, pointing at the tapes.

Carefully she lifted them off her breasts, and flung them in the water. "They're to keep my nipples from chafing, stupid. Are you coming in?" She dove off the side. He could see her splashing in the darkness. Quickly, he undressed, thinking that it was ironic that once again he should be swimming nude in the Mamaputock River with a girl. Only this time it was Stendhalian and there was none of the feeling of wonder. Somewhere in the darkness there was a naked girl, and she was available. In fact she was asking for it. But he wouldn't touch her, because there would be no beauty in it. Just a coupling, with no overtones. Nothing beyond the necessity of the moment.

When he struck the water, he knew just how drunk he was. The water was surprisingly cold, still running with the cool rains from far off hills.

"Hey, Marge, where are you?" he yelled. There was no answer. Treading water, he listened. The silence was ominous. Supposing she had got a cramp? Supposing she drowned? He felt a sick chill of fear spread over him. Suddenly he realized that the boat was adrift. He swam after it, yelling, "Marge! Marge!" No answer. Swimming after the boat, he caught a glimpse of her boarding it. Her behind was white in the moonlight.

"Goodbye, Yale old dear," she screamed. He heard the zing of the self-starter, and the roar of the engine. In a second the boat was gone, leaving behind a greenish white wake of waves.

He yelled at her to come back. You utter damned fool, he thought, you'll run that boat into a rock and kill yourself, too. "To hell with you, go ahead. Kill yourself, you dumb bunny." He swore at the disappearing boat. Boy, what a mess, he thought grimly, as he tread water. He was going to have to walk home naked. He started to swim toward the shore when he heard the roar of the engine returning. She had turned the spotlight on. She was obviously looking for him. Leaning out the side, still naked, steering with one hand, she waved at him. "Hi! Want a lift?" she asked, grinning at him. She cut the engine.

"What happened, did you get cold feet?" Yale demanded as he climbed awkwardly in the boat.

She shook her head. "I took pity on you. The thought of you having to walk home in those dark woods without any clothes touched my maidenly heart. Even if you are a stuck-up bastard I couldn't do that to you."

Yale climbed aboard. He started to look for his clothes, thinking he could dry himself with his underwear. He had left them on the deck just above the windshield. They weren't there.

"What did you do with my tux?" he asked, peering in the darkness and fumbling along the floor.

"I think they blew overboard," Marge said, giggling. "At least something went flying above my head. I thought it was a bat or something."

"You absolute jerk," Yale yelled angrily. "How do we go back to the party now?" He grabbed the wheel from her hand. "Turn this damned boat around. I've got to find them."

She swung the boat around in low speed. Yale, hanging over the side, swinging the searchlight from side to side, searched for his tuxedo, praying by some miracle that it was still floating. He could hear her giggling. She made some remark about how funny he looked. He was in a murderous frame of mind; ready to take hold of Marge and shake the living daylights out of her. How in hell had he got tangled up with such a crazy dame?

"I see my pants," he yelled suddenly. "They're still floating. Over to the right."

Marge stood up and asked where.

"Over there, stupid. Hurry up before they sink!"

Before Yale could ask her what she was doing, Marge gunned the Chris-Craft engine. In horror Yale saw his pants disappear from sight as the prow of the boat hit them. He yelled. Marge swerved the boat and Yale fell against her.

"Thought they might get caught in the propeller," she said, straightening the boat out and grinning at him.

"You stupid little bitch!" Yale snarled. He grabbed her by the shoulders and started to shake her. Then he had what seemed, at the moment, a better idea. He reached in the back of the boat; took her evening gown that she had dropped there in a heap; rolled it in a ball and flung it in the water.

"Now," he gloated, "laugh that off. I believe in the code of Hammurabi, an eye for an eye."

Marge had stopped laughing. "Well, you just forget your code, and get this boat over there before that dress sinks, or we'll both be dead." In the reflection of the searchlight they could see the dress drifting rapidly downstream, and slowly submerging. Marge tried to start the engine which had stalled.

Yale grabbed her arms. "Not on your life, chum. You can kiss that dress goodbye."

"Let go of me!" Marge hissed in his ear. She bit his shoulder and clawed at his back. Feeling the sharp sting of pain, Yale clutched her in a wrestler's hug. She went limp in his arms. He started to kiss her face. Half-lying, half-standing, her legs a vise around his middle, he was deep within her. She moaned from hunger, and taunted him, calling him Mr. Brain, and egged him on, saying that intellectuals didn't know how to make love. Within minutes she reached a violent climax and clawed at him while he met and equalled her ecstasy.

They stayed clasped together for a long time, listening to the night sounds. Yale pulled away from her suddenly. "God, we'll run this boat aground yet. The luck of the devil has been with us."

"I'm the devil," Marge said, huddling on the seat, her arms across her breasts. "I'm sorry, Yale." He could hear her sobbing.

"Look, Marge, don't cry." He patted her face. "It was very nice. I guess you're right, I'm a bastard." He started the engine and was relieved to find that once again it caught and the cylinders fired. Pat certainly kept the boat in excellent shape. "What I'm wondering is how we are going to get back without any clothes. Boy, this is going to be a scandal that will rock Midhaven. If I could get us back to the boathouse, without anyone seeing us, you could hide down there. I could sneak in the back way and get you a coat or one of Bobby's dresses."

Marge didn't seem interested or even concerned about getting back. All that she wanted to do was justify her actions. "You see, Yale, you just got my goat. All anyone in Midhaven knows about you is that you are an intellectual giant. You look in disdain at the amusements of the common herd. You never come out to the Club. You've been asked by Jim, and the Ames boys, and the Hastings. Your family are regular people. How did you get to be so stuffy? Then to graduate Phi Beta Kappa, that's the last straw. We won't hear the end of that among the High-C average Lathams for a long time."

Yale drove the Chris-Craft in low speed back up the river. He listened with a smile to her chatter. The fact that she had flung herself into intercourse with him didn't seem to bother her at all. How many men-boys had she already made love with? Plenty, no doubt. At eighteen she was an expert. He felt sorry for her. In the area of sexual relations she had nowhere to go but downhill.

He turned the last bend in the river before the boathouse, and realized it was too late. The river was lighted up in all directions by floodlights. Pat must have taken someone down to see the Chris-Craft and found it gone.

"There's the boat, Pat," someone yelled. The sound of many voices drifted to them across the narrowing distance to the boathouse. Yale kept the boat in the lowest speed, hoping desperately to think of some solution to their predicament.

"We're sunk, Marge," he said, imagining the expression on Pat's face. He wondered if this would be the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. "I'll pull up close enough to yell. I'll tell them all to go away while you get out."

"Don't be dumb, Yale Marratt! You may know everything there is to know in books, but in a situation like this there is only one thing to do. Face it with aplomb! Act as if it is simply nothing. We went for a swim and lost our clothes. Happens in the best of circles." Marge giggled. "Most natural thing in the world to be in your birthday suit. Come on, stop poking . . . just drive right into the dock, and act as cool as a cuke."

Yale patted her shoulder. "It was kind of fun, Marge."

"Any time, Yale . . . Just keep cool." She smiled at him and leaned back in the seat. He increased the speed and headed for the boathouse. He wondered if the Life photographers would be waiting. Brother. . . .

PART TWO

Our age is retrospective. It builds sepulchres of the fathers . . . Why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe? Why should not we have a poetry and philosophy of insight and not of tradition, and a religion by revelation to us, and not the history of theirs . . . ? The sun shines today also. There is more wool and flax in the fields. Let us demand our own works, and laws, and worship. -- Ralph Waldo Emerson

1

Yale felt that he might be missing something if he remained in the hotel. The room, with the wallpaper removed and painted gray; the crowded army cots and the piles of duffel bags had a feeling of transience, underscored by the certain knowledge that the bed you slept in tonight would probably be slept in tomorrow by some other soldier on his way to parts unknown.

He walked through the lobby noticing the newspapers at the cigar counter. The headlines screamed "German Breakthrough." "The Battle of the Bulge." How much longer could it go on, he wondered? He had a quick picture of mud and snow, and soldiers miserably waiting . . . waiting, while somewhere Generals pondered the situation and tried to determine what to do. Of one thing he was certain, the battle in Europe was not his immediate problem. He was shipping out to India. Karachi . . . a place so remote from his thinking that when he discovered it on a map he had looked at it as idly as he would have looked at a photograph of the moon. This strange world did not concern him. But he was going there. Today or tomorrow or the next day. Just as soon as the gears of Air Transport Command meshed and there was a plane available. It didn't really matter when. For nearly four years he had been drifting toward God knew what goal. Would he ever be able to establish a clear objective? First it was Pat with definite plans for him, and now it was the Army.

He checked at the Headquarters desk. No, he wasn't on orders tonight. Nothing could come through until three tomorrow afternoon. He was free. This was Miami. He couldn't get excited about it. The first few days it had been fun; exploring the other night clubs along the beach, or getting drunk with a group of other officers who were your buddies on a moment's notice; pitching a line at every girl you met or trying to play the game of going to bed with an utter stranger. Then the loneliness would seize him and there was nothing -- nothing on earth that he wanted except the warm brown eyes and oval face of a girl who had vanished, leaving a love that somehow wouldn't die.

Yale didn't know what he wanted to do this evening. Some of the fellows had asked him to go along to a strip joint they had discovered. The evening would end up with his getting soggily drunk, wanting not women in general, but a particular woman. He refused, and wandered out of the hotel by himself in the direction of Miami Beach.

A soldier waiting. shipment feels himself detached from the people around him. The busy traffic moving toward the beach or into Miami is a phenomenon apart. He was no longer Yale Marratt. He had seen others like himself in the past two years, thousands of them. Wandering, looking in darkened windows, staring unbelievingly at their own reflection.

He had seen them lighting unwanted cigarettes, or drinking unwanted beers at crowded bars, or just pacing the streets looking for pick-ups. You might think they were lonely, and for a moment feel a tinge of regret. The same feeling you might have for a blind violinist tottering along as he sawed out lonely discords and begged for pennies. But soldiers didn't need your regrets. They were carefully trained beyond loneliness. They had lost the conceit called I . They still thought of themselves in the first person, but the I had no meaning. They were Angelo Grazziani, or Dick Bryan, or a host of other names, and when they moved or talked or loved they were still I to themselves, but the connecting link had been carefully eradicated by Army training. Each I existed peripherally and would disappear as one action supplanted another. Without a war to unify them, many of them would become dangerous men. They belonged to the empty nowhere. In cities all over the world in this year 1943 they were going nowhere, coming from nowhere . . . and caring less.

Yale climbed on a bus headed for Miami Beach. The driver was a girl. The traction company had evidently run out of male applicants. Yale squeezed into one of the small leather seats that backed up to hers. In this position he could watch the back of her stringy yellow hair, a fraction of her profile, and an occasional full face view in the mirror over her head. He was full of admiration for the way she slurred the bus up Second Avenue.

"You're pretty good, sister," he said. "How long have you been driving?"

"Couple of months," was the brief reply as she slammed her foot on the brake and pulled the lever opening the doors.

A man, an unlighted cigar in his mouth, his belly tight against a green slack suit, boarded. Behind him was a white-haired blonde with black eyebrows. She climbed languidly up the step, delaying a wispy, grey-haired woman who followed her. The grey-haired woman, impatiently glaring from behind her pince-nez glasses, fumbled in a laundry type handbag and finally produced a bill. The bus driver looked at her in disgust. "Five dollars! For God's sake, madam, haven't you got a dime?"

"No, I haven't, and I'll thank you not to be fresh, young lady."

The bus driver snapped quarters, dimes and nickels from her change dispenser and handed them in a fistful to the lady. The lady clutched them, edging back in the bus.

"Madam, your ten cents! You put your ten cents in this little gadget and then we all go where we are going."

The lady looked suspiciously at the pile of change in her hands wondering whether she had four dollars and ninety cents or five dollars.

The bus driver started the bus with a jerking of gears. The old lady nearly catapulted through the windshield. Swishing the cigar to the other side of his mouth the man grabbed her to keep her from going over. Uncertainly, she deposited ten cents in the coin box.

"I don't ride on buses very much," she said plaintively to no one in particular.

"Jeez," snapped the bus driver. "you meet all kinds."

There were several seats in the rear but the blonde with the black eyebrows stood directly in front of Yale holding onto a strap. The bus swayed violently. The blonde lurched toward him. Yale noticed, with sudden amazement, that all she seemed to be wearing was a pink dress which clung tightly to her stomach. Even the dull lights of the bus did not obscure the black hairs below her navel. I could almost pluck one or two for a souvenir, Yale thought.

The bus driver was playing cops and robbers with a blue Chevrolet sedan. The driver of the Chevrolet was trying to pass on the left. The bus driver was determined that he wouldn't make it.

"The lousy bastard. No need to be in such a damned hurry. I'll fix him." She swerved the bus directly across his path, stopping on the corner of Tenth Street. Yale heard the squeal of the Chevrolet's brakes. He grinned as he visualized the driver cursing.

A few passengers walked out the rear door and waited for the light to change. Yale watched the crowd moving along the widewalk. He was feeling better now. He was in the movement of things. He was a speck on the current of people going somewhere. The faster the current moved the less the plaguing I bothered him. It was like the water therapy that they give to the insane. The motion, ceaseless, vacillating, bending back on itself but always going, was a sedative. It smoothed out the tangle of nervous energy and like a transformer set the current flowing in steady pulsations instead of an overcharged torrent.

The bus was moving again. The man with the cigar sat down beside Yale. The black eyebrowed blonde still stood, her navel enticingly near, her perfume overpowering in the Woolworth tradition. The man was friendly.

"I'm President of Pearlstein's Clothiers, New York City," he said, examining Yale's uniform as he spoke. "Little business and a little pleasure combined in this trip. How's the war going?"

"Lousy," Yale answered. What did Pearlstein expect that he would shout for joy?

"You oughta be a civilian. You can't get anything. Cigarettes, liquor, butter . . . that's not all. Try and run a business. The government's at your neck every minute. You can't get this, you can't hire that. Hell, I'd rather be in the Army."

Yale sympathized. It was tough to be a civilian.

"What are you doing now?" Pearlstein demanded.

"Nothing much."

"Come on over to my room. I've got some good Scotch. We'll have a shot."

Yale got off the bus with him at 15th Street. They walked through to Collins Avenue. The blonde had gotten off, too.

"That's an itchy bitch," Pearlstein said. "Watch." He held Yale's arm. They stopped, waiting. Pearlstein relighted his cigar. The blonde sauntered by, staring at them coolly. "How much?" Pearlstein asked

The blonde turned. She shrugged. "What's money? You have it, you spend it!" Pearlstein laughed. "There you are, lieutenant. Come on. I'll treat you all to a drink."

They walked together in step, the blonde in the middle, Yale and Pearlstein on either side.

"My name's Kathie Winters," she said. "I'm not what you think."

Yale wondered how she had got her hair so yellow white. It looked like Santa Claus' whiskers.

"Mine's Jake Pearlstein," the fat man said.

"Mine's Marratt."

"You're in the Army, aren't you?" the blonde asked.

"Yup." It was useless being sarcastic. The blonde Kathie evidently had her troubles, too.

"Kathie Winters comes to Miami for the winter," Pearlstein said as they walked into the lobby of the hotel.

It was typical of the hotels along Collins Avenue. Faced with white coral and tinted pink, it rose about ten floors to a modernistic pinnacle capped with a blinking, blue neon sign that spelled out its name in slim, fashion-magazine lettering.

The lobby was filled with vacationers dressed in the latest cubist patterns and colorings directly from the better stores on Lincoln Road.

Jake directed them to an elevator. They got off on the third floor. "This room's nothing to brag about, but it's got a bed. It costs me twelve-fifty a day."

Pearlstein called for room service. The blonde sat on the bed. Yale looked idly around. The room was simply arranged with square cut functional furniture. A water color of a tortured swan was the only decoration.

Yale looked at Kathie. She wasn't bad looking in an artificial way. Her eyes were brown, but the discordance of the black eyebrows and the cornstalk hair bothered him. "How did you ever get your hair that color?" he asked. It wouldn't hurt to know, he thought. That interesting method could be added to a collection of useless information that was always wandering around in his subconscious mind.

"My hair is that color," Kathie said indignantly.

Yale laughed. "Okay, Kathie, I like it that color."

The set-ups were delivered by a tired looking bellhop.

"How'll you have it?" Pearlstein asked Kathie.

"Straight. I always drink it straight."

Pearlstein poured her half a tumbler. He looked at Yale.

"A little water," Yale said. "I'm a sissy."

Kathie gulped her drink in two swallows. She let out a contented "ah."

Pearlstein poured her another. "Christ, Marratt," he said, grinning and wiping his swarthy face, "we've picked up a tank."

They drank and talked. Kathie told them she had been married to a soldier who had been killed in Africa. She produced a telegram worn and creased. It was the usual thing, "The War Department regrets to inform you . . ." Yale handed it back to her. "Tough."

"Yeah. He was cute. He'd be awful mad if he could see me now."

"Maybe he can," Pearlstein said.

"Aw, don't be silly." She tumbled back on the bed. Her dress was high above her knees. Yale's suspicions on the bus were confirmed. She wore no panties. She giggled foolishly, feeling her drinks.

"Don't you ever wear panties?" Yale asked.

"No," Kathie said, wrinkling her nose. "They make me itchy. You don't know what it was to have been married and then not to be married. It gets you." She began to cry.

"Don't cry," Pearlstein said uncomfortably. "Come on, let's find a joint where there's some music. Better still, I've got an idea. Let's take in that 'Temple of Love' show over in Miami. Then we can head back here when things get humming and finish the evening in one of the clubs along the beach."

"What's this 'Temple of Love' stuff?" Kathie asked, suspiciously.

Pearlstein grinned. "Stop worrying, kid. You think we're trying to set you up?" Kathie tried to look offended but didn't succeed.

"It's not 'Temple of Love,' Yale said. "It's 'Seek the True Love.' At least that's what it says on the outside."

Coming back on the bus from Miami, he had seen the place Pearlstein referred to in an empty lot a few blocks from the railroad station. Over the tent spelled out in curved light bulbs that burned green at night were the words "Seek the True Love." He had asked the woman sitting beside him what it meant. The man sitting on the other side of him answered first. "It's probably a Holy Roller show or another Aimee McPherson." The woman agreed that it had something to do with religion. A fat, sweating lady across the aisle joined in the conversation. She told them that she believed it was a Nazi racket.

"It's just like them Silver Shirts at home, where I come from," she said, mopping her red face, pleased at the sudden interest the other passengers displayed.

Yale asked her if she had ever been inside the tent.

"Hell, no, soldier. There's enough fakers in Miami ready to grab your money without you asking for it. Annie McFeeley went there last week and what happened to her . . . well . . ." The fat woman looked ominously at the other passengers. She waited to be prodded.

Yale rose to the bait. "What happened to Annie McFeeley?"

The woman looked at them with narrowed eyes. She now had an audience of six. She gauged their interest and appeared satisfied. "Well, Annie came to Miami looking for something. Not what you might think, mister." She spoke to Yale who grinned back. "Everyone in Miami is looking for something. Anyway, Annie didn't find it. So she climbed on the usual merry-go-round. It was all right for awhile. Soldiers pay for the first few meals. There were a few laughs, but I guess Annie figured she was living in sin." The fat lady paused, extracted a sweaty handkerchief from the slot between her breasts. She mopped her face. "Hell," she said, "that's a laugh. Living in sin. Miami is the original city of sin. Anyway, Annie went over to that 'Tent of Love' the other night. I don't know what happened. All she kept saying was . . . 'It's so beautiful. It's so beautiful.' And 'He's so right. He's so right!' Annie cried for a couple of days, and then she packed her bags and went home. . . ." The fat lady ignored the is-that-all expression in the eyes of her audience. She got up for her stop. "Guess that won't happen to you, eh, soldier?" she remarked as she got off the bus.

"Do you really want to go there?" Yale asked. He thought for a moment that he would ditch these two and spend the evening alone. It was obvious that "Seek the True Love" was something sponsored by some religious cranks. Tonight, he was in no mood to listen to a crack-pot leading a bunch of stupid people down the sawdust trail.

"Oh, come on," Pearlstein said, nudging them toward the door. "What have you got better to do, Marratt? Drag the chippie around awhile. Get her in the mood. You can have her, then. I'm too old."

"I don't want her," Yale laughed. "You're not that old. She can probably show you a few tricks. She looks as if she knew how to start the kettle boiling."

Pearlstein flagged a taxi. They all sat in the back.

"This is kind of nutty, I think," Kathie said. "What kind of a place is it?"

Yale told her about Annie McFeeley. Kathie listened with her mouth half-opened.

"I hear that it ends in a strip act," Pearlstein said. Yale looked at him sourly.

"No kidding! You wait and see."

The taxi driver stopped across the street from the tent. A large crowd of well-dressed people were milling around trying to reach a booth where tickets were sold. The green light bulbs blinked out the message, "Seek the True Love." Glowing garishly over the crowd, they colored everyone's face with an unearthly hue.

"What's it all about?" Yale asked an elderly lady who stood just in front of him in the ticket line.

"You haven't heard him?" the woman asked.

Yale shook his head. "What's he selling?" That was a good question, he thought. Everyone in Miami was selling something. As far as he had been able to determine, if you had the money, there was nothing in Miami that wasn't for sale including the trim blonde women driving Cadillacs around the islands in Miami Bay.

The woman smiled. "This is one place you don't buy anything. What's more you get a lot more than the price of your ticket. You'll see," she promised.

They moved closer to the ticket booth. Jake Pearlstein got in front of Yale. "Tickets are on me," he said. The woman turned and smiled at Jake. "A very good investment," she said.

"Ha! Ha! A shill." Pearlstein grinned. He was about to ask how much she got paid for promoting the joint when the woman introduced the man in front of her as her husband. He was wearing powder blue slacks with a rainbow colored shirt. A typical Miami vacationer. When he returned to his home town he probably discreetly put his Miami clothes in the closet until next year.

Pearlstein introduced Yale, Kathie and himself.

"Glad to know you all," the man said. "My wife and I are from Little Rock. Down here for the winter. It's not the same this year, somehow. The Army or Navy's got everything. Of course," he added, no doubt with a feeling of guilt at seeing Yale's uniform, "it's the only right thing to do. Miami is ideal for the boys. They deserve it."

Yale asked him what the show in the tent was about.

He looked apologetic. "My wife goes for this stuff. Me . . . I'd rather be over at the dog track. But you know how it is. You've got to please the women. On the other hand this guy isn't bad. He's sort of a John Anthony -- you know that guy on the radio that answers all the questions. Except this guy doesn't interview anyone. He's wasting his time really. If I could speak like this guy, I'd run for something. . . ."

At the entrance to the tent a thin girl of about eighteen, her hair waved peasant style around her head, was selling tickets. Pearlstein paid for three. Yale didn't protest. At least he wasn't going to be bored on his own dough.

The inside of the tent was lighted with the same pale green bulbs. Pine bleachers arranged in circular tiers filled the entire tent except for the center where a circular stage had been built up so high that those in the front rows would have to look up to see the speaker. Whoever stood in the center of the stage could dominate the entire audience. It was an extremely clever arrangement. A speaker on this stage would have most of his audience below him putting them at a psychological disadvantage.

The five of them worked their way into one of the back rows. Kathie sat between Yale and lake Pearlstein. Yale was aware of music softly flooding the tent. He recognized César Franck's "Symphony in D Minor." The yearning notes of an oboe grew louder. The volume of sound swelled until it encompassed the audience chatter. Yale looked around. The tent was filled to capacity. He tried to examine the faces of the audience. They were blended together in the soft green light; no one characteristic stood out. There were young faces and old faces. But not the faces you would expect to find in a group of fanatics. These were people who seemed intensely interested in what was to happen. Yale leaned forward on his knees. He waited.

Suddenly the pale lights along the walls of the tent were turned off entirely. A moment of utter darkness and then a large green spotlight flooded the circular stage.

The silence in the tent was intense. Then a voice was heard speaking over the microphones. The stage was still empty. The voice sounded all persuasive. It was a deep, resonant voice with hollow overtones that seemed to vibrate inside each listener. The man is a genius, Yale thought.

It was like listening to your own voice, your inner thoughts, bouncing off some distant mountain cliff. Yale felt shivers run completely through his body. He had heard that voice before! Where? Where? He wondered . . . feeling a moment of panic at not being able to place it. The crowd was on edge as the voice continued. Then Yale remembered! He must have sworn out loud because Kathie nudged him. He couldn't help it! He had heard that voice before. Mat Chilling! Like a violent slash of wind-driven rain, the voice tore across his memory. For a second the image of Cynthia flashed so strongly on his mind that Yale wanted to scream his hatred at the voice.

For a moment, he was once again a kid walking across the Midhaven campus on his way to a date with Cynthia Carnell. In love . . . happy . . . listening to the warmth of the spring night. Sounds of voices coming from open dormitory windows . . . scratches of a match as some student lighted a cigarette on the veranda. The warm, human sound of female laughter blending into the spring evening like a polyphony to the dominant theme of his love. And now it was gone . . . lost! Like Thomas Wolfe's "wind-grieved ghost" . . . hauntingly, the past had reached out. It was as if a window shade had unexpectedly snapped up on its roller . . . dizzily vibrating; revealing things on the other side of the window best left forgotten.

Yale wanted to pull the shade back down again but Mat's voice penetrated his reverie. Almost eerily, Mat, himself, appeared on the stage. He had evidently come up through a trap door. The audience clapped wildly. The voice on the microphone stopped. Yale realized that it had been recorded. Despite himself Yale marvelled at Mat's showmanship. Mat welcomed the audience. He waved for silence.

"Other than at the end of this program," he said, "I endeavor each evening to bring some new aspect of this religion of fulfillment to my audience. I realize that many of you have come here night after night. Some of you have found in these simple messages a new meaning to life. If somehow I have this season brought to you an understanding of the vital brotherhood of man, I am happy. I hope someday to formalize the work I have done here in a creed for man. Not a creed to substantiate the teachings of any prophet . . . be he Jesus, or be he Buddha . . . but a creed for the God that lives in each of you eternally.

"This week is my final appearance as a civilian. Tomorrow, I enter the Army, to serve and -- in the capacity of a Chaplain -- to help, as I can, the men who, whether they realize it or not, whether their particular religion or theology has been able to evoke it for them, are fighting for this creed of love for man, I hope one day to see you again in the capacity of a humble servant of God. I thank you for your encouragement. I hope someday to establish a foundation to be simply called 'Seek the True Love.' The money I have earned by these appearances other than what has been required to provide food and shelter for my wife and myself, has already been earmarked for this purpose. Someday I pray, with your help and millions like you, my message will be spread through the entire world."

As Mat spoke, his voice ran up and down the dramatic scale. He thundered and then he spoke in hushed whispers. In words that sometimes approached the vernacular of the street, he explained that man in organized religion, both in the Christian and Judaistic life, had forsworn his birthright. He vividly described primitive fertility rites. The worship of the priapus and female sex organ as he evoked it brought a subdued gasp from the audience. Gently he tried to give them an understanding of these original gropings of primitive man in search of God. To understand the universe and its mysteries, he told them, through the fundamental sexuality of all living things contained the seeds of true comprehension.

"I tell you," he said, and his impressive height and gaunt figure attenuated by the green spotlight accentuated the fervor of his voice, "I tell you, that while this original sex worship went to extremes and resulted in depraved orgies, nevertheless these people had the grand conception that can keep man going forward for all eternity.

"What happened to this clear-sighted intuition of our ancestors? This intuition that brought them to worship the never-ending mystery of life and death? I'll tell you what happened! A little group of men arose who sought to channel this power to their own use. They were the first priests. They knew that if they were to control men, they would have to make the simple act of creation devious. They would have to add the element of FEAR." Mat screamed the words. "And I tell you they did just that ! First, there was a group who aided and abetted this primitive sex worship. Instead of leaving it alone for what it was . . . a simple wonder at the beauty of death and regeneration . . . a wonder that took form in priapic creations, not harmful in themselves . . . ah, but in this form not a source of power to anyone . . . instead of leaving the people alone, they contaminated them. How do you make power for control out of the organs of love? I'll tell you! You add the terrible word TABOO! Taboo."

Mat trailed the word into a terrifying whisper, and then he smiled. His voice returned to normal. "It scares you, doesn't it? By dint of repeating and repeating their sorry story these primitive priests indoctrinated their followers. They used the same basic method that Hitler has used in Europe. To help their cause they usurped the ultimate sex rites to themselves in ceremonies that if I told you about them would make you gag. A terrible defamation of the wonder of man. After many centuries they grew so powerful that everywhere they held primitive man in thralldom. But power begets power. Suddenly a new group of priests arose. This new group declaimed against these false prophets. I don't have to tell you about these new priests. Take your old Testament off the shelf. You can read the wrath they hurled at Sodom and Gomorrah. Unfortunately these old prophets were seeking power, too. Again, what better weapon to use than man's primitive wonder. Calumniate it . . . make it evil. How? An amazing idea taken over from a Greek fairy story and given a sexual twist by still a new group seeking power. The fall of man was conceived. They took the simple act of love of man for woman, a God-given desire , and introduced the serpent. And you, and you . . . and you," Mat pointed an accusing finger at the audience, "have inherited and sanctified that polluted idea . . . a worse pollution than Hitler's Mein kampf philosophy. If I had the time I could show you that Hitler and Mussolini are simply outgrowths of it. Someday the seeds of that pollution which has spawned war . . . and hate . . . and jealousy . . . will swallow us all up in its muck."

Yale could feel the audience in Mat's grip. Mat had them enthralled. He could hear the quick sighs of those Mat touched deeply. Yale listened to him in amazement as he attacked the early Hebrew prophets. Mat followed up with even worse denunciations of the early Christians. Yale wondered why Mat with these dangerous ideas hadn't created some kind of a religious riot. The audience was either basically Christian or Jewish. But in some way, Mat seemed to be able to say these things with such a warm sincerity, driving his message home, without benefit of religious or psychological jargon, that he reached back in time to some residue of the primitive wonder in every person who listened to him.

"I like him," Kathie whispered. "He's really saying that people are nice . . . if only other people would let them be."

Yale grinned. Maybe Kathie was right. He realized that somewhere in the past hour of listening his anger with Mat had vanished. Now Yale had only a vast curiosity to discover how Mat had arrived at this new dynamic philosophy of life. Had Cynthia been a part of this development?

Yale's thoughts were interrupted by the realization that Mat had suddenly disappeared from the platform. His voice continued even more persuasively over the microphones. The stage grew dim. For a moment the light disappeared entirely. The tent was in blackness. Mat's voice whispered, "And these are the words of Jesus, 'Think not that I am come to send peace on earth. I came not to send peace but a sword. For I am come to set a man at variance against his father; and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law.' Is this Jesus of ours a man of Peace?" Mat demanded. "No. He is a sower of hatred! Jesus managed to trump the awful wrath of the prophets with a new idea . . . an insidious hatred of sex. Think of this man who could ignore his mother and all women in his quest for power. 'Woman,' Jesus said to Mary, 'What have I to do with thee?'" Mat paused and then he thundered, "There is no future for the dignity of man in a concept so based on fear and disgust with the normal sex act that it required a virgin birth for its prophet.

"JESUS!" Mat's voice thundered. "I'll tell you what YOU and every man has to do with women." As Mat's voice reached an almost unbearable pitch, the stage was lighted with a hazy, soft blue glow. The audience, as if looking through swirling mists, caught the almost ethereal glimpse of a woman, standing naked in the middle of the stage, her arms raised, her head tilted to the sky. It was a dreamlike personification of Woman. The female principle in life, Yale thought, the essence of Beauty. As the light slowly dimmed he knew that, for a second, he had been staring at Cynthia! The lights came on full again. She had vanished from the stage.

"This should be your worship. The Worship of the ineffable wonder of man, and his receptacle of life . . . woman !" Mat had returned to the stage. "I offer you what you have always known. I only ask you to be unafraid of those who hate man. They travel in many guises. They will continue to dominate you with this fear and hatred. Stop them. Now! With the very wonder that makes you a man . . . or a woman."

Mat had finished. He bowed to his audience and disappeared through the trap door. Had Mat constructed it that way in the event he might cause a riot? The audience was moving out of the tent as if they were stunned.

"How did you like it?" Pearlstein demanded. "Wasn't that something? Boy, that guy could sell you the Brooklyn Bridge."

"I'm going to see if I can talk with him a minute," Yale answered. "He's a fellow I knew in college."

"No kidding! I think I'll tag along. I'd like to hear what he's got to say. Come on, Kathie, let's see what kind of a guy he is."

Yale wanted to protest. He would have preferred to see Mat Chilling alone but he was embarrassed to leave Pearlstein and Kathie without explanations. He shrugged. It probably wouldn't make any difference. Mat and Cynthia's reception couldn't possibly be cordial. What good would it do to confront them now with the fact that they were married. They knew it. They had probably been married five years. Could he scream at them . . . "Why couldn't you have told me?" Could he shout at Cynthia, "Why? . . . when I loved you so much? How could you do that to me?" No. It was too late for histrionics. Cynthia and Mat wouldn't believe that after five years he had never been sure what had happened. Not until just now. Nor could Cynthia ever understand that something of her, something indefinable like a shadow or a friendly ghost of herself, trailed constantly at Yale's side, holding him to her in a way that was sometimes frightening.

The pale-faced girl who sold tickets told them that Mat Chilling lived in a trailer behind the tent. She doubted whether he would see anyone.

Followed by Jake and Kathie, Yale walked toward the rear of the tent. The lights on the sign "Seek the True Love" were extinguished, leaving them in sudden darkness. For a moment Yale considered abandoning the idea of seeing Mat. Meeting him alone was one thing, but with strangers like Pearlstein and Kathie he knew he would be constrained. On the other hand, he thought, if I wait until tomorrow I may miss them entirely.

"What's the matter, Marratt?" Pearlstein asked. "Change your mind?"

"Well, I don't know. I haven't seen this fellow for nearly five years." As Yale spoke a flashlight flared in the darkness, blinding him for a second. "Are you looking for someone?" It was Mat Chilling.

"Mat! It's me, Yale Marratt." While Yale couldn't see his face, he could hear the gasp of astonishment. There was a long pause as the flashlight searched Yale's features.

"Cynthia, Cynthia," Mat shouted excitedly. "Come here! Look who is here."

"Yale, it's good to see you! Cynthia and I often have wondered how you were. Come on up to the trailer." While he was speaking Mat dropped the beam of the flashlight onto the ground. Even in the gloom, Yale could see that he was trembling. He is as surprised as I am, Yale thought. Yale noticed him looking at Jake and Kathie.

"These are a couple of people I met tonight," he explained, introducing them. "They were as fascinated as I was."

Yale was about to continue when he saw Cynthia at the door of the trailer. She jumped down two steps at a time, threw herself against him, and held him in a long embrace. "Yale! Yale Marratt!" She breathed in his ears. "I simply can't believe it! What are you doing in Miami?" Cynthia stood back and examined his uniform. "You're an officer -- a lieutenant!" As she talked she pushed him to the steps of the trailer. "Come on up. it's tiny but there's room enough. Bring your friends," she said, noticing Jake and Kathie.

They followed her into the trailer and sat awkwardly in camp chairs she arranged around a tiny table. Yale looked at Cynthia. The desire to reach out and touch her, to hold her close to him, was so overpowering that it brought tears to his eyes. God, he thought, after five years I'm still in love with her. He searched her oval, heart-shaped face, finding it still beautiful with wide brown compassionate eyes. She looked at him in wonder. "Yale -- oh, Yale -- you are a finance officer. How in the world . . . ?"

"No kidding," Mat interrupted. "I would have picked you for anything in the army but finance."

"I went to Harvard Business School." Yale's voice was a little distant. He realized that they were trying to probe him before he could delve into their background. "It was inevitable" He wanted to say, what else was there to do? You were gone, Cynthia -- with you went everything.

"So your father won that battle, too?" Cynthia asked quietly.

"I guess you might say so. But what about you two? If I am amazing to you, you are more so to me. You're married, I guess?"

Cynthia nodded and Mat said quickly, "We were married last year."

"Oh, I thought it was love at first sight. I had an idea you were married right after graduation."

There was a tense silence. Mat looked at Cynthia. She shook her head almost imperceptibly. Pearlstein, noticing the gap in the conversation, changed the subject for them. "That was some spiel you gave out there, Mr. Chilling. God damndest thing I ever heard! Pardon my English, but it's the first really refreshing idea I've heard on the subject of religion since I was Bar Mitzvahed."

Mat grinned. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"Oh, it was Wonderful" Kathie breathed. "So very, very true." Cynthia looked at Kathie, puzzled. There was a does-she-belong-to-you-Yale expression in her eyes.

"What did you find so true about it, Miss Winters?" Mat asked encouragingly. "You know, it helps me to get all types of reactions."

"Well," Kathie said, embarrassed at being singled out, "I guess I just think sex is natural and a lot of fun. Most people are afraid to say so. They think it's dirty. They hate you for doing what they'd like to do themselves."

"As Kathie gets your message, the only thing wrong with the world is the lack of a good sexual orgy," Yale said crudely.

"Oh, I do not! I . . . well, I don't know." Kathie stopped, evidently deciding she couldn't express herself with this group.

"Well, my message is not exactly urging sexual freedom," Mat explained. "It's rather that the world ultimately must accept that the only logical hope for man depends on inspiring him with a deep abiding love for both the wonder and frailty of man and woman."

"You could preach that from the rostrum of any church," Yale said. "Why use a cheap side-show technique . . . finishing it off with a strip act?" As he said the words he was sorry for them but somehow he couldn't control his bitterness. He looked at Cynthia. "Of course, you do have an expert in those matters. Don't you?" he asked sarcastically, staring at Cynthia who blushed.

"I'm sorry you feel that it is a cheap technique. The reaction I have had has been for the most part receptive. The public . . . the little man or woman in the street, like Kathie here . . . seem to have a basic understanding of their fundamental needs. In essence I am telling men that all love, the love of a man for his wife, for his mother or his father, or for the idea of women in general, is a deep permanent need, and nothing to fear . . . man should not even fear his transient desire for the pretty women he sees or his admiration for the sexual components of the female and vice versa. Of course, the established churches do not see eye to eye with me. But in glorifying love in all its aspects I can touch the heart of man and lead him . . . not to some cloudy heaven of the future -- but to the God that is in his every minute of living."

"I agree with you," Jake said, emphatically. He patted Mat on the shoulder. "Why don't you come over to the Beach with us and have a few drinks, Reverend? We'll have a good religious discussion." He stood up and Yale got up with him.

"Oh, you're not going so soon. Please stay a while, Yale," Cynthia pleaded. Yale wanted to stay, but what could he say to her in front of Mat, he wondered? What he had to say was too dangerously fraught with his love for her. And that was hopeless. "Oh, I guess I better go along with Jake and Kathie," he said. "Maybe, if I don't get shipped out, I'll drop around tomorrow morning and we'll have a talk. You've got an interesting idea, Mat. Maybe you'll start a new religion. Too bad the Army caught up with you. I shouldn't think they'd dare have your ideas circulating in an Army camp. You could start a civil war."

Mat laughed. "In the Army I will conform even as you have, Yale."

Cynthia took Yale's hand. As he returned the pressure of her grasp he felt the ring she was wearing. She withdrew her hand and held it against her breast. She looked at him strangely. His glance stopped on her fingers. She was wearing the ring he had given her at Midhaven College! The ring with the Yang and Yin symbol. Their engagement ring! Why . . . why did she still wear it? Did Mat realize it was his ring? Yale looked at her, astonished. Cynthia turned away, accepting with doubt in her eyes his promise to see them tomorrow.

As they walked away from the trailer, Yale was lost in thought. What had Cynthia been trying to tell him? She had obviously wanted him to see the ring. Was she saying that she still cared for him? It was crazy. She was married. Maybe they even had kids. He had been afraid to ask. God, he thought, why in hell did I ever go back to the trailer? Why am I mixed up so irrevocably with Cynthia? I thought I had it licked, and now after five years the past reaches out and grabs me so hard it makes me feel sick to my stomach.

"Let's go to Tangy's and tie one on," Pearlstein suggested. He hailed a taxi. "We've had enough of God tonight. What do you say, kids? It's on me."

Yes, Yale thought, I need a drink. Not one but several. Would he go back tomorrow to try and talk with Cynthia alone? No. Why get involved? It's dead. It's over. But, he knew if he wasn't shipped out that he would try to see her. He couldn't help himself.

Tangy's was crowded. They found a table. Opposite them on a tiny elevated stage behind the bar a pianist was singing dirty songs with a sneering voice. Jake ordered drinks which they gulped quickly. But the fourth round Yale was feeling less distraught. Jake had appropriated a pleasantly fat woman from the table next to them. Kathie drank her fourth drink and drummed on the table. Occasionally she joined in on the refrain of a song like "roll me over in the clover." As she sang she looked at Yale with an amorous expression.

"Our lieutenant here," Jake said to his companion, "has a yen, I think, for a little lady over in Miami."

"Don't carry a torch, honey," the plump woman said, affably breathing liquor and a smoky breath in Yale's face; "it'll burn you to a crisp."

"Did you love that girl?" Kathie demanded.

"Naw," Yale said drunkenly, wondering for a second why he just didn't get up and leave. "I love you, Kathie, old kid."

Jake leaned over and whispered in Yale's ear. "I'm all fixed up with this tomato. She's staying in a fancy joint up the beach. Here's the key to my room. You can have it tonight. Leave it at the desk," Yale felt the key being slid into his uniform pocket. "Thanks," he muttered. "I don't think so." But he didn't return the key.

The pianist who had been on an intermission returned to his elevated platform. "How are all you happy little drinkers?" he asked, leering at the audience. He sang a song filled with sexual innuendoes. His patent leather shoes beat an insinuating off-rhythm to his pounding of the piano.

"Sing the lamb song," someone yelled.

"Yeah, sing the lamb song!"

"So you're poor little lambs?" The pianist smirked.

"Yeah, we're poor little lambs." The crowd was enthusiastic. They tinkled their glasses with their cocktail sticks. The pianist assumed a choir boy expression. He struck a few chords and sang.

"We are poor little lambs who have lost our way, baa, baa, baa."

The crowd joined him. "We are poor little lambs who have gone astray, baa, baa, baa."

"I'm a poor little lamb . . . I'm a poor little lamb . . . Kathie said sadly. She fastened her lips on Yale. "Wanta make love," she whispered. "Your friend in the tent thinks it's a good idea. I think it's a good idea!"

Yale pushed her away gently. "You get the clap that way."

"No, honest to God, honest. I'm not a whore. I'm just lonesome as hell. You don't know what it's like to have been married, and then all of a sudden -- plop," she banged the table, "you don't have it anymore. You know somethin'. I've got two kids . . . two nice kids. Who'll ever want me? You know all I want is to be wanted. No one wants a woman with two kids except for a quick roll, and 'I'll be seeing you.' You know that?"

"That's all you'd get from me," Yale said.

"I know it," Kathie said. "But what else is there?"

2

Yale opened the door to Pearlstein's room. Kathie stumbled in ahead of him. She flopped on the bed, grinned at him drunkenly, twisted violently and then slid slowly off the other side, crashing into the wall.

Yale picked her up and deposited her back on the bed. He pulled off her shoes. The maid had turned the sheets down. Although it was warm, Yale pulled the sheet over her. For a moment he deliberated whether he should undress her, and then decided against it. She was obviously out cold; she breathed so heavily that it was close to snoring. Better to leave her here and go back to his hotel. It had been nearly a year since he had been with a woman but an inebriated pick-up was not appealing. Last night she had probably been with someone else. If he stayed, he would end up feeling sorry for her and for himself.

He was halfway out the door when she woke up. Where was he going?

"I thought you needed the sleep."

Kathie got out of bed. "Aw, please. Stay with me. I'm not a floozy. A year ago I had a nice little apartment in Miami. I had a husband and a new baby. I wouldn't have looked at you . . . even if you whistled."

"So your guy got knocked off," Yale said coldly, "and you started to peddle your hot ass."

"A year ago no one would have used such language with me. Am I that cheap looking?" She sighed. "I guess I am."

Yale came back and sat on the bed. "I'm sorry, Kathie. I don't know what in hell has gotten into me. I used to be a nice kid who thought all girls were made of sugar and spice."

Kathie grinned. "That's me. Honest, I'm sugar and spice. She turned her back to him. "Unzip my dress." Yale slid the zipper and released the catches on her brassiere. He watched her breasts come free. He knelt beside the bed and kissed them gently. Her fingers tightened in his hair. "Okay, Kathie, let's play house. Let's cuddle together and tonight forget that an army is slobbering around in the snow . . . freezing to death or being pulverized."

He made love to her gently; thinking, as he caressed her, that this was the third girl he had made love to in the nearly five years since Cindar had left him. You couldn't really call that an excessive amount of love-making for a man of twenty-six. Kathie caught the smile on his face. She asked him what was funny.

"Not funny," Yale said. "I'm afraid that I'm not very expert."

Kathie laughed. She pulled his face down against her cheek.

"You're fine, honey. Just don't come ahead of me. Please." It was over in a few minutes. A bit clinical, Yale thought. No vast emotions or involvement, just a physical release. She lay in his arms, her face nestled in his neck. He looked at the graceful curve of her shoulders, the undulation of hip and leg carelessly thrown over his legs, and he felt an intense sorrow for her frailty and the essential womanliness she would always have to deny. Why do we lose the breathless wonder of life? Yale stared at the ceiling and listened to Kathie's relaxed breathing. Even I indulge in labeling, he thought. By tacking a word on a person or thing, I pin it down. I can call Kathie a whore, a prostitute, or just a dame with hot pants. But these words are not Kathie. They corrupt any further possibility of knowing the essential Kathie. How little we know about each other, or for that matter, how little we understand the mystery of our own being! How amazing that we communicate with one another at all!

He remembered Marge Latham and the crazy night of Barbara's wedding when he nosed the Chris-Craft into the boathouse. In the glare from the floodlights the wedding guests could clearly see Yale and Marge standing naked in the boat. He remembered the gasp followed by a titter of laughter from the crowd assembled on the dock. Marge had simply waved good-naturedly and climbed out of the boat, walking past an astonished Pat Marratt, who perhaps for the first time in his life didn't know how to handle a problem.

She had said to her father, "Close your mouth, Daddy, and don't bother to take off your tux jacket. It won't cover the bottom half of me."

Several of the photographers, who had retained their professional grasp, snapped pictures. The flash of bulbs alerted Al Latham. He roared his disapproval, and the forty or fifty guests who had come down to see Pat's Chris-Craft all started to talk at once. Liz wasn't there, but Doctor Amos Tangle and Mrs. Tangle were. Marie Middleton was there with a lot of men and women he had vaguely recognized. Yale remembered with delight their look of shocked disapproval. Thinking back on it, he had been only dimly aware of what was happening. It was Marge who carried it off. Walking naked the agonizing distance from the boathouse to the back kitchen door, followed by a sheepish Yale, and the overtones of utter amazement of the guests who were still prurient enough to follow them en masse back to the house, in a predicament that would have made many women hysterical or wildly tearful, Marge was forcefully prosaic.

"It was very simple. We were hot. We went for a swim. Our clothes fell off the deck and got caught in a current. They drifted downstream before we could rescue them. Now, Mummy, don't get in a tizzy. It's not spoiling the party. No harm done . . . was there, Yale?" She had giggled and pointed at him. "Men are so silly looking, aren't they?"

Marge had known her audience. Sensing that if she showed any concern over the incident, it could have easily caused an histrionic display from her mother and Liz Marratt . . . to the delight of the other female guests . . . Marge, by being delightfully gay and chuckling as she repeated details of what had happened, forced the guests to treat the incident as something they almost wished had happened to them.

Liz had found a summer cotton of Barbara's that fitted Marge perfectly. Yale had put on white flannels and a sport shirt. In a few minutes they were on their way back to the wedding tent, followed by Liz and Marge's mother who shook their heads in wonder at the "crazy younger generation."

"Just get that cat-that-just-swallowed-the-canary look off your face. Act unconcerned," Marge warned him. "My father is ready to blow his top. Your father looks none too pleased. There will be hell to pay tomorrow, but if we keep it funny we've got it licked."

"Was it funny, Marge?" Yale had asked, wondering if their brief passion had touched her.

He remembered Marge had looked at him intently for a minute before she said, "Yeah, it was funny. Considering I wouldn't have minded being the one you really wanted to be with, it was real funny." She grinned at his sad look. "Come on, you dog. That's no way to look. I can name a half dozen fellows who would have been delighted to change places with you."

The next night at dinner Pat had only been briefly angry. "I'm sick of having you make a damned fool of yourself. If Marge Latham hadn't been a lady, last night could have been a real mess. I suspect that there was more to the story than she told. I know about the champagne. I know you were pretty damned drunk. To act that way at your only sister's wedding was inexcusable. I hope you appreciate that if Al Latham and I hadn't acted pretty swiftly, pictures of you and Marge, stark naked, would be circulated in half the newspaper offices in the state." Pat lighted his after dinner cigar. "It's all right to have fun, boy. This time thank God you picked one of our kind. I like Marge Latham. Al Latham is one of the best. It's just damned poor judgment for people with money to get caught off base like that. If this story gets around Midhaven, as it probably will, it will put me in a difficult position with my employees. The same with Al Latham. The man in the street loves that kind of crap. It lowers you down to his level; even below it. When he starts sneering at your morals, he thinks he is your equal. You weaken your position of leadership. A few years from now when you're in a responsible position with the company, you'll understand what I mean."

It was useless to disagree with Pat, although several times during the summer Pat's easy assumption that Harvard Business School and the Marratt Corporation should be ultimate goals for his son brought Yale to a pitch of anger he could scarcely restrain.

As he thought about it, holding Kathie in his arms, Yale realized that his real problem had been that he never had any clean cut plans for himself. For a time his love for Cynthia had helped focus his ideas and give him perspective. With Cynthia gone it simply hadn't mattered what he did. So, in a sense, Pat had won by default. If he could have said, "I want to teach," or "I want to write," if he had insisted with assurance that he really wanted to do these things, he might have escaped. But Cynthia, somehow, had constituted the mainspring of his existence. Over and over again during that summer he had gone over their college life together, trying to find the key that would give him the answer to Cynthia's crazy behavior. He had written letters to New Jersey. He had called her father. But his letters were returned unopened and Dave Carnell had sounded very constrained and distant. Finally, in a one-sided telephone conversation he admitted to Yale that he thought it really was for the best.

Yale knew that "for the best" meant the same thing Pat Marratt had implied when he called Marge Latham "one of our kind." The stupidity of it recalled to Yale the famous phrase about "the east and west." Man certainly had a wealth of jingoistic expressions to hide his ignorance behind.

During that summer he dated Marge Latham and worked in the advertising department of the Marratt Corporation under Bert Walsh. He knew that Pat and Liz were pleased as they never had been before with him. He remembered Liz telling Pat that she hoped "this was it." Pat had said, "When he finishes Harvard Business, I couldn't pick a better girl for him. A fine family."

Yale knew that if he had married Marge Latham, the wedding would have been a small scale merger of monarchies. The powers behind the scenes in Midhaven would have exchanged their blood, and the Marratts would at last be linked to a tradition that was several generations secure. But it hadn't worked out. The numerous times he took Marge out that summer they usually ended up at the bar at Midhaven Yacht Club or the bar of the Country Club, or in some "dive" that was popular, for the moment, with her friends. Marge seemed to have hundreds of friends in the "going steady" or "just married" category whose prime interest in life was sitting at bars, or spending the evenings in dimly lighted cocktail lounges where they drank and smoked and were admired by their male consorts. The conversation was carried on by innuendoes and gossip that presupposed a knowledge of the wealthier Midhaven younger group and their latest escapades; or it dwelt, usually unpleasantly, on the sexual behavior of some absent friend. Beyond the latest dirty joke, the newest hit song, the hot dance band, or the grimy newspaper scandal, these "friends" had little to bind them. Yale found the evenings so dull and sterile that he could keep himself interested only by getting progressively drunk.

Yale made no attempt to explain to Pat and Liz why, after a month of dates, he no longer saw Marge Latham. He knew they wondered . . . that they considered his lonely behavior odd, but since he spent most of his evenings in the house, reading, they had nothing they could really complain about. Liz asked him several times why he didn't go to the Club or why he didn't call up Bee Middleton or Marge Latham or invite some girl . . . any girl . . . to some special summer affair at the Club. He told her that he had lost all interest in girls, and smiled as she looked at him, bewildered. She said, "Well, I'm sure neither Pat nor I want you to end up a bachelor, dear."

She didn't answer when he replied sourly, "Just so long as I don't marry a Jew, a Chinaman or a Negro, you mean. With those alternatives to choose from you would probably prefer that I remain a bachelor."

Yale gently pulled his arm out from under Kathie. He looked at her sleeping. Naked . . . her body from ankle to head made a graceful arch. One arm under her pillow, her mouth open slightly, she breathed heavily, dreaming, no doubt, of a time and world lost to her forever. He knew he couldn't sleep tonight. The surprise of seeing Cindar again after nearly five years was still too close to the surface of his mind. Just five or six miles from this room she was sleeping in a trailer with Mat Chilling. If he went back tomorrow might he talk to her alone for a few minutes? Would be dare? Would the words, "I still love you, Cindar . . ." be so close to his lips as to make normal conversation impossible? Why couldn't he, in all this time, have found another woman?

At Harvard Business School there had been no lack of dates. Girls from Radcliffe, girls from Wellesley. Saturday evenings with his roommate, Sam Higgins, at the Latin Quarter or the Cocoanut Grove or out in South Boston at Blinstrubs, and always, each week -- like a man gone mad, searching for something impossible to discover -- he would date a different girl, calling this girl or that girl blindly on recommendations from Sam or some other student. And when the evening was over he knew that it was no fault of the particular girl; it was simply that he was looking for Cynthia again. He was looking for the easy companionship and love that they had enjoyed. A companionship which had become such a thorough blending of personalities that it would take years of effort to achieve it with someone else.

Yale stood on the tiny balcony window of the hotel room. He waved good-naturedly to a woman leaning out a hotel window on the other side of Collins Avenue. The street below was busy with traffic. A continual flow of tourists, soldiers and people in automobiles in search of excitement. The balustrade was high enough to conceal his nudity. The warm night air felt cool and strangely exciting. He wondered at his virility; restored so quickly. He thought of waking Kathie and then decided against it. With the two continent years at Harvard Business School followed by two years as an enlisted man and officer with no sexual experience, it was little wonder that he was so ready. But not again. Even during the few moments he had been with Kathie, brief and uninteresting as they were, he felt that he was somehow separating himself still further from Cynthia.

What a sterile four years they had been, he thought grimly. He remembered the week before he had left Midhaven for Harvard. Pat had called him into his office, and motioned to a chair beside his desk.

"I want you to know that this summer, all in all, I have been pleased with you. You've done a good job working with Bett Walsh. I think you might have got out and played a little golf instead of hanging around the house all the time -- but that will come." Pat offered him a cigar which Yale refused. "I've been thinking about the question of finances. Up to now, you've earned some money in the summer, not a hell of a lot; for the rest -- your clothes, your school, I've doled it out when you needed it. That's all over now. You are twenty-two. I had started this business when I was twenty-one." Pat picked up a check and slid it across his mahogany desk. "There you are. That's it. I'm through coddling you. The next money you get from me will be from my estate. Since I feel damned healthy I wouldn't sit around waiting, if I were you."

Yale remembered looking at the check, astonished. It was made out to him for ten thousand dollars.

"I've talked with one of the Deans. You can pay all your expenses and live comfortably at the Business School for twenty-five hundred a year. Many get through with considerably less. You must have saved at least five hundred this summer. You can work next summer. When you graduate you'll have at least five thousand left. Not a fortune, but five thousand more than I had, when I was your age, and no father to offer me a damned good job."

It was so typical of Pat that Yale could only smile. "I thank you for deciding that you can't own me, forever," he had said. "What bothers me, though, is now that I have money, what makes you think I'll stay at Harvard? I could just take off. Have some fun before the war catches up with the United States. Or I could join the R.A.F. I know a couple of fellows who have."

Pat had chuckled. "You know why I think you'll go through Harvard? Because you know I think that you haven't got the guts. I've got three H.B.S. graduates right here in the plant. They tell me it's a pretty tough course. Seventy hours a week. You may be a Phi Beta Kappa. You may be smart as hell in English and Philosophy but when it comes to business, you don't know which side is up. You're like those damned 'brain trusters' in Washington. Never earned an honest dime in their lives, yet they think they can run the country. Someday Roosevelt and his gang will take the incentive right out of the whole system, and it'll collapse on their thick heads." Pat smoked his cigar. "You think I'm a tough bastard, don't you? Well, I've learned that some men you drive by making them love you; some by making them hate you. Go ahead, it wouldn't surprise me at all if you flew the coop. But you won't fly very far on ten thousand. Keep it in mind." The discussion was over. Yale knew that he was being dismissed as casually as any other Marratt employee.

"I just want to ask you one thing," Yale remembered saying. "If I were engaged to Cynthia, would you have given me this check?"

Pat looked at him coolly and said, "I would never give you carte blanche to marry a Jew. It's obvious the girl had more sense than you have."

Yale remembered the day he arrived at Soldiers Field, and met his roommate Sam Higgins. Sam, the only son of a wealthy New York stockbroker, had listened in dismay to the introductory lecture given by Dean Donham in the Baker Library.

"I don't know," Sam told Yale, as they walked to their room in Gallatin Hall, "I'm not hot on this idea of slaving seventy hours a week. Only damned reason I came here was to please my old man. The way he figures it, I'm only twenty-two. There's absolutely no reason according to him why I should get into the brokerage racket so young. Learn business. Get that M.B.A. degree. That's prestige, he says. I told him, bull! Most of the men who have made a fortune on the street, including him, never went to college, let alone have a master's degree. In the market it's horse sense that counts. They can't teach you that." Sam flopped on the window seat in their room. He stared across the quadrangle at the Charles River. "Don't expect to find me cooling my ass around here every night. I'm going to enjoy a little of this Boston 'poontang.'"

There were as many kinds of reactions to the Dean's welcome as there were men in the first-year class. The lecture had been obviously designed to jar the men out of their easy "college-day" mentality . . . to awake them to the stern reality of graduate school. Yale remembered that as the months went by the pressure both real and imaginary increased until even Sam was studying into the small hours of the morning. Most of the first-year men had responded with the courage of those who refused to be defeated.

Slowly, as Yale spent hundreds upon hundreds of hours poring over business cases, trying to solve problems in accounting, finance, advertising, administration, industrial management, business policy, he began to realize, that while he was capable of doing the work and responding in a manner that would result in high marks, he was not reacting with the same intensity as most of his classmates. Before mid-years he discovered that by sheer concentration, he could memorize the needed facts for any course. By approaching most of the business problem cases with knowledge of human psychology and a general knowledge of the business environment Yale learned that he could "solve" them as effectively as most of his classmates who spent hours toiling in their rooms. In March he gave up taking notes. He rented an Ediphone, dictated his reports on wax cylinders, and had them transcribed by a public stenographer. Teaching the efficient old lady how to type a correct business report was surprisingly easy. She even learned what was expected in the area of terse business English, automatically paring his reports down when he became too verbose.

Sam Higgins watched what was happening with disgust and envy. Yale remembered that he had managed to cut the seventy hours a week required of a career businessman down to about twenty-five hours; a few hours in class, and a couple of hours a day preparation for the coming classes.

"I don't see how in hell you do it," Sam had complained. "Half the evenings you are either reading some damned book on philosophy that you picked up in Harvard Square, or you are going to Symphony Hall. You're no businessman! You are one of those long hairs from the other side of the Charles River. All the rest of us have to grind like bastards, while you are farting around . . . or reading crap. Not even any woman. What in hell makes you tick, Marratt?"

Yale remembered the night he tried to explain himself to Sam. "You see, it isn't that I don't give a damn. I suppose there is a certain interest in running a business, and making it successful, but it's a question of ends and means. If I frighten you, believe me most of the characters around here positively scare me to death. I sit in the back of the classes and watch them literally pour themselves into these business problems. I wonder what motivates them; and then as I think about it, I'm afraid. I know. These are the men of tomorrow! Most of them came here from an engineering college or another business college. Business isn't just a way of life to them. It is life. In a way they are developing themselves into some kind of fantastic super-machines. Believe me, I used to think my father was tough, but he's just one of the old-fashioned kind. In another twenty years, when these boys are running businesses, Pat Marratt will be as useless as a Model T Ford. These bright young wonders will run everything and plan everyone's life with slide rules and I.B.M. machines. Sure, I've learned to use a slide rule, but only in self defense. For these fellows business is real, business is earnest. They thank God for their unconquerable soul. By the nineteen-sixties they'll own the thousand or so companies who do seventy-five percent of all the business in this country. If Yale Marratt came looking for a job from them . . . God forbid . . . they'd quickly analyze him, and with their aptitude tests they'd discover that he might be a genius . . . but, alas, he would have a fatal weakness . . . he wouldn't really believe that all this tempest in a teapot was worth the effort. You see, Sam, I have discovered that it isn't that I don't like business . . . it's just that businessmen with their one-sided, give-it-everything-you've-got approach, bore hell out of me. Which gets me back to ends and means. The end of living for me is to know everything; knowing that I never will, is part of the fun. It adds to the delight to know the search is endless. Most of the people I have met in business, have a very simple goal: they want either power or money. It makes them pretty dull people."

What Yale hadn't admitted to Sam was that somehow he was on the same merry-go-round. The desire to learn, the quest for meaning in life, was nowhere near so strong for him as it had been when he had had Cynthia to share his enthusiasm. Now, the freedom that he had obtained by reducing his courses to a formula, left him with lonesome unshared hours, skating on the Charles in the winter, or sitting on its banks in the spring, or probing in dusty bookstores in Harvard Square, or sitting in a lonely seat at Symphony concerts, or riding the subway to Boston and prowling through darkened streets as he looked for the companionship he couldn't discover. And there was no surcease from this almost overwhelming feeling of being a man alone . . . of not being a part of the warm, laughing stream of humanity that passed him on the Boston streets. And even worse, he was pursued by an insidious feeling that somehow he must shake loose. If he didn't he would sink into a rut in Midhaven, owned by Pat Marratt and the Marratt Corporation. He had to discover some other reason for his existence, some other meaning for his life.

There had seemed to be no answer. And then one day in April, he had gone with Sam to the Boston branch office of Higgins, Incorporated on State Street. That was the day he met Agatha Latham. Yale remembered that Sam had tried to beg off when Jack Wills, the Boston manager, had asked him if he would drive Agatha Latham home to Belmont.

"Have a heart, Jack, old man. I've been studying like a bastard. I don't want to get saddled with that old creep." Sam had looked nervously in the direction of the call-board room. He said to Yale, "She's another Hetty Green. More damned money than you ever dreamed of. She's related to the Lathams from your neck of the woods. Alfred Latham's older sister, I think. She's a wild old witch. Dad introduced me to her a couple of years ago."

Wills explained that Agatha Latham's chauffeur, an elderly man whom she called Butch, had gone home to Vermont for two weeks. Agatha, who couldn't drive a car, was living alone and was very demanding to say the least. "She's down here every damned day, poring over corporation reports. Believe me that old dame knows the highs and lows of every company listed on both exchanges as well as their dividend payments for the past ten years. You fellows could learn more from her than you'll ever learn at Harvard."

Yale had been curious. He had heard about the legendary Agatha Latham. He remembered Pat had mentioned her as being a thorn in the flesh of Alfred Latham. He remembered that Agatha had been accused of contributing huge sums, during the depression, to zany causes. Yet she had refused to aid her brother financially when the Latham Shipyards had been near to bankruptcy. Agatha hadn't lived in Midhaven since her father, Lincoln Latham, had died, but she occasionally came to visit Alfred. Yale remembered hearing Pat impart the information that Agatha was in town. She usually came once a year to the stockholders meetings of the Latham Shipyards. Yale understood that on these days Alfred moved into the Club. Leaving Agatha to his wife, he drank a few more than his customary one drink a day.

Jack Wills reminded Sam that Agatha was the largest investing client that Higgins Incorporated had. Sam reluctantly decided to drive Agatha to Belmont. He knew that if he refused, Jack would pick up their New York phone and let Higgins Senior do the convincing. Jack Wills took them into the call-board room. He introduced them to a tiny five-foot-two-inch lady. Jack referred to her in very polite tones as Miss Agatha. Yale recognized in Agatha's grey-blue eyes and pert expression a resemblance to Marge Latham. He was amused that despite her petite appearance (he found out later that she weighed just ninety-eight pounds) she conveyed a tremendous sense of power and dignity.

She had looked at them sternly. "Mr. Wills, when I visit with you you know I always wait until the New York Stock Exchange closes." She looked at her watch. "I will be ready to leave in twenty-three minutes. I'm sure that Sam Higgins' son will be pleased to wait for me." She wrinkled her brow when she looked at Yale. "Marratt? Yale Marratt? Of course! You belong to that big blustering man who is a friend of my brother's in Midhaven. A very rude man! I haven't seen him for ten years."

For the next twenty minutes instead of watching the board Agatha talked continuously. She gave them a quick history of Midhaven from the time of the Civil War. She discussed the pros and cons of Pat Marratt selling his stock in the Marratt Corporation on the open market. She slid into a discussion of her brother Alfred whom she felt had lost his touch. He didn't have the ability to meet the current situation. He needed the drive of a man like Henry Kaiser, and his son Edgar, if he wanted to capitalize on the world situation. Not just a few cruisers but thousands of tankers. She told them if they had any Latham Shipyard stock to sell it. Or if they wanted to buy some she would sell hers to them. When Jack Wills tried to edge away and return to his office, she insisted that he listen to the problems she was having since Butch had gone home to Vermont. She explained to them that Butch was her chauffeur. She told them that Butch was seventy-three years old and that she was seventy-four. She told them she wouldn't consider marrying Butch because he was too much of a fuddy-duddy. In fact, she had named him Butch after a character she had seen in a gangster movie. She had decided to name him Butch to help his ego. Her firm opinion was that a rose by another name would not smell so sweet. If her father hadn't named her Agatha, she would have married. Girls with names like Agatha had a strike against them. She had noticed a definite improvement in Henry's character since she had named him Butch. Everyone needed some sense of ego. She gave them a rapId dissertation on the necessity for a strong sense of ego.

She was still talking in a calm, modulated voice when she interjected the fact that the New York Stock Exchange was now closed; that rails and steel had held firm which was only to be expected because anyone with any sense could see that the United States would be in a war very soon.

Sam and Yale led Agatha to the elevators, guiding her to the parking lot where Sam had left his car. Agatha kept talking. Sam drove out Storrow Drive, in sullen anger, while Agatha advised Yale that she liked to be called Aunt Agatha . . . that if he and Sam were learning anything at Harvard Business School it would surprise her . . . that President Eliot certainly hadn't taken her advice, or he never would have started a Business School . . . that business couldn't be taught to young men. Business was for old men and maiden ladies. When a man was young he should devote himself to young women. That businessmen were a boring lot anyway. Look at her brother Alfred. A very dull man with a dull wife, a dull son and a dull daughter and a dull hobby that no respecting man would engage in.

Aunt Agatha was well into a discussion of the evils of golf when Yale realized that Sam had turned into Harvard Business School. He pulled into the parking lot behind the library.

Agatha turned to Sam. "Now, Junior, I've been in George Baker's library many times. You just take me home to Belmont."

Sam had looked at her feebly. "To tell you the truth, Auntie, I've got an afternoon class." He smiled thinly at Yale evidently wondering whether Yale would reveal his lie. "Yale has a brand new Ford convertible. He'd just love to drive you home."

At Agatha's insistence, though it was early April, Yale had put the top down on his car. And strangely, as they drove toward Belmont, she stopped talking. Yale asked her if she felt all right. He caught the twinkle in her eye, as she replied, "Young man, I'm a woman. I like to hear myself talk. I lead a rather secluded life. Occasionally, I find a captive audience. It gives me a chance to test my lucidity." She chuckled. "Junior had more sense than I expected. He escaped, and left you trapped with me."

But Yale hadn't felt trapped. Aunt Agatha's fast, probing mind entranced him. On the way to her home he stopped at a roadside restaurant, and ordered her tea which she accepted, with delight. "I like you, young man. You show considerable skill at making me feel like a woman instead of an old lady."

"Let's say that I like ladies, young and old, with a dash of vinegar," Yale had said. It was the beginning of a friendship that lasted through the remainder of his Harvard Business School years.

As he watched the ffickering neon signs on Collins Avenue, wondering whether to go back to bed with Kathie, or sneak out and return to the Floridian Hotel, Yale remembered that from the moment Aunt Agatha offered to hire him and give Butch a rest, a few afternoons a week, his memories of Harvard would always be mixed up with Agatha's Victorian house in Belmont. He would never forget the evenings when the three of them, Butch, Agatha, himself, sitting uncomfortably on horsehair couches, fending off innumerable cats, discussed business, the stock market, Agatha's charities, modern poetry, music, philosophy, the current news, and Agatha's one experience with love that had cost her nearly a million dollars, but had saved her five million.

It was in the fall of his second year at Harvard Business that Aunt Agatha revealed that she knew a good deal more about Yale than he had realized.

He remembered Agatha opened the discussion by saying, "I couldn't spend an evening with your father, young man; I would find him extremely boring. In fact, he and my brother make good companions since they are on the same mental level. However, if you inquired in Midhaven this summer you no doubt discovered that I'm the crazy maiden aunt who lives in Boston with her cats and twice as many millions as I really have. I am considered crazy. Alfred would have me committed if he could. In 1930, I refused to lend the Latham Shipyards any money. He told me that the Yard would go bankrupt and that I would lose my stock. I told Alfred that since our father had seen fit to give him fifty thousand more shares than me, he rightly expected that a man would be able to manage the Yard better than a woman. I told Alfred that it would undoubtedly build up moral fiber that he was definitely lacking to get out of the situation without my help." Auntie Agatha had smiled, like a meek little old lady, at her audience composed of the wispy Butch who cooked the meals and Yale Marratt who had come to share the job of chauffeuring.

In a thin little voice, a gnome-like expression on his face, Butch had explained to Yale: "Aunt Agatha likes the Clark Gable type. That's why she refuses to marry me."

Aunt Agatha ignored him. "Now, I don't want you to think I don't admire your father, young man. I think he is the salt that can keep this Roosevelt system of capitalism from becoming rather pallid." Agatha banged the table with her hand. "He's the type that refuses to conform to these wild-eyed social planners. There are too many men who feel that the United States is simply a jigsaw puzzle with so many pat pieces. Too many men who think that they can make us all conform to their idea of what is best for us. When they finish there will be big jagged pieces that you can label Pat Marratt. You can thank the good Lord that the Pat Marratts still exist in this country." She saw Yale shrug his shoulders. Then, she dropped her little surprise. "I know you feel that your father is a narrow, biased man. Doctor Tangle dropped in to see me this summer." She smiled at Yale's shocked expression. "When you have a great deal of money, you acquire some strange friends. Useful, though. Don't you forget that, young man! From our mutual friend, Doctor Tangle, I learned about your Jewish girl friend. I also learned that Pat Marratt is surprised that you survived the first year at Harvard Business, and will be doubly surprised if you make the second."

Agatha had paused. She looked at Yale very carefully before she spoke again. "During the summer I thought this over very carefully. I wondered how I could repay the generosity of a young man named Yale Marratt who devotes so much time to an old lady."

"I'm planning to steal that oil painting in the front hall for repayment," Yale said, grinning at her.

"In case you don't think I know, that painting is a Copley." Agatha said coolly. "You can have it together with the one over the fireplace. They'll only bring you a few thousand dollars. They are his early period."

"Do you measure everything by money, Aunt Agatha?" Yale asked.

Agatha looked at him bitterly. "My father left me a hundred thousand dollars and some shares in the Latham Yards. He had stuffed so much education into me that I never could find a man who measured up to some artificial idea I had of myself. When I got to be forty years old and had no husband I knew that I had to prove myself some other way. I decided that I would do it right, in the same area that had meant so much to my father and my brother. Money. Only money doesn't own me, young man. I own it! And that's the difference! My income last year from investments was slightly over two million dollars. Butch and I lived here last year for a total annual expenditure of about twenty thousand. A good portion of the balance that is left to me after brokerage fees and in- come taxes is donated to various Jewish refugee organizations."

Yale didn't try to apologize to her. He listened, in wonder, as Aunt Agatha proposed to teach him everything she had learned about investing. She had found out that Pat had given him ten thousand dollars. She demanded to know how much was left. She was pleased to find that he still had six thousand dollars.

"Sell your car, young man. That will give you another thousand. I'm not going to give you a red cent, but I'm going to help you prove that someday you can beat Pat Marratt at his own game. And that's going to be the best thing that ever happened to you, or I miss my guess. But it isn't going to fall right into your lap, young man. You are going to study like you never have before."

Agatha hadn't been fooling. Before the final year at Harvard was over, with Agatha as a demon tutor, Yale worked his way through practically every book available on the subject of finance. He found as he studied the stock market and learned the intricacies of stocks and bonds and warrants and puts and calls, and learned from Agatha the practicalities of day-to-day buying and selling and investing, that the whole subject was further confused by ever changing legal patterns and tax laws. Driven by Agatha, he read widely in corporation law. He waded through endless investment surveys that Agatha subscribed to. The more he studied, the more he was amazed by the seemingly limitless breadth of Aunt Agatha's knowledge. He told her that she astounded him. He remembered that it was the only time that he had seen tears in the old lady's eyes.

"I know so much, young man," she said sadly, "that I was fifty-six before I found a man. He was what Butch would call the Clark Gable type. A very big, uneducated man. He would pick me tight off the ground and hug me. He called me his little doll. That was in nineteen twenty-eight. One day he asked me in his very endearing way how much money I had. It was about six million dollars, then; all of it in the stock market. He told me that he wanted to marry me but he pointed out that he couldn't live on his wife's money. I knew that he had no money of his own. I assigned a million dollars in blue chip stocks to him. A week later he disappeared." Agatha sighed. "I was so broken up that I told Junior's father to sell me out of the market. I had lost interest in everything. I took a trip around the world. I was in Paris in October of nineteen twenty-nine. So you see, young man, some of this investing business is luck. If Maguire, that was his name, had married me, I probably would have lost over five million dollars. Poor Maguire. He was so ignorant that I'm sure he probably left his million in the market, thinking he would have two million."

Yale tiptoed back into the room. Kathie was still sleeping. He took his clothes into the bathroom and slowly got dressed.

In a way, he thought, I was in love with Aunt Agatha. A wonderful, sprightly old lady. He wondered if she was still holding out in her Belmont house surrounded with shiny new retail stores. "They'll never get this place," she had told him. "I've got a half-acre right in the middle of everything. They offered me fifty thousand for the house. Imagine that, young man! Fifty thousand dollars just to tear it down! Well, they'll never get it. I changed my will yesterday. I'm going to leave enough money some day to support this place as a free clinic for cats. The Latham Cat Hospital. I must write and tell my brother, Alfred. He'll be delighted."

Dressed in his uniform, Yale deliberated whether to leave money for Kathie. He decided against it. He scribbled on a piece of hotel stationery. "It was nice, Kathie. Take care." Quietly he closed the hotel room door. Walking toward the Floridian Hotel, he thought about the money belt be had left there. Carelessly dropped into his barrack bag, it contained twenty thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills. With Agatha's help he had paid for the last year at Harvard and made twenty thousand dollars to boot. What had he proved? That twenty thousand dollars, and the ability to invest or speculate wisely had failed to appease the awful sense of loneliness that pursued him. Now, two years later, wearing the U.S. Army Finance department diamond insignia and the shiny gold bars of a second lieutenant, he, like the rest of the people in the world was racing nowhere with a deadly seriousness.

Walking through the hotel lobby he smiled vaguely at an attractive blonde wearing a Red Cross uniform. But his thoughts were with a girl sleeping in a trailer in Miami.

3

Anne Wilson walked up to the outgoing passenger desk at the Floridian Hotel for the third time. This was typical army, she thought. They had put her on call for overseas departure at ten in the morning. Now it was nine-thirty in the evening and she was still waiting.

"Do you think that the plane will go out tonight?" she asked wearily. The sergeant at the desk gave her a sad look. "You and about twenty others are wondering the same thing. In case you don't know it, you are flying Pan American to Casablanca. From there the Air Transport Command picks you up. Maybe the wings have fallen off the plane. At any rate from the looks of things it won't go out for another couple of hours."

Anne walked slowly through the lobby, watching the crowds of army officers, wondering which of them would be on the plane with her. They were so young and yet looked so important. Several of them stared at her as she passed. Out near the hotel's deserted swimming pool she sat in a beach chair and hoped that no one would follow her. She didn't feel able to fend off the glib approach that some of these young lieutenants had acquired. In a few minutes of conversation they had you sized up as a possible bed companion. Some had the idea that the Red Cross girls were provided, courtesy of Uncle Sam, for just one thing. Enlisted men were easier to handle. Most of them seemed just glad to have a girl to talk with.

She remembered her conversation with Mr. Gisler, the field director to whom she reported. "I want to go overseas," she had said. "I didn't join the Red Cross just to run an enlisted man's club in the States."

"What's your hurry, Anne? You've got a good spot here in Miami. A lot of the girls would give their right arm to get stationed here." Mr. Gisler was good-hearted. He tried to figure out why each girl was in the Red Cross. Then he adopted the attitude of father-confessor. He knew about her husband. Dead on Guadalcanal after less than sixteen months a soldier. He had been killed six months after Anne had joined the Red Cross. Her promise to follow him wherever he went in the army could never be kept. Once she knew of Ricky's death, she had no longer tried to get assigned in the Pacific theater. It didn't matter where she went -- just so long as she kept moving. She had been certain of one thing. She hated Miami with its melting pot of soldiers, sailors and civilians living as if there were no war. Living as if their own pursuit of immediate pleasure was all that mattered. She kept working on Mr. Gisler for reassignment. Last week he had called her into his office.

"Well, you asked for it! You are assigned to the Assam Valley. To one of the dirty little bases set up by the Army to ferry pipe into the China end of the Burma Road." He looked at her grimly. "A lot of these fellows have been over there for three years."

What you mean is they haven't seen any white girls."

Mr. Gisler had been embarrassed He started to give her the routine advice. How she should conduct herself. How to maintain the Red Cross distance, and yet give the soldiers all the feeling of companionship that they might get from any girl in the States. To stay away as much as possible from the officers. The officers had nurses. Red Cross clubs were for the enlisted men. In a few seconds Mr. Gisler managed to cover every admonition she had received since joining the Red Cross.

"A smile means so much," Mr. Gisler had said, smiling himself and showing a decayed tooth. "You are a very lovely woman, Mrs. Wilson. You'll have to . . . well, you know what I mean."

Anne knew what he meant. When she walked up to a group of them and said, "Hi, boys," their mouths would open and they would grin foolishly. Someone would remark, "Gosh, the Red Cross is coming up in the world! Where did they get you?"

She had heard them say, "Have you seen that blonde dish with the deep blue eyes? Brother what a shape." Or, "Boy, would I like to get into that." Or, "What a pair of tits, yum, yum." And she had smiled. Not from conceit, but amusement. The difficulty was keeping out of their grasp. For every one that looked and admired, there were two that wanted to grab or touch. They acted like disappointed children when she gently repulsed them.

She accepted it as a fact that men were attracted to her. It meant nothing. The one man who had counted was dead. Maybe there would be another man, but she would never lose the memory of her first and only love.

You grow up with a boy, she thought. A rough and tumble, tously haired kid who was always going on expeditions in the woods to examine trees, to collect leaves and plants. You wander along with him, carrying his precious collections, helping him catch all kinds of strange bugs and insects, and pretty soon you care for him so much that you begin to lose your own identity and you're in love though you're only ten years old and don't know what love is.

Maybe you do know. Maybe you do. You begin to share his thoughts. Boy thoughts. And you love his excitement with life as he calls you, "Fancy! Fancy. Look at this spider! Watch him. Isn't he wonderful?" And you know somehow he is different from the other kids. He's only twelve but he lives in a wonderland of birds and flowers and insects, and he shares his secrets and his knowledge with you.

She remembered going to Ricky's house. How Mr. Wilson accepted her easily and talked with Ricky and her, like grown-ups about the wonders of life. "Right in your own back yard," he had said, "are entire worlds pursuing their destiny; unaware of human beings. Underfoot in the insects you crush, in the grass you walk over, is all the unsolved mystery of life and living."

Sitting in Mr. Wilson's den, cluttered with books and specimens, she and Ricky spent many afternoons while his gentle father explained to them the wonderful world of flora and fauna. Afterwards, Ricky would talk with her while she looked at him wide-eyed, not fully understanding, but feeling a wonderful urge to hug him and tell him how much she cared for him.

It was you, Ricky, every step of the way. It had been really a marriage from childhood through college. When he finished high school Ricky went to Western Reserve. He was there when she arrived. He, a glamorous junior. She a freshman.

He guided her in her courses. "Don't go too far in biology," he advised her. "Take some, but branch out into something else. Maybe psychology or sociology. I don't think a man and wife should have identical interests. Do you?" He looked at her seriously. She must have had a question on her face. "Fancy, Fancy, you are going to marry me some day? I suppose I haven't been very romantic or anything, but I've always thought of life with you in it. You're my religion, Fancy. A man can't go very far in the world without that."

I cried, she thought. I loved you so much, I cried. There are some emotions too big to hold onto. You have to release them. That's what I'm doing now, Ricky. Trying to release all the pent-up love that is in me by helping. It isn't much, she thought. I mother the kids. Talk to them about their home, their girl friends, their wives. I hand them a cup of coffee, light them a cigarette, and see the tears behind their eyes. You don't know what loneliness is until you see them and have the same loneliness in your heart. Sure, they whistle at me, but they're whistling in the dark of their own unhappiness. It's a kind of curtain they pull between themselves and the past. On one side is a tough what-the-hell attitude, on the other -- the side they keep to themselves -- is home and whatever it may mean.

You can't think when you're lonely. Not coherently. You just feel. You feel the night, moon-pale and the sky black. You feel the smell of Miami Bay. The lonesome, dead smell that the tide leaves behind. It reminds you of other bays and other tides, and all you know is that you are lonely. Tears are at the corners of your eyes. You wonder what loneliness consists of, and you know that it is an aching of the mind that throbs through your body as though part of you had been torn away.

For long minutes the moon would disappear, Miami Bay would be black. Then, as the cloud disappeared, islands across the bay would reappear; skylighted dragons creeping toward the ocean. Bent, wind-weary, palms shivered in the light breeze, their fronds restless. The music of a popular song and the thrashing discords of the orchestra seemed remote and cleansed out here. Lonely, too, and ephemeral.

We were married once, Ricky. I guess we're married still, she thought, in a funny sort of way. I could be in there dancing, she thought. I could be. I could be home. It's Christmas Eve back home, and there's snow on the ground. Heaps of it. She had seen pictures of it in the Miami papers. They deprecated it as if to say, "Aren't you glad you're here? Aren't you glad you're warm while those poor people have to suffer the cold?"

She had been walking down Lincoln Road wishing she was cold when she saw those pictures. Her body ached with the feel, the long vanished feel of her husband. She remembered how his cheeks would be cold and red. How she would press her face against them. How she enjoyed standing on tip-toe as she reached up to meet his embrace.

She would drop her fur coat in a heap on the sofa, and kiss him and muss his hair; talking all the while in the excited eager chatter of a schoolgirl. "Rick, we're going to have steak tonight. I splurged. And I made ice-cream too, with fresh strawberries. Well, frozen. I love you! You look so cute with your hair mussed. May Thomas is going to have a baby! What do you think of that? Don't you think we should get started? I made rolls, too. Aren't I a good wife?"

Back. Back somewhere in the confusion called time. Back when I wasn't sitting here in Miami waiting for my name to be called over a public address system . . . we were married, Ricky.

Remember our first dance at Western Reserve? I had on a lacy white evening gown that showed the tops of my breasts. I heard one of the fellows -- probably Willy Anderson -- remark, "Wow what a pair of boobs." You were angry. Willy didn't mean anything. I probably should have worn a less revealing dress. You seemed to really belong to me that night. Your eyes kissed me when I looked at you. It was all kind of silly and adolescent, I suppose. You touched my breasts. You put your face against them, in the car. It seemed as if I were protecting you against something. I held onto your hand, as if the only reality were you.

I've always been afraid, Anne thought. Once I was afraid I would die before I accomplished all the things I had planned. I remember myself at Western Reserve. Those were the days when all the boys argued hotly that they'd be god-damned if they would ever fight in a foreign war. They would go to jail first. I went to America-First rallies with Ricky and I applauded Gerald P. Nye and Charles Lindbergh. I knew that Ricky wouldn't fight. Yet the fear was there. The everlasting fear that he would have to go to war . . . wanting to or not . . . understanding or not. I knew in my heart that America's college days were ending. America was graduating. Life was real. Free will as you planned it was not the graduation gift.

It's strange, she thought, what a change in values had occurred in just three or four years. There had been books on their shelf at home that were meaningless. She could remember when she and Ricky had discussed Steinbeck or Richard Wright, or Erskine Caldwell. It all seemed so important, then. So terrible that such outrages against human decency could exist in the United States of America. Richard Wilson would set some of these things right, and Anne would help. These things shouldn't happen here. Then the war came, and what could be encompassed by the mind . . . poor whites here, or unfortunate Negroes there, or persecuted Jews, or vile capitalists . . . could no longer be grasped. It was beyond the power of one man to correlate the evil in the world and crusade against it. Tragedy on so vast a scale was incomprehensible. You lived with it and you ignored it. You substituted a flippant fatalism for the philosopher's dream called free will.

Some day the smaller struggles would emerge but to what extent would her generation care? What would these soldiers do afterwards?

How did you really know that you were Anne Wilson? People said you were. They addressed you as if you were the same "I" who had graduated from the Red Cross school, the same "I" who majored in sociology at Western Reserve and graduated cum laude while Mom and Dad sat somewhere in the audience, beaming and proud. To them you were the same "I" who was born Anne Meredith, May 11, 1919. The baby girl who made them so happy. But were you the same "I"? -- the same "I" who had married Richard Wilson who now was dead?

The "I's" were not the same. They were hundreds of separate "I's." If you wished you could call them Anne Wilson but they weren't the same people, simply friends who met once in a while in your mind. Friends to whom you nodded in passing.

The "I" was wind-tossed by ceaseless experience coming too rapidly for assimilation and comprehension. Some things stood out here and there. It was like Marcel Proust's cup of tea. A smell, a touch, a feeling could bring memory crowding painfully to the foreground of consciousness as if the "I" sought to re-establish itself, to reassert that it really existed. But Proust was wrong, she thought. Memory doesn't come back in a flood bringing a whole life with it. It comes back in isolated snatches without meaning, and without desiring it.

The moldy smell of the bay at low tide was an old smell. She had breathed it before when she and Ricky had taken their one vacation on Cape Cod. It was an odor of time gone by. She fought it, feeling that the mystery of this dank, cold smell was something she shouldn't probe too deeply.

That summer they had been driving along the road between Provincetown and Hyannis. Why they had gone to Provincetown she couldn't remember. Not everything comes back; gestures and feelings, yes . . . not reasons. Perhaps, they had found a movie somewhere up that way. She and Ricky were always going to movies.

It was odd, she thought, even then we couldn't stop going. It was a madness. A warning, presaging the events to come, this endless going; this urge to escape from something. The clouds that were gathering around us were too large to drive away from or even fly away from, but we all kept hopefully moving. The strong ones will have to stop some day, she thought, and face it. Face the paucity of our own souls in the light of day, and answer the probing questions.

She tried to recall the evening. The memory was thin, wafted in on a smell of tide from Miami Bay; eager to vanish. It had been a cold summer night, with a heavy fog. She remembered the windshield of their car was clouded over with precipitation. The windshield wipers fluttered back and forth. An easterly wind blew in between the door and frame of the car. The cold breeze swept along the floorboard. Her left leg had seemed frozen.

"Aren't you ever going to fix that door?" Anne had asked. She had shivered and tried to pull her coat down farther over her knees. She remembered he didn't answer.

"Did you hear me, Richard Wilson?" she demanded.

"Sure."

"Well?"

"Do you do everything I ask you? Did you clean the kitchen closet so that I can find a wrench if I wanted it without having clothespins and bottles fall down on my head?"

"Ricky, do you always have to answer me by asking another question? If you don't hurry up and fix this door, I won't ride in the car any longer."

They drove home in silence, Anne pretending to be angry. It was a simple recollection, yet meaningless, extracted from the past that was. Those few weeks on the Cape had been their only sample of normal civilian living.

The wind blew lightly across Miami Bay. Again the tide smell filled her mind. She and Ricky had stood on the front porch of the cottage they had rented on the Cape. Anne puttered through her handbag looking for the key to the front door. In the dim light from the street lamp across the street he had watched her. She knew that he was exasperated.

She kept turning things over in her pocketbook, afraid to admit she couldn't find the key. "Anne, you are so unsystematic," Ricky had said. "Right now I'll bet your pocketbook is jammed with letters I wrote you two weeks ago plus hair pins, lipstick, cosmetic, pencil, pens, that rabbit's foot, five or six mirrors, a small flashlight, handkerchief, change purse and the whole bottom scattered with loose change and paid and unpaid bills." He looked at her crossly. "Why don't you admit it? You haven't got the key!"

"No, I haven't," she had snapped, "and don't look so peeved. It's somewhere. The people who rented us this cottage will have another. Besides we can go in the bedroom window." She walked down the front steps and around to the side of the cottage.

He followed her, shivering. He looked at the window and wondered aloud if it was unlocked. "If this is summer on the Cape you can have it."

"Are you going to stop talking and boost me up?" Anne's voice got shrill when she was angry.

He grabbed her around the waist. "Sometimes you sound more like a fishwife than Mrs. Richard Wilson." He shoved her toward the window.

She fussed with the window while he supported her. Finally she slid it up. She started to wiggle through. He slid his hand up her calf and grabbed her crotch.

"You goosed me!" she screamed. She catapulted through the window. He heard the crash of a skidding chair, and then silence.

"Anne? Anne! Are you all right?"

She hadn't answered.

"Anne!"

She heard him hoisting himself into the window. Heard him as he fumbled in the blackness of the room. He saw her on the floor motionless. Saw she might have hit her head on the footboard of the bed. He stumbled around in the darkness, frightened, saying he hadn't meant to hurt her. She kept very quiet. He picked her up and put her on the bed . . . worried . . . saying softly, "Anne, Anne, I'm sorry. I love you." Finding her lips, he had kissed her, and then she bit him.

"You ape!" She laughed. "That'll teach you not to go around goosing women. Not even your wife!"

Why remember that in the thousands of experiences she and Ricky had shared? And if it had to be remembered why, she wondered, should I remember it as I would a dream? A dream where you watch as if from some concealment like a god, things happen to you.

Only last night she had had a similar dream. She was at some winter resort. Ricky was there. Dad and Mom and Mr. Wilson. They had two toboggans. They were all about to go down a long, snow-covered mountain. Ricky had pointed the course they should take. Mr. Wilson had disagreed with him, pointing to a course that travelled along the knife ridge of the mountain. You'll fall off the edge, you'll get killed, Anne dreamed. It was a gradual slope on the side they could see. But Anne, the dreamer, the motivator, knew it was a precipitous drop on the far side. If the toboggans rose too high on the slope they would drop over. They all would be killed. No one agreed with her. Angrily she took one of the toboggans. She plunged down the mountain herself. The perspective changed. She was at the bottom looking up. She had made the descent safely. She saw them coming and then her semi-consciousness split three ways. She was lying in her toboggan watching them come. She was watching herself watching them come. They banked along the top of the hill. She was Will . She willed them to crash over. Then the Anne, lying at the bottom of the hill, rebelled. She tried to revoke the will of the other Anne. But it was too late. She had awakened with the crash of that toboggan in her mind.

Sitting in the beach chair she watched the sky. The moon was completely obscured now by slow moving black clouds. Ricky, she thought, I want you. I want to kiss and make love with you. I want to talk to you. I want your arms around me. I want to hide under the quilts with you and pretend that I am a little girl again. A little girl frightened at the dropping of the leaves against her window, or the bewildered flappings of some summer insect trying to escape into the night. I want your arms around me. I want you to put your lips on my breasts, and feel my nipples tight and hard under your tongue. I want you to touch the crinkly brown hair on my mons. I'm not a confident Red Cross girl ready to cheer up bewildered men. I'm something little that's afraid. I need you. Ricky! I'm war lost!

Anne jumped up. She kicked the ground as if trying to kick herself back to reality.

"Mrs. Anne Wilson." The public address system crackled. The words floated impersonally on the warm night air. She turned sharply as if there were someone behind her. "Mrs. Anne Wilson," the voice repeated. "Call at the main desk with your personal effects, please."

She shivered. This was it. Goodbye, Ricky. Anne walked up the steps into the hotel. And Christmas night, too. What a hell of a note to be setting off to war. On Christmas night.

On the night that Christ was born, one thousand nine hundred and forty-four years later, Anne Wilson was going to India where Christ himself might have spent a few years.

Anne laughed. She was back to reality.

4

The C-54, a four propeller airplane stripped bare on the inside except for bucket seats that lined the walls, belonged to one of many commercial lines that were transporting soldiers to Europe and Africa. Once in the theater of war the Air Transport Command took over shuttling the soldiers to forward bases. This one was a Pan American Airways plane.

It was the first extended flight Yale had ever taken. When he returned to the Floridian Hotel after his night with Kathie, he found that he was on orders for the next flight to Casablanca. There was no possibility of leaving the hotel. At first he thought of trying to telephone Cynthia, but he knew that was hopeless. Mat and she were living in a trailer. Even if he had been able to see her, how could he talk to her in front of Mat? He might as well face reality. The dream called Cindar was over. It had finished five years ago. He had simply lacked the sense to realize it.

The plane landed at Kindley Field, Bermuda, with an hour stop-over while they refueled for the next lap which would cover the Atlantic to the Azores. While he waited in the air terminal Yale drank a cup of coffee. A major who sat near him asked him where he was bound. He introduced himself as Joe Trafford from St. Louis. Yale told him he was on orders for Karachi.

"I thought so," Trafford said, bitterly. "Everyone on this flight is headed for India. I have the god-damndest luck. I was scheduled for London. Then at the last minute comes this all-out push in India to finish the pipeline into China. Bang, I'm on different orders. You're the only officer aboard who hasn't his wings. Must be a shortage of f.o.'s in the Assam Valley." Trafford looked straight at him with an amused expression on his hard, angular face.

Yale shrugged. "Fuck off's or finance officers -- someone has to pay you fur-jacketed snobs. I never saw such a clique. All I've listened to all the way from Miami is what heroes you are. Hell, just because you wear wings doesn't mean a thing . . . you're glorified bus drivers, who trained for a few hundred hours and learned how to fly an airplane."

Trafford laughed. "Don't get your ass in an uproar, chum. I was in Burma for two years. That's why I'm getting the dubious honor of going back. This time as base adjutant at a new pipeline base in the Assam Valley. My guess is that's where you're going, too. You'll get your final orders in Karachi. The rest of these looeys aboard haven't even finished transition training. They're stepping things up at the back door of China. It will take the pressure off the Pacific. Spread the Japs even further."

Two lieutenants, with new shiny wings, asked if they could sit at the table. They introduced themselves as Al Kanachos and Bill Stevens. Al's moon face and ruddy complexion proclaimed his ancestry.

"Heard you mention the Hump," Bill said nervously. "What's it like?"

"A crock," Trafford said, breezily. "You fly over one day. A day later you fly back. On one side you have Chinese nookie. A day later you shack up with some of the saddest looking specimens called women you ever saw. In both cases you chance V.D., beriberi, cholera, yellow fever, or what the hell have you. In season, in India it rains every day. Then the hottest sun you ever sat under comes out and turns the whole damned place into a steam bath. It's a crock . . . a crock of shit."

They were called for their flight. A Red Cross girl preceded them to the door. Trafford jumped ahead of them and opened the door for her.

"My name is Trafford," he said, leering at her. "Would you like to take a little spin over to Casablanca tonight, and look around? Tomorrow, I'll show you the Casbah."

Trafford's voice assumed a heavy French accent. The girl laughed. They walked abreast to the plane. Walking behind her Yale noticed her straight legs and her erect posture. He liked the jaunty way the Red Cross overseas cap perched on her blonde hair. He listened with interest to the "snow" job that Trafford was giving her. She obviously wasn't reacting. Once they boarded the plane, she went to her seat which was just behind the navigation compartment. She smiled at Yale. Trafford tried to take her hand. He eyed the young pilot who was seated near her with a grim scram-buddy look. She withdrew her hand. "The name, Major, is Wilson, Mrs. Anne Wilson." She accentuated the Mrs.

"I'm married myself, Mrs. Wilson," Trafford said, genially. "Married women are just the best, I always say."

"Well, goody for what you always say, Major. If you don't mind it's one o'clock in the morning. I hope to get a little sleep between here and the Azores."

Trafford followed Yale to the rear of the plane. He sat beside him. Al Kanachos and Bill Stevens, evidently entranced by Trafford's rank and experience, sat close by. "That one is a cold dish," Trafford said. "Just the type that joins the Red Cross. Gives you all the come-on of a sexpot. Looky here, boys. See this nice thing I got here for you, but don't you dare touch it or I'll scream. Reminds me of that joke about the girl who screwed with her shoes on. . . ."

The plane had taken off. As it gained altitude the cabin became colder.

Yale rolled a blanket around his head. He tried to cut off Trafford's voice. He was sick of listening to the same old discussions of sex; weary of the endless trading of dirty jokes. Trafford's voice came through to him despite the muffling of the blanket. They must be up at least twelve thousand feet already, he thought. He could feel a tightening in his sinuses. The heaters evidently weren't working properly. Cold air blew under the cargo hatch. Yale pulled his army blanket tighter around him. It was going to be a cold night.

Again his thoughts returned to Cynthia in Miami, and then he tried not to think of her. He had a sudden picture of her in bed with Mat. He tried to recall the face of the Red Cross girl. She had an oddly appealing face, with a kind of elfin characteristic. Yale had looked in her dark blue eyes only for a second but he knew that Trafford was wrong. He would bet that Mrs. Wilson would be a very passionate woman. But why think of her? Thinking of women was a futility. It always seemed to lead him back to Cindar.

Finally, he dozed, intermittently, lulled by the vibration of the C-54's engines. When he awoke he was cramped; a pain in his neck, his buttocks sore from the steel bucket seat. He looked at his watch, and was surprised that it was six o'clock in the morning. Most of the passengers had rolled up in blankets and were sleeping on the floor of the plane. In the front he could see the Red Cross girl. She was awake. She looked at him for a moment, then turned away. He guessed that the two of them were the only people awake in the cabin, but she quite obviously wasn't interested in talking to him.

The plane was a skeleton, he thought sleepily, wrapped in a thin layer of aluminum skin. A living skeleton. In this womb of a fuselage, the passengers were curled up like foetuses. The way the plane was bumping, now rising and then falling sickeningly, he could even carry his analogy further. He could say that the skeleton was in the first stages of labor.

In the pale light of the early morning, he saw they were passing through heavy cloud layers. He wondered idly how much gas the ship was carrying; whether the pilot could go on if the Azores were closed in. He didn't really care. His mind was catching at thoughts. Like dead leaves in a breeze they passed down the streets of his consciousness, scarcely regarded.

I've got to stop thinking about Cindar. I've got to forget her or go crazy. He struggled to his feet, stretched and then sat heavily down on a bucket seat near a window. It was still soupy, but through occasional rifts in the clouds he could see the ocean. The water seemed strangely black. Like hardened lava, cold and wrinkled in the morning light.

He wondered what would have happened if the Atlantic Ocean had been a lava bed instead of water. The course of the world would certainly have been different. Or would it have? Columbus would have been years too late. By 1492 millions of people would have walked to America. It would have been a dangerous undertaking in those days. They would have had to carry a tremendous supply of food and water to walk three thousand miles. They would have done it though. That was the essence of being human. If there were a challenge, someone, somewhere, would arise to meet it. There had been a challenge since the beginning of history for world conquest, and recorded history had, era by era, produced men who thought they could meet it. Hitler, Mussolini, Hirohito in one century. In the next, or the next quarter century at the pace the world was moving, someone else would rise to meet the challenge. The only hope the little people of the world had was that the next century would produce world conquest in peaceful patterns.

So if the Atlantic had been lava, the people of the world would have fought all over these millions of square miles because the challenge was there implicit in the minds of men. They would have invented airplanes and developed tanks because this wasteland would make an admirable battlefield. The challenge would be flung down from generation to generation. The phraseology and ideology changing, but the ruthless fact not differing. This lava pile bordered by fertile land would have made an admirable prize ring in which the people of the world could gradually kill each other until in the middle was nothing but a monstrous heap of bones and rotting flesh. Everyone . . . the little people of the earth . . . those who remained on both sides of the lava pile . . . would stare at the mess in horror; and each individual would say to himself, "It's not my fault, it couldn't be helped, it's fate, it's the leaders, it's the Jews, it's the Negroes. It's not my fault!" And they would develop a new kind of noseguard that purified the air so that they could live beside the stench that blew off the lava pile. There would be fashions and seasonal variations in these nose ornaments. Everybody would wear them as casually as though they were the sine qua non of the civilized man.

So it turned out to be water instead of hardened lava. Now they were crossing it at the rate of a plane every ten minutes or so, to fight a war on somebody else's land. When it's all over Yale thought, they will write books about the valiant army of pilots of the Air Transport Command. Authors not yet born would write long histories of the development of world air transport. Then, these C-54's and C-47's, with their cargo lashed in the center and their ugly, ribbed walls flanked with steel bench seats, would seem as antiquated as trolley cars on 42nd Street.

They would be flying in the stratosphere then. Up thirty or forty thousand feet and higher where there was no weather. They would be using jet propulsion instead of gasoline engines, and these new airships would make planes like these seem like covered wagons.

They would be going somewhere again. They . . . the pasty-faced school teachers, the tired wheat-growers from Kansas, the nervous business executives in their pinstripe suits, the gaudy women wearing expensive furs and jewelry, the plain little clerks and laborers that worked in Boston or Seattle or Sandusky or St. Joe -- they, the people of the world, would be going somewhere again. They would look at each other and smile, and feel good inside because they were going and making progress again. Everybody would go somewhere. . . to Moscow or Berlin or Calcutta or Cairo or Chunking. They would bring back souvenirs to put in their living rooms so they could remark casually, "Oh, this little thing came from Vienna, and I picked this up in Brisbane. Do you like this, it came from Bombay?"

Everybody would buy something to show where they had been, and they would take miles of moving pictures of themselves in slack-suits and print dresses walking up the steps of the Taj Mahal, or smiling at an Indian beggar, or walking down the steps of the Louvre. It would be so educational, this going -- and "Oh, my dear . . . when we were in Paris," they would say, or, "When Ralph and I were in Moscow or Istanbul or Tokyo we had the funniest experience. Those people are so backward, you know. These trips are an experience. You really should take one. Cook's 'Round the World' for twenty-five hundred dollars is good, but you get to see a lot of the more important things with 'World Tours.' They give you much nicer service, and the food is served by the politest German waiters. They are the most condescending people, Elsie. Once you've seen them in their own country, you will hardly believe we ever fought them. Yes, 'World Tours' is more expensive, but honestly Ralph and I believe it's worth the difference. You and Bill should take it. Take John and Susan, too. It's an education for children."

Yale kicked at his high-laced army shoes. So the world would be going somewhere again and I will be right there with the rest of them, he thought. Going. It's a nice illusion. Keep going and you think you're civilized because you can go. Those others, the natives in Africa, the coolies in India and China, can't go. Keep going and you stop thinking. You don't have to answer those questions in your mind. You escape into a dream without boundaries because there are no boundaries to a circle.

Yale lay on the floor of the plane again. Cindar, I want you. Why couldn't I have found whatever answers there might be with you? Would you have told me if I had been able to go back? Why, he wondered desperately, had he been so unlucky as to see her again?

Yale was last to climb down the ramp when the plane landed at Casablanca. It was raining. The landing strip was filled with puddles of water that glistened in the slowly disappearing sunlight. The sinking sun blinded him momentarily as he stepped out of the plane. He tried to shake the feeling of apprehension that had hold of him.

Twenty-seven hours ago they were in Miami. Yale remembered the co-pilot coming back into the cabin. He pointed down at the city, saying that in seven days he would be back in the States. Yale had better take a good look. He wouldn't see a blaze of city lights like this again for a long time -- not over Casablanca -- no, not even over Cairo or Calcutta. Only Uncle Sugar could afford to fight a world war and waste electricity at the same time.

The Cazes Air Terminal was cold. The dampness seemed trapped in the sandstone brick walls. A few soldiers were shooting crap near the fireplace; their breaths hung in little smoke clouds. Kanachos and Trafford had located the billeting officer who greeted Yale and Bill Stevens. He assigned them accommodations at a former orphan asylum now called Camp Duchane.

A moustached Arab, wearing a greasy English cap, told them that the bus would depart for the camp in about twenty minutes. They would arrive at Duchane in time for supper.

They watched the Red Cross girl as she showed the billeting officer her orders. He smiled at her. "You're assigned to the Atlantic Hotel in Casa, Mrs. Wilson. I'm driving in to Casa myself in a few minutes. I'll take you in."

"How do you like that?" Trafford asked Yale. "We get the crap. She gets a hotel." Trafford tried to convince the lieutenant to change his quarters to the Atlantic Hotel.

"I'm sorry, Major. The Atlantic is only for rank of colonel and above -- and female Army personnel. No sense in griping, Major. You'll be on your way to Cairo in twenty-four hours, or less." He pointed at the sign leading to the finance office. "Have you changed your money? It's a regulation that you change dollars into francs before you go into the city."

Trafford wanted to know what the deal was. "The wogs must want dollars pretty badly," he said, suspiciously. "I've got about four hundred on me. I think I'll just hang onto it."

Yale and he watched Kanachos and Stevens join the line in front of the Finance Office pay window. "They'll get about twenty-five francs for a dollar," Yale told Trafford. "That was the official rate yesterday." Yale remembered the twenty thousand dollars he was carrying in his money belt. This could be an ideal place to speculate in foreign currencies, but he would have to work fast if he wanted to accomplish anything in their short layover. "I understand you get fifty francs or more for a dollar on the black market in Casablanca. You can see why the Army makes you convert your dollars. Uncle Sam would go broke funding francs."

Trafford whistled. "Brother, I could make another four hundred bucks -- just like that."

"You have to switch the francs back to dollars," Yale said. "They'd make you sign your life away to convert. I guess you'd have to know a finance officer."

"I know you!" Trafford said. His grin was friendly but insistent.

"I haven't got a finance office, yet. Hence no money," Yale said hastily. "Sorry, I can't help you."

"I don't see you rushing to change your dough into francs," Trafford said thoughtfully. "I just think I'll keep an eye on you. You'll get an office one of these days!"

Yale looked at him uneasily. If he was going to maneuver successfully with his money in a space of twenty-four hours, it was necessary to elude Trafford. There was something about Trafford's suave manner and intense brown eyes that irked Yale. He had an unreasoning desire to punch his grinning face.

They rode to Camp Duchane in a rickety bus, piloted by an Arab with a sheet rolled around his head. Trafford sat on the outside seat beside Yale who looked out the window. The Arab driver slumped in his seat and stared at the road as if it would disappear if he stopped watching it. In the misty streets, rapidly growing dark as the sun set, Yale caught glimpses of other Arabs, their dhotis billowing behind them in the wind. They pumped along on decrepit bicycles, keeping abreast of the bus for a minute or so before it finally passed them. Their faces were inscrutable shadows, lost in their white headdress.

They rode past endless rows of low sandstone buildings.

"The son-of-a-bitch," Trafford said, angrily, breaking the silence. "We're going south of the city. We'll be miles out of Casablanca. Damn it all, I've a good mind to make the driver take me back into town. Want to come back with me, Marratt? We'll find a place to flop. We've got a day's layover before the A.T.C. picks us up. No damned sense in staying in some shit house."

Yale shrugged his acquiescence. If Trafford thought he could get away with it and break out of the official rut of following orders, why should he worry? Yale knew, even before they arrived, that Duchane, like most Air Transport Command transient officers' quarters, would simply be a roof over a row of cots, accompanied by poorly cooked meals available at a sloppy dining room. If Trafford thought he could use his rank to get something better, Yale was agreeable.

The Arab driver turned off the road into a bumpy driveway. He brought the bus to a creaking halt. Opening the door with a grin, he pointed cheerily to a group of buildings. A staff sergeant greeted the passengers as they gingerly dismounted, directing them to one of the buildings.

Trafford sat in his place with Yale beside him. Neither of them moved. Except for them the bus was finally empty. The sergeant poked his head in the door. "Are you guys disembarking or are you sleeping on board?" He suddenly noticed Trafford's rank.

"Anything wrong, Major? This is Duchane."

"It looks like a crap house to me," Trafford said nastily. "Well, it ain't state-side," the sergeant apologized. "Pretty fair meals, though."

"The lieutenant and I are going in town. How far is it?" Trafford asked.

The sergeant told him it was about five miles. He pointed out that there was nothing in Casa. The Atlantic Hotel was filled up. It was a dangerous place to just drift around. The Arabs preferred the Germans to Americans. Since the Allied Forces had occupied Casablanca the Arabs hadn't been noticeably cooperative.

"They found a G.I. in the gutter last week, naked. His throat was slit. His balls were hacked off. No one knows what he did. It's easy to offend the heathen bastards. They hate Christians anyway." The sergeant shivered. "If I were you, Major, I'd just bunk down right here. Your plane may be going out sooner than you think. If you're wandering around you'll miss your flight. Then there'll be hell to pay. Anyway, there ain't any transportation into Casa until morning."

Trafford looked at his watch. It was six thirty. "Listen, sergeant, as far as I'm concerned it's morning. The sun just ain't up, that's all. You tell this wog to drive us in."

Dubiously the sergeant spoke pidgin English to the Arab driver who shook his head vehemently. "He says it is his last trip today from Cazes," the sergeant said. His tone was surly, probably deliberating whether he should insist that the Major stay at Duchane.

Yale reached in his pocket, found a couple of dollar bills, and waved them in the direction of the driver. The Arab saw the money. His anger faded, revealing a smile of decayed teeth.

"Money talks," the sergeant said, sighing. "Good luck to you, it's no skin off my ass!"

The Arab drove the bus furiously, lurching and skidding it through narrow cobblestone streets. He swerved it around corners so rapidly that Yale and Trafford had to hang on desperately to the seats to prevent themselves from being pitched in the aisle.

They finally clattered into the city. Yale noticed a sign they passed that said Boulevard du Gare. The Arab stopped the bus. Opening the door, he looked at them with a blank smile. "This is the end of the line, I guess," Yale said.

"Where are we?" Trafford demanded. The Arab grinned at him. He kept shaking his head to show he didn't understand. "Hotel! Hotel!" Trafford said, repeating it until the driver pointed vaguely up the Street.

They walked in the direction he had indicated. The city smelled of dried dung and moist fertile earth. The streets and sidewalks were crowded with Arabs. Among the faces passing them, Yale recognized a fusion of French, Arab and Spanish characteristics. They were glared at by prosperous appearing Arabs, and followed by processions of poorer ones who exhorted them to buy everything from wicked looking knives to leather billfolds. When they refused they were spit on and called American sons-of-bitches.

"I wonder where you get these money deals," Trafford mused.

Yale shook his head. "I think we should locate a hotel before we suddenly find a knife sticking out of our shoulder blades. I haven't seen a G.I. since we got off the bus."

"The only G.I.'s in Casablanca now are the big brass. The rest are in Italy getting their asses shot off."

Trafford grabbed the arm of one of the Arabs following them. "Want to buy some American dollars, my swarthy friend." To Yale he said, "Listen, stop worrying, I came through here a year ago. I'll get us a place to sleep tonight and some French ass to warm your belly. It's early. First, let's see what we can do with these dollars."

Yale wondered if Trafford understood the problem. It was one thing to buy francs. It was something else again to convert them back to dollars. To Yale the twenty thousand dollars in his money belt had no actuality. It didn't represent a particular goal. It was just money. What interested him was the game and the gamble. If he managed to convert it into francs, could he then switch it back to dollars? He knew full well that speculating in the money markets was against the Finance Department regulations, but he conceived the regulations in terms of necessity. The government had to protect itself against unscrupulous officers who might pilfer government money. Yale had no intention of doing that. The twenty thousand dollars was his own money. As he tried to recall his original reasons for accumulating the money, with Agatha Latham's help, he realized that if he had any motive at all it was to prove to himself that he wasn't dependent on Pat Marratt. If he lost his twenty thousand . . . if the war ended . . . if he were alive . . . multiple "if's" that had no meaning . . . then he might go back to Midhaven ensnared, finally, by the Marratt Corporation and Patrick Marratt.

As they followed a beak-nosed Arab who had evidently understood Trafford's request, Yale recalled that he had hooked his trench knife on his belt. It seemed dramatic when he did it, taking it out of his barrack bag at the airport. Then, he had thought it might simply come in handy if he got in a tight spot. Now, as the Arab led them into narrow alleys, through crowds of his sweating, gesticulating Moslem brothers, the knife gave Yale a feeling of assurance.

"I hope you know what in hell you're doing!" Yale said edgily.

"For Christ's sake, stop worrying, Marratt." Trafford smirked at him. "I'm wearing a Colt revolver. I was supposed to turn it in, but I figure this one is my baby. It has a couple of notches on it, already."

Yale looked at him, astonished.

"I shot a couple of Japs in Burma last year," Trafford explained casually.

The Arab led them into a small shop hung with goat hides. They waited while the Arab disappeared behind a curtain.

"Jesus!" Trafford held his nose. "What do they cure this stuff with? It smells as if it had been buried in shit."

"I think they use the animal urine," Yale said.

A man came from behind the curtain. Yale guessed that he was probably French. At least he wasn't wearing the typical Arab burnous. "That is right, and sometimes they use human urine," he said, smoothly. "It makes the leather very soft." He looked at them querulously. "You came to buy leather goods? We make fine Moroccan billfolds and briefcases here. All hand made. My name is Bronson. Max Bronson."

"You speak English pretty damned well," Trafford said, cautiously.

Bronson smiled. "I speak French, Arabic, German very well also, but your American language I learned particularly well. I lived in the United States for twenty years."

"Why did you ever come back to this ass-hole of the universe?" Trafford asked.

"I am a German," Bronson said, with a clipped military accent. Yale stared at him. "Not a Heil-Hitler German." Bronson laughed. "Although I have had some interesting contacts. Since you didn't come to buy leather novelties, you have some interest in, let us say, currency? The rate on the black market today is forty-two francs for a dollar. How many francs do you wish to buy?"

Trafford hesitated.

Like him, Yale felt that Max Bronson was just a little too suave.

"Why does anyone want dollars so badly?" Trafford asked.

"The fortunes of war." Bronson offered them thin black cigars. When they refused, he lighted one himself. "Things do not go so well with the Germans. There are people in the Axis countries who even believe that you will win this war. So you see an Italian with his money in lire, or a German with marks, would gladly exchange them for dollars. Fewer dollars, to be sure, but still able to purchase something. Such dollars are better than many marks or lire that will buy nothing."

"It's good to know there are some rats in Germany," Trafford said.

"Just as there are rats in your country." Bronson smiled at him ambiguously. He blew smoke at Trafford. "How many dollars do you have?"

When Trafford told him that he had three hundred dollars, Yale noticed the disappointment on Bronson's face. He excused himself, went into the back room and came back with a handful of francs. He counted out twelve thousand six hundred, mostly in thousand-franc notes.

Trafford passed the bills to Yale. "Are these real or phony?" Yale examined them. He shook his head. "They look okay to me. But just remember it's your red wagon. Even if they are genuine I don't know how you are going to convert them back to dollars."

Bronson took Trafford's three hundred dollars. He asked Yale if he wished to exchange any money. Yale shook his head. If there were any possibility of further dealings with Bronson, he wasn't going to do it with Trafford watching.

"I suppose you handle large sums?" Yale asked with what he hoped was a disinterested tone. Bronson looked at him intently. "Any sum," he said coolly. "I have handled several million dollars in the past month."

Trafford shoved the francs in his pocket. "Well, let me warn you, friend, these francs better be for real, or I'll be back, and there'll be one less German to worry about. Nazi or not."

"I speculate, but there is a limit to speculation," Bronson said, looking at Trafford as if he thought the Major was slightly stupid. "Perhaps when you get paid you will be back with a few more dollars, Major?" His tone was ironic.

Trafford ignored the sarcasm. He asked Bronson how to get to the Rue de Gallieni.

"You are looking to spend your hard-earned money, so soon?" Bronson asked, amused. "If you will permit me, I will take you to a famous place. Very nice, how do you say it. . . stuff!"

Yale protested that he wanted to find a hotel room.

"You can sleep in your grave, Marratt," Trafford said. "Come on. French pussy is the best. It's only eight o'clock. We've got all night."

They followed Bronson who pointed out various sights to them. "This is a French establishment," he said, suddenly directing them into a small, dimly lighted bar. Bronson spoke to the bartender in French.

"Non. Demain," the bartender answered. "C'est une heure avancée. Les filles sont occupées."

Bronson continued to ply him with fluent French. He spoke so rapidly that Yale lost the conversation. Finally, the bartender shrugged. He beckoned them to follow him, and led them downstairs into a smoke-filled cellar. The place was crowded. Men and girls, sitting around tables, stared at them as they passed. The bartender found them a table in a corner.

"Here you are. Women. Help yourself," Bronson said, pointing generally around the room.

Trafford told him to tell the bartender to bring them a bottle. . . .

"These babes are all occupied," Trafford complained looking at the girls who did all seem to have male escorts.

Bronson shrugged. "It is late. But you wait. You are American. You have an advantage." He had scarcely spoken when a girl wearing a black dress splashed with red and yellow flowers walked over to their table. She stood near Yale, and smiled at him beguilingly.

Bronson got up. "Well, gentlemen. You are on your way. I'll say good night."

Yale watched him go. Trailord had started to drink straight whiskeys.

The girl sat down. Yale pointed at TrafFord. "Him. He wants you! Not me."

Trafford slid his hand under the girl's skirt. She looked at Yale and shrugged. "My friend is a eunuch." Trafford nodded at Yale. "He can screw but he doesn't enjoy it."

In a few minutes Trafford was playing with the girl's breasts, and she was murmuring at him in French. "Get yourself a mamselle, Marratt! I can't understand a damn thing this one's saying . . . but she feels like a hot cookie." He grabbed Yale's hand. Before Yale realized what Trafford was doing he shoved Yale's hand under the girl's skirt and between her legs. "What did I tell you?" He grinned obscenely. "She's ready to be laid."

"You take her and lay her. Leave me alone!" Yale said angrily. The girl got up and tugged at Trafford's arm. "Okay, chum, you're on your own," Trafford said. He grabbed the bottle and followed the girl in a wavering path between the crowded tables. In a few minutes he was back. "Listen, you bastard. She's got another girl. I don't want to go alone. Come on, don't be such a prick."

Yale told him to go to hell. "You're a sucker," he said. "She'll probably have some Arab buck ready to roll you as soon as you get your pants off."

"You're a shit," Trafford sneered at Yale, leaving the table again. "Some day, maybe I won't be able to do you a favor, I hope."

Yale ordered a drink. He listened as a pianist played "Some One of These Days," and sang it in French. Yale pulled out his billfold to pay the waiter, and noticed a picture of Cynthia that he still carried. Behind the yellowed celluloid compartment, it had faded like a travesty of some picture taken in the early days of photography. He lifted it out of his billfold. Cindar, standing in front of her dormitory, self-conscious, a smile on her face. 1939 . . . another world. It was ridiculous for him to keep living in the past. For him Cynthia was dead. The past was dead. How much sadness can a man hold, he wondered? Do we ever reach a pinnacle where we can say I am all . . . I am to myself sufficient . . . or do the strains of some timeless sadness keep crowding in, forever separating one individual from another? He drank his drink, trying to assuage his loneliness. His head in his hands he stared at the cracked varnish on the table, and he hated the place and he hated the people, and their unintelligible conversations, but most of all he hated himself for not being the person he once was. Drunkenly, he murmured aloud, "There was a time, when meadow, grove and stream, the earth, and every common sight to me did seem apparelled in a celestial light." He couldn't remember the rest, and looked up startled as he heard a voice continuing. "It is not now as it hath been of yore; -- Turn whereso'er I may, by night or day, the things which I have seen I now can see no more. . . ." It was Max Bronson who had silently returned. He smiled at Yale and sucked on an unlighted cigar. "Wordsworth? A bit sentimental tonight?" he asked, smiling.

"My underwear is showing," Yale said, and pushed the bottle at him. "Have a drink." He crumpled the picture of Cynthia into a tiny wad, and rolled it around in his hand.

Bronson told the waiter to bring a glass for him. He poured it half-full of whiskey. "Your friend, the Major, . . . he likes feminine company?" Bronson's eyes twinkled. "He went off with not one but two of the girls."

"He's probably got a two-headed prick," Yale said sourly.

"You . . . you don't care for women?"

"I prefer quality to quantity." Yale shook his head when it appeared that Bronson would be glad to find him "quality."

"Sorry, I'm too damned tired."

"I was under the impression," Bronson said, "that you might be interested in somewhat larger financial transactions than that of the Major." Yale stared at him, wondering if he were playing the odds too far. Here he was in a joint where for all he knew he might end his days. This Max Bronson with his closely clipped hair and jowly face looked like a Hollywood casting man's idea of the perfect Nazi. What the hell, Yale thought, the plane to Cairo may crash, too. The multiple if's would nag you to death if you let them.

"If I am interested, it will be at a better rate than forty-two francs for a dollar," Yale said. "I'd prefer to think in terms of say, sixty."

Bronson looked at him calmly. He lighted his cigar. "How many francs are you interested in buying?"

"About a million or so at sixty for a dollar."

Bronson puffed his cigar reflectively, showing no surprise. "I see you wear the diamond insignia of a paying officer."

"Don't worry. Any negotiations will be with my own money," Yale said sharply. "The U.S. Army won't be involved. What's more, it will have to be accomplished within twenty-four hours. I'm on orders to India."

"Do you have the dollars with you?"

Yale looked at him with raised eyebrows. "Do I look stupid?" He could feel the money belt tight against his middle. He had an odd sensation that Bronson was looking right through his shirt. It was stupid, he thought, and Bronson knows it, to take a chance like this . . . to even discuss such a large sum with a stranger. He looked around, uneasily, thinking that probably at a nod of Max's head, the life of Yale Marratt would end. He wondered how the Army would report his disappearance.

"Do you know," Bronson said, laughing, "I have the impression that you feel you have fallen among thieves. I saw a movie sometime ago about Casablanca with your famous star Bogart . . . filled with very sinister characters . . . a typically American idea of a foreign land." He looked at Yale mockingly. "Call me Max, please. I am a friend. I like Americans!"

"You mean you like their dollars."

Max shrugged. "Really, I enjoy Americans. They have incredibly flexible moral standards. They should understand the German mentality better. Take you, for instance. You obviously have eighteen or twenty thousand dollars. You are hoping to pull a fast coup and double it. You tell yourself this is your money. Maybe it is, but if you succeed in buying francs you are going to have to use U.S. Army funds to get out from under. Isn't that so?"

Yale didn't answer.

"You know it is so," Bronson continued. "Without knowing how you plan to do it, I know the only possible way is through a U.S. Army Finance office. There are no other sources for dollars in Casablanca at the moment. You will cash your francs in at the official rate of twenty-five for a dollar. A magic multiplication that will make you a rich man. Did you ever stop to wonder who will pay for your wealth?"

Yale poured a drink from Bronson's bottle, carefully, wondering as he did it, if he should have another. He lifted it in a mock toast. "I consider it an honor to discuss philosophy at four in the morning in a dive in Casablanca with a German named Max Bronson." He swallowed the whiskey. "Number one, Maxie, if I manage to convert the francs at the official rate, Uncle Sam isn't hurt. He has the exact number of francs that some of his monetary advisors have agreed is the official rate. Number two. Whoever is selling francs has previously bought them with marks or lire which are no damned good to him or to me. He expects that the franc will depreciate further, so he'd rather have dollars. Number three, my friend Max, what the hell business is it of yours?"

Max leaned on his elbows and fixed Yale with an intent stare. It was a long time before he answered. "None really. I'm just interested in human nature." He smiled, "You see, my principal is a well known German industrialist. This man backed Hitler from the beginning. One of those indefatigable men who would build a new factory to make bread, or an extermination camp to cook Jews so long as it proved profitable. There are men like him in every country. The leaders think they lead, but it is really these men, relatively unkown, who are responsible for the economic strength and direction of a country. I have studied this kind of man carefully. No narrow nationalism binds them. They are truly citizens of the world . . . guided by its financial tides. While your bombers are destroying this man's factories, and those of others like him, he is guided not by moral considerations, or worry over the immediate damage, but by the larger ebb and flow in the affairs of men. Having stolen with Hitler's help at least a billion francs, he now finds it expedient to sell Hitler short. When Hitler has disappeared, my principal will take your dollars and the millions of them he will have accumulated by devious means and help rebuild the new Germany to his own ultimate profit. Don't you find this repugnant, somehow?" Max hissed the words across the table at Yale.

"No, I don't," Yale said, amused. "I'm not so naive as to believe in the holy aspects of this war, or any war. Of necessity we must wipe out Hitler, or any concept that denies the uniqueness of the individual. In this process, which must be done coldly and judiciously, your 'principal' will disappear because he tends to deny anything that interferes with his own individuality."

Bronson spat vigorously and looked at Yale with ill-concealed disgust. "And you, too, will disappear, my friend. You, too! Your friend the Major and me . . . we are the little people who will swallow up the cold bastards like you."

Yale wanted to protest that he didn't understand Bronson's sudden turnabout, or what had made him so angry, but Max stood up. "Would you like to see something of Casablanca, before we talk business? Come with me. I have an old Austin, and a good American gas ration."

Yale followed him into the streets, thinking as he did that he had little choice. It was obvious that tonight he wasn't going to sleep; particularly in the company of Bronson.

The car was parked in a narrow alley. Yale got in, feeling odd to be sitting on the right hand side of the wheel. Bronson drove rapidly out of the city. "You are not worried about your friend the Major, I see. I thought Americans were so very thick . . buddies . . . is not that the word?" Max sneered. "This is no city to wander around in. But why should you worry about the Major?"

"What the hell is eating you?" Yale demanded. "For a moment I thought we understood each other."

"I thought so, too," Max said. "I don't know why it should disturb me . . . when I first sat down and you were mumbling Wordsworth to yourself, I felt a momentary kindred feeling for you. But now I think you are simply an opportunist."

Yale noticed they were driving along a shore road. He felt immensely tired and irked with Max Bronson. The man had unerringly touched a feeling of guilt. He awakened Yale to a resentment with his own shallow maneuverings. Why was he bothering so much with this money? Could he explain to anyone, even a stranger like this German, the importance, not of the money itself, but the sense of purpose and identity that it gave him to play his speculative hunches . . . to create a purpose for living where no purpose seemed to exist? Or was Max correct in his estimate? Had he come so far in the years since Midhaven College that he existed in the same vacuum as Max Bronson's "principal"?

"The moonlit water you are staring at is the Mediterranean," Bronson said. He turned off the road into a concrete driveway. In the moonlight Yale could see they were at the back door of a modern pink coral-and-cement home that overlooked the sea. "This is my home, temporarily. Like your American businessmen, I commute between my leather factory and this estate . . . which incidentally I do not support selling souvenirs to the Americans." He laughed and showed Yale into the house which was furnished with modern Swedish style furniture, and bright splashes of cubist water colors. Through a huge window they watched the pounding of the surf on the beach below them. Whatever Bronson's thoughts might be, he had lost all interest in conversation. Fighting a desire to fall asleep sitting up, Yale wondered uneasily about Trafford. An Arab servant finally appeared and placed coffee, tiny cakes, and tangerines on a table near them.

Yale drank his coffee. He noticed suddenly that Bronson was calmly holding a gun in his hand. "It's your Major's forty-five. I had him relieved of it. He appears to be a nervous type." Bronson tossed it at Yale, who was forced to catch it. "It occurred to me that it would be poetic justice to take your money by using the Major's revolver." Bronson sighed. "Unfortunately an Arthurian sense of chivalry interferes with my German practicality."

"What makes you so sure I'm carrying the money?" Yale asked.

"I'm no superman," Bronson said, getting up from his chair. "But it seems like a good hunch that you've got it in a money belt strapped around your stomach. The question is do you want to do business or not? I won't go along with better than fifty for a dollar."

Yale unbuttoned his shirt, and unstrapped his money belt. He tossed it on the table. "Twenty thousand in hundreds. Match it with one thousand, thousand franc notes." He watched Bronson open the doors on what appeared to be a liquor cabinet, but actually turned out to be a substantial safe encased in blonde mahogany. Bronson tossed bundles of francs on the table. "Mint," he said, "right from the Banque de France. You don't have to count them," he said as Yale spot counted five of the one hundred banded piles of thousand franc notes. Bronson carefully counted every one of the hundred dollar bills.

He finally looked at Yale with a satisfied smile. "You seem to be very trusting. How do you know these franc notes aren't counterfeit?"

"If they were counterfeit, why would you waste the time counting my money. You wouldn't give a damn if a few were missing if yours were valueless. For that matter how do you know the dollars you've bought aren't phony?" Yale picked up Trafford's revolver.

Bronson looked at him gloomily. "I hope there is some honor among thieves. Anyway the clip is empty. You are a remarkably cool young man; considering you are a good ten miles out of the city and no one knows where you are. In essence, you are not back yet. For a million francs, I could make you disappear as easily as the dust on this table." Bronson blew on the dustless table dramatically.

"I've been gambling on several things," Yale said, looking carefully at Bronson's hard jaw line. "One, you have a sentimental streak. We have sat here for nearly an hour without conversation . . . that's not only unusual, but it's un-Germanic. Two, you were probably thinking about Wordsworth's poem; surprised at yourself that you could remember it. Three, I don't think you represent anyone except yourself . . . that your name probably isn't Bronson, and that you may well be the German industrialist you characterized so well." Yale stood up, wondering from the expression on Bronson's face whether he was going to get away with it. He picked up the money. "If you have a sample briefcase from your leather factory I could use it to carry this stuff."

Driving back to the city, Bronson told him that he would leave him where Trafford had probably gone with the two whores. Bronson's car rattled through the deserted streets. They passed the newer section of the city into the alleys of Arab quarters. Yale noticed the Atlantic Hotel as they passed and decided that no matter what Trafford planned, he would spend the rest of the night in the lobby. It was quarter past two. Bronson had made several turns, driving deeper into narrow alleys that in the daytime would have been filled with Arabs. He stopped his car in front of what seemed to be a black sandstone wall.

"This is Rue du Pini," Bronson said. "Your Major should be on the third floor. Room nine. Do you want me to wait?"

Yale shook his head. Bronson had been silent all the way into the city. Yale wondered if he were regretting his decision. Yale didn't doubt that it would be so very simple for Bronson to take back the million francs.

"It's been a pleasant evening, Lieutenant. Personally, I think Wordsworth stinks."

Yale watched the taillight of the Austin disappear.

5

The only light in the narrow street came from a flickering bulb screwed into a socket just above the doorway marked number eleven. Yale shivered, suddenly aware that he was in more danger walking around the Arab section of the city with a million francs in his possession than he had been with Bronson. He cursed himself for feeling any responsibility to find Trafford.

Opening the door he was forced to light a match to see. He was in a narrow corridor! A door with a painted number three was directly in front. To the right, stone stairs led into the building. The match burned out. Yale stood still, listening to the silence, and smelling the heavy dung smell that permeated the place. He tried to adjust his eyes to the blackness. Was Trafford really in the building or was this some kind of trap that Bronson had prepared? He fingered his way along the damp stone wall. On the next landing he lighted another match. There was a number six on this door. He walked cautiously up the next flight of stairs. His bladder was full and he could feel the pressure in his scrotum. He shivered, and continued to shiver, wondering if he dared go right on up the stairway. Lighting another match, he crept toward the top floor, until he finally found a door with the number nine.

He stood in front of it, debating what to do. He was going to have to leak or die of agony, and yet the fear of being suddenly jumped on while he was in such a helpless position restrained him. Get the hell out of here, he kept telling himself. Get the hell out of here.

He knocked on the door, hearing his pounding reverberate eerily on the stairwell. There was no response. He tried the latch, then pushed the door open. A candle flickered; monstrous shadows danced on the walls of the room.

"Qu'est-ce cela?" It was a feminine voice.

Unable to see clearly, Yale felt his way into the room. He heard the creak of a bed. The girl who had come to their table in the cellar-dive stood beside him. She was naked.

"Where's Trafford?" Yale looked into her black eyes. She laughed and shook her head uncomprehendingly. "Où est le majeur?" Yale asked.

"Oh," she grinned at him, "le majeur, il est malade." She pointed across the room, and Yale saw Trafford on his back hanging drunkenly over the edge of a low iron cot. Another naked girl sat near him, stroking him.

"Trop d'accoupler. Comme dites-vous? Forking!" The girl laughed raucously. "Ma copine le suce! Vous le veuillez? Très bonne." She opened her mouth in a wide O. Yale shoved her aside.

"Vous n'avez pas fichu de faire ce travail." She screamed at him.

Yale pulled Trafford onto the bed and shook him angrily. "Come on, let's get out of here, you crazy bastard!"

"Beat it, Marratt," Trafford said. His voice was thick. He grabbed the girl standing near him by her crotch. "Here, this is Marie Louise. Sink yourself into that." Trafford flopped back onto the bed and started to snore.

"C'est ton blot," the girl who had met them in the cellar said disgustedly. "Vous boucanez."

Yale slumped into a chair, wondering what to do. Every foul name he could think of to call Trafford went through his mind. He suddenly doubled over in pain and knew he must urinate immediately.

"Où est le pistolet?" he demanded, hoping that was the right word.

The girl sitting on the bed with Trafford got up and placed a white chamber pot in front of him. Yale opened his pants hurriedly. Both girls watched him, excitedly commenting in French on the size of him. The girl called Marie Louise suddenly grabbed him, and held him in a hard grasp. Yelling at her to let go, Yale tried to pull away. The other girl tripped him and he fell to the floor. "C'est un saloperie," one of the girls hissed at him, and tried to hold him down. Marie Louise picked up Yale's trench knife and slashed in the direction of his penis. Yale lurched away. She missed. He could feel the tip of the knife sink into the side of his belly and he yelled with pain.

Of what happened after that he was never certain. The room was suddenly filled with swirling shapes. The candle clattered to the floor. In the almost unrelieved darkness, on his hand and knees, Yale listened and slowly tried to find his way to the door. Evidently the girl's pimp was in the room, too. Yale suddenly saw the shape of Marie Louise. He lunged, grabbed her and snapped the trench knife out of her hand. She screamed and they rolled in a heap on the floor. He had dropped the briefcase and was amazed at his luck when, twisting away from Marie's clawing hands, he felt the briefcase beneath his hands.

He had just about made the door when a man lunged at him, shouting gutturally in Arabic. Swinging his trench knife in an upward arc, Yale felt it cut through the loose cloth in the Arab's dress. It crunched against the man's ribs, sounding like the crumpling of a paper bag. The man went down with a grunt.

Yale ran down the stairs. To hell with Trafford. The dirty drunken bastard. He reached the street. In the foreboding silence of the night he could hear his G.I. boots as they struck the cobblestones. He ran in panic, feeling hot blood trickling from his side. Behind him he heard the whisper of soft shod feet pattering insistently after him. Suddenly his trench coat was grabbed from behind. It's useless, he thought, I'm too winded to struggle. He flayed the air with his knife, catching a robed figure who yelled in pain. Then another Arab leaped toward him. Yale could see the flash of a curved knife. The knife caught his leg as he kicked the charging figure in the stomach. The man went down in a heap.

Somehow, he got to the Atlantic Hotel. Except for an elderly man, evidently a night clerk, the dimly lighted lobby was empty. Feeling faint, wondering how seriously he was wounded, how much blood he had lost, Yale sought inspiration. Unless he found someone to help him, he was going to be in serious trouble. He didn't want to report to the Army. God knew, if he got involved, where that would end for him or for Trafford. He was certain that he had killed the Arab pimp. If I'm not too seriously wounded, he thought, maybe I can prevail upon that Red Cross girl to help me. Mrs. Wilson. Anne Wilson. That was her name. It was a long chance; a wild idea. She might be a very moralistic type. She might resent it . . . she hadn't been very cordial with Trafford.

But he knew he had to try. With a tremendous effort, he straightened himself up, and walked toward the desk. He tried not to limp, worrying whether the blood had soaked through his trousers. The old man behind the desk looked at him sleepily.

"U.S. Army. An important package for Mrs. Anne Wilson." Yale patted the briefcase he was carrying. "What room number, please?"

The old man shook his head. "Non. Les hommes ne sont pas admittés. Les filles Américaines sont sur le deuxiéme étage."

"Quel est le numéro de la salle de Mademoiselle Wilson?" Yale muttered, wondering if his French was understandable.

The man shuffled through his cards. Yale watched him impatiently. He was tempted to snatch them out of his hands. If he doesn't hurry, he thought, I'll never make it.

"Madame Wilson a le numéro quarante-huit. Non visiteurs!"

Yale ignored him. He dashed up the flight of stairs opposite the desk. Loud protests in French followed him. He prayed the damned old fool wouldn't arouse the hotel. When he reached the top of the first flight he wondered if his old French lessons were correct. The second floor should be the first. The dim light in the halls told him that he would have to go another flight to reach Anne Wilson's room. Somehow, he half walked, half crawled up the stairs, then wearily down a long hall, panting with the exertion as he searched for number forty-eight. He knocked softly, praying that she was alone in the room. What if she were bunked in with some other girl? Or some other man? Anything was possible. He didn't know Mrs. Wilson after all. God, why didn't she answer? He knocked again. Gasping with the pain in his side and leg, he leaned against the door. As he did, it opened. He staggered, and almost fell into the arms of a girl.

Anne Wilson recognized him. She told him to get out of her room at once.

"Please! I know it is a hell of an imposition. But please! Would you help me? I'm wounded." He saw her look of surprise change to instant sympathy. He saw that she had wrapped her trench coat around herself. No nightgown protruded beneath it. Her legs were bare. She must sleep naked. He grinned at her, and then fainted at her feet.

When he regained consciousness he was on her bed. "How did you ever get me off the floor?" he asked weakly, noticing that she had stripped off his pants.

"Oh, I'm a husky one, Lieutenant. I've learned how to wrestle all kinds of stiffs in the past few years. Who has been using you for a pin cushion?"

"How long have I been out?" Yale asked, ignoring her question. "Funny, I never had that happen to me before."

"About fifteen minutes. Long enough for me to sprinkle some sulfa on your belly and leg and put on a bandage. You're lucky, I would say. You were sliced right across the stomach about a quarter of an inch deep. Not serious, but your calf is a mess. You'll have to get it sewed up."

Yale tried to thank her. "Oh, no," she said, wiping his face with a damp cloth. "You're not getting off that easily. You've ruined my sleep, got blood all over the sheets and are occupying the only bed in the room and . . ."

Yale looked at her. "And what?"

". . . and you have a briefcase with a great many francs in it. I looked in your billfold and found your I.D. card. So we start with your name . . . Yale Marratt . . ." She grinned.

"I'm single . . . twenty-six . . . and exhausted. If you'll give me about four aspirins and let me sleep on the floor, I'll appreciate it." Yale struggled up. He tried to get off the bed.

She pushed him down. "Stay there. The bed is big enough for both of us." She found some aspirins in her handbag and gave them to him. She rolled a blanket and put it down the middle of the bed. "I'm a softy, Yale Marratt, or else I'd boot you out of here in a hurry."

She turned the light out. Yale tried to sleep, but it was impossible. The pain from the wounds became intense. His leg was throbbing, and his stomach ached. The events of the night churned across his consciousness in kaleidoscopic colors. He turned his head in the direction of Mrs. Wilson . . . Anne Wilson . . . and listened to her even breathing. She was asleep . . . he wished the light were on so that he could see her face. She was a trusting woman, he thought, and a pretty one with her natural dark blonde hair combed back from her forehead, held in place with a ribbon. He admired her quick presence of mind. Her lack of fear.

Toward morning he must have dozed. When he awoke she was gone. He staggered out of the bed, surprised to find that he was naked from the waist down. He looked for his shorts and found them in the bathroom. She had washed them, but bloodstains remained. They were too wet to put on. He found her bag and cosmetics, and wondered where she had gone. He was looking in the mirror, disgusted with his unshaven face, when she burst into the room with a cheery good-morning. She was followed by a small moustached man carrying a bag.

"This is a French doctor, my pantless friend," she said cheerily. "I told him you would pay beaucoup francs to get sewed up. I bought you a razor, and a pair of G.I. chinos leg 32, waist 36. You look almost six feet." She started to toss her cosmetics into a knapsack, watching the doctor as he removed the bandages she had put on Yale. "You owe me about five hundred francs. G.I. pants are expensive on the black market. Your own are too soiled to wear."

The doctor, who didn't bother to introduce himself, pointed Yale to the bed. Quickly he snapped Anne Wilson's crude bandages from Yale's leg and stomach. He ran his finger over the livid cut on Yale's belly, and said with a distinct accent. "This eez a vairy interesting wound. Deep, but not vairy serious. It weel heal. This one," he said, pointing to Yale's calf, "we must sew. I weel do it, now!"

"I'm glad it's nothing serious, chum," Anne said, standing near the door. "I took the twenty dollars from your billfold to cover the 500 francs you owe me. By the way, you're on a flight to Cairo at eleven o'clock. If it is all the same to you -- last night never happened -- I'd prefer not to show any favoritism among that gang of wolves on the plane. See you around -- Yale Marratt," she said. She closed the door and was gone before Yale could protest. The doctor had strung a needle with catgut. While Yale clutched the bed, muttering with pain, the doctor swiftly sewed the gash on his calf.

Yale found a taxi to take him to the airport and limped aboard the plane a few minutes before departure. A sergeant checked his orders. "Thought you had gone A.W.O.L. Major down back looking for you seems mad as hell."

Yale walked past Anne Wilson seated near the front of the plane. She looked at him and turned away, making it very obvious that she wasn't going to be friendly.

Yale sat in his bucket seat and fastened his seat belt. He looked across the plane into Trafford's face. Trafford stared back at him, contemptuously. "Well, you cheap son-of-a-bitch! I see you made it," he said, angrily. "You didn't give a shit what happened to me did you! You killed that damned Arab, and left me to be the patsy. If it hadn't been for Bronson I'd be in the jug right now."

"Bronson!" Yale said startled. "What was he doing there?"

"He was looking for you, friend. He said you pulled a fast one on him, too. He wouldn't tell me what, but you're a lucky turd he didn't find you."

Yale tried to explain that he had come to help but his voice was lost in the roar of the engines being revved for the take-off. They finally reached altitude. Yale unfastened his belt and moved across the plane beside Trafford.

"Listen, you stupid bastard," Yale said. "I didn't come to interrupt your orgy. You were out cold on the bed; your prick sticking in the air. I tried to get you out of there, and one of your floozies made a grab for me. She tried to castrate me. I got myself sliced across the belly and my leg half chopped off . . . all because you have to stick that thing of yours into anything in sight." Yale looked at him and shuddered. "Brother, I don't even like to sit near you. You must be crawling with bugs and V.D."

"Aw, you're a fucking pansy. I'm clean as a whistle. Had a nice shower and a 'pro' courtesy of Uncle Sugar. The trouble with you, Marratt, is that you think you're still in the States. I went on a little tear. So what? You've gotta get rid of the germs that pile up in you."

"You're married, aren't you?" Yale asked, pointing to a wedding ring Trafford was wearing. Trafford wore a huge signet ring over his wedding ring practically obscuring it. Trafford looked at him bitterly. "It's none of your god damned business." He looked out the window of the plane. "I was married. I put this stupid band on and said I'd never take it off. Caught her fucking a young lieutenant; a wise bastard like you. Right in our apartment in St. Louis. How do you like that? Came home on leave . . . and there she was. You know what I did?"

Yale shook his head. He looked at Trafford, feeling a troubled sympathy for him. "I didn't do a damn thing. I just said, okay, friend, if that's the way you want it. I walked out. Too bad. 'We had a nice little kid, a girl." Trafford scowled. "But that's the way the ball bounces. In the last analysis, no one in this world gives a crap for you anyway."

Yale didn't say anything for a while. He could feel in Trafford's words a cold anger that was frightening if he let himself think about it. His own anger at Trafford vanished. Why was it impossible for him to retain hatreds? He had every reason to blame Trafford for his near death last night, or to feel cold hatred toward Bronson who had probably come back to kill him. Yet, all he could feel was a kind of sadness. Without thinking he spoke his thoughts to Trafford.

"You see, I guess what shocks me is why most men and women insist on degrading themselves. They grasp for each other . . . for the fleeting beauty of consummation. For a tender second, they face the world with wonder -- then they are so damned ashamed of their emotions that they sneer at themselves and eventually try to degrade love in every way possible. They seem to hate and despise love . . . the only integrating factor in a disintegrating world. It bothers me. If men can't respect each other, can't stand back in awe and reverence of the wonder of man, I'm afraid civilization won't last long."

Trafford listened to him, astonished. "For Christ sake, you are a moralistic bastard, aren't you? Look you've picked up an audience." He grinned for the first time, nodding across the aisle to Bill Stevens and Al Kanachos who had corralled Anne Wilson. They were sitting on either side of her.

"It's difficult to hear you," Anne said, smiling. "We seem to hear only the dirty words. It does seem like an interesting conversation. The lieutenant sounds quite idealistic."

Trafford rocked with laughter. "I bought a book about a guy like him once. Candide . Candide didn't know there was a war on, either. He didn't know which end was up!"

Yale grinned. "Was it an illustrated copy?"

"Sure," Trafford said, lighting a cigarette. "I bought it for the dirty pictures. Very edifying . . . women with their guts hanging out or their tits cut off." He smirked at Anne, obviously trying to horrify her. "You amuse me, Marratt. You're worried about my morals. If you love men so much, why don't you worry about that Arab you murdered."

Yale noticed Anne Wilson's shocked expression. He was half angry with Trafford for bringing it up. He knew that with an audience he couldn't explain what had happened. Even worse it was impossible to tell how badly he did feel. He wondered, thinking back on it, how it might have been avoided. Perhaps if he had not reacted with such fear for his life, the Arab might be alive.

"It was a reflexive action," Yale said, wondering what Anne was thinking. "I had a feeling it was his life or mine."

"Now you're cooking with gas," Trafford laughed. He jerked his thumb in the direction of Europe. "You can sit here and philosophize with your full belly, you can worry why men don't love each other . . . but if you were over there in France, you'd be sweating your balls off, figuring it was your life or some Nazi's. What's one greasy Arab more or less? In this world, friend, it's every man for himself!"

"I think this little Cook's Tour we are having is educational," Al Kanachos interjected. "Major Trafford is right in a broad sense. The nature of man is to dominate and master his fellow men, if he can. Bill and I took a trip in the New Medina yesterday . . . what they call the Walled City. Believe me, it was like something out of the Arabian Nights ."

"We took a tour of an Arab whore house," Bill Stevens said enthusiastically. "The girls are sold into it, I think. Then they eventually can buy their way out on money saved from their earnings, or they can get out by marriage. You have a new idea of how the other half lives when you see that place. Women are kept in an animal existence."

"We were walking along seeing the sights. Lovely girls, a little on the dark side." Al Kanachos grinned apologetically in Anne's direction.

She shrugged at him. "Don't let me dampen you. I've heard all the dirty words."

"Yeah, well, you never saw anything like this, sister. One of the babes standing on a sort of a dais without a damned thing on kept yelling 'Cigareet, cigareet,' at us. The Arab guide said to give her one, which Bill did. This babe lights it and then starts yelling, 'Dix francs. Dix francs.' What the hell, I handed her ten francs. Then she walks up and down rubbing her pussy and jerking her boobs around. . . ." Kanachos blushed and looked at Anne again.

"Go on," Anne said, sarcastically. "Can't you see the lieutenant's and the major's mouths are open . . . they're breathless to hear the rest."

"Well, this babe finally bends over backward shoving her hairy little delta right in the air. Then with one hand she sticks the cigarette in it, wiggles a bit and blows out the nicest smoke rings out of it you ever saw."

Trafford roared with laughter. "Jesus, a human smoke stack. That babe must be a sensation. She could probably use it for a vacuum cleaner, too!"

"So you see, Lieutenant Marratt," Anne said, looking slyly at Yale, "there isn't much to idealize about sex, really. A good vacuum cleaner and all's well with the world."

"I guess you're right," Yale said. He looked out the window. Below them the desert stretched to the horizon, not bright and yellow as he had imagined it, but dull and grey. That's the way reality always seems to be, he thought, dull and grey. For himself he knew that it would be suicide to take off the rose-colored glasses. He half listened to Trafford, Kanachos and Stevens as they talked, letting the conversation pass him by. Occasionally, he noticed that Anne Wilson was looking at him thoughtfully. What kind of person was she he wondered? If he searched forever would he find another Cynthia? Or was Cynthia simply a figment of his desire to recreate the world in his own image?

They landed at Shephard Field, Cairo, at five-thirty, and were told that priority military personnel to Karachi had usurped their places. The next A.T.C. flight would be tomorrow. There were no accommodations. They could eat in the terminal and hang around until morning.

"Where in hell do we sleep?" Trafford demanded belligerently of the billeting officer. "I didn't get a wink of sleep last night, Lieutenant. What the hell kind of a deal is this?"

The billeting officer shrugged. "The place is jammed. I'm sorry. There's a war on. There were eighteen men on that plane and one dame. I just took things alphabetically. Everyone aboard, from A through J, either got out on the plane to Karachi, or got the last beds here. That leaves Kanachos, Marratt, Stevens, Trafford, and Wilson who can sleep in the terminal." He looked at Anne, "I'm sorry. The benches aren't too hard. I'll get you a blanket. It's only a twelve hour wait-over."

"Twelve hours, huh," Trafford said. "To hell with sleeping; we might as well see Cairo. How far is it?"

"It's about eight miles. I'm sorry there's no transportation, Major. Most of the places are off limits. The Arabs are not too cordial."

Trafford leaned over the lieutenant's desk, and said with great seriousness, "Listen, friend, did you ever hear of General F. Stanley Waite?"

The Lieutenant shook his head.

"No? Well, how would you have heard of him? Son, I'll tell you in confidence that he is responsible for all personnel in the Middle East Command. Now I can get on that phone and call him, and raise hell generally. Or you just call the transportation officer and get us a staff car, real easy, without getting involved with Waite who is an old time hell-raiser. What do you say, friend?" Trafford's voice was masterful, inflected with both suavity and forceful command. The Lieutenant agreed that he could obtain a car for them.

Driving the staff car toward Cairo, following directions he had obtained from the Lieutenant, Trafford laughed heartily when Anne asked him if there really was a General F. Stanley Waite.

"If there is, I never heard of him," Trafford said, amused. "Funny, how gullible Americans are. I learned that in an insurance business I owned back in St. Louis. While I never actually said it, just implied it a little, that billeting officer has an idea that General Waite and I are very buddy-buddy."

Sitting in the back seat with Kanachos, Anne in the middle, Yale could feel the sway of her body against him. Trafford drove fast, insisting that they should get into Cairo and find a place to eat before dark. Al Kanachos suggested that they would probably eat at the Shephard Hotel. The billeting officer had told them how to get to several night clubs that specialized in belly dancers.

Listening to their talk, Anne decided that if this was going to be an all night affair, she would get a room in the hotel and try to get a few hours sleep. After inquiring from several Arabs, and becoming the center of a jabbering crowd all intent on giving unintelligible directions, Trafford finally located the Shephard.

An austere clerk wearing a red fez and speaking with a thick British accent informed them that the dinner was being served in the dining room. Yale heard the clerk tell Anne that there were no rooms available.

Trafford and the others had gone ahead to look in the dining room.

"Why did you want a room?" Yale asked Anne, wanting to talk with her alone. He wondered if he could ever shake the others.

"I think this is going to be another night for the Rover boys," she said, looking at him calmly. "I wouldn't want to get in your way."

"Listen, Anne. I'd like to talk with you," Yale said hurriedly. "Sometime tonight, when they start plying the joints, insist on coming back here and waiting, will you? I'll do the rest."

Anne looked at him curiously. "What do we have to talk about? If I gave you the impression I was interested in what happened last night . . . forget it; I'm not interested."

Yale noticed Trafford returning, a broad grin on his face.

"I'm not begging," he said to Anne quickly. "I was just curious to know whether the beauty of your face is more than skin deep."

Anne was startled by his reply. She shrugged at him, failing to indicate by her manner whether she was willing to follow Yale's suggestion. There was a strange quality about this Lieutenant Yale Marratt that attracted her, she thought, yet somehow frightened her.

"We've picked up six bottles of very excellent Scotch," Trafford said happily. "I'm beginning to like this Army. This is going to be an evening to remember, Anne Wilson." Ignoring Yale, he took her arm and led her toward a small lounge. Yale, limping a little, followed them. Kanachos and Stevens were already seated, smoking, waiting while a somber Arab opened a bottle of Chivas Regal and poured drinks for them.

Several drinks later they had finished the bottle and started another. Trafford sat close to Anne. He put his arm around her shoulder.

"This is the life," he said expansively. "Why don't you fellows go ahead? Al knows how to get to that Café where the belly dancers are. Anne and I will join you later."

Kanachos and Stevens thought that was a good idea. Yale wondered if Trafford had put them up to it. He was irritated at the way Trafford was moving in on Anne. He wondered if Anne enjoyed Trafford's attention. I'm being childish, he thought. What do I know about Anne Wilson? She's probably just the type that would go for a Major. What the hell were Red Cross girls, anyway, but camp followers, or dames looking for a husband?

"I'm not interested in belly dancers," Yale said. "I think I'll just stay here and have another drink. Why not eat here? This is the famous Shephard Hotel. The food should be good." He could see that Trafford wasn't pleased. Yale looked at Anne to see if she would take the bait.

She didn't. "Oh, I think we all should see at least one belly dancer. It's only eight o'clock. We can't sit here all night, and just get drunk, can we, Lieutenant Marratt? Come on, it will be fun!"

Yale made no further attempt to talk with her. They ate at the Shephard. Trafford, leading them, appropriated Anne's arm. He sat next to her at the table. Together, while the others listened, they kept up a running conversation of sophisticated wisecracks.

Later, in a smoke-filled night club, Trafford continued to dominate Anne's attention. They listened to the never ceasing music of an Arab orchestra with its exotic quarter-tone scale. Anne said she enjoyed the insistent beat. Yale shrugged. "Chacun à son goût." She grimaced at him.

The place was jammed with Arabs, and a Middle East mixture of people with swarthy, strange faces. With the exception of a few British officers, Yale guessed they were the only westerners in the place. Every fifteen minutes or so exotic, heavily mascaraed Arab girls appeared. They gyrated enticingly to the music, shaking naked breasts and rolling their greased bellies.

"American girls could learn a lot from these babes," Stevens said appreciatively.

"You mean to roll their bellies like that?" Anne asked. "I don't think that's so much."

"You could do better?" Yale asked, mocking her. The noise was so loud they could scarcely hear each other.

"Come on, Anne," Trafford said, grabbing her roughly. "Get up and show 'em what you can do." He pushed Anne to her feet, and said to the Arabs sitting at tables near them, "Hey, you wogs, here's an American girl says she can shake her ass better than that dame." Trafford swirled his hips and pointed at Anne who suddenly looked frightened.

The grinning Arabs caught the idea. They pushed Anne toward the dance floor. The orchestra leader nodded approvingly. There was a wild applause. Suddenly Anne grinned and to Yale's astonishment slipped out of her blue-grey jacket, kicked off her high heel shoes and began to sway suggestively to the music. Despite the surge of anger he felt at both Anne and Trafford, like everyone else in the audience, Yale was captured by Anne. Her hair that she had worn piled in a chignon fell loose over her shoulders. She moved with increasing speed to the pulsations of the music. It was a breath-taking dance. Eyes closed, she abandoned herself to sinuous rhythm.

Leaning back in his chair, Trafford whistled. "Boy, I'd like to dip my wick into that little tomato. Just shows you can't tell about any dame. I'll bet half the guys in this joint have a hard-on for her."

The orchestra continued to play. Yale could see that Anne was getting tired. She started to walk off the stage and there was a low hum of anger. For some reason the Arabs expected her to continue dancing. One big Arab grabbed her and pushed her back to the stage. She screamed.

Both Trafford and Yale reached her at the same time. The Arab looked at them menacingly, and then he shrugged and let them pass.

"We better get out of here," Yale said. "I don't like their reaction."

"The hell with them, I like it here," Trafford said belligerently. "No wog is pushing me around." Back at the table, Anne pinned up her hair. "I guess I shouldn't have done that." She looked at Yale impishly. "Do you think I was better than the Arab girls?"

"Oh, you were a knockout," Yale said morosely. "Why didn't you take off your clothes and do a thorough job?"

"Pay no attention to him," Kanachos said, patting Anne's shoulder. "He doesn't appreciate the finer arts."

"Oh, I think he does," Anne said, teasing him. "I think Lieutenant Marratt just has a very idealistic idea of women."

Yale scowled at her, peeved with her flippant manner.

"And," Anne continued, "since he has such a chivalrous idea about women, and so that I won't hinder your evening further, I'm going to ask Lieutenant Marratt if he'll take me back to the hotel."

Trafford protested. He insisted that she stay with them. It was only eleven. They could go to a dozen places yet. Yale could see that Kanachos and Stevens were pleased to get rid of Anne.

"Thanks, Major," Anne said. "I'm sure you'll understand . . . I'm really tired. I'd just never last the evening."

As they walked away from the table they heard Trafford say, "That stupid bastard wouldn't know what to do with her even if she lay on her back and spread her legs."

Yale found a taxi to take them back to the hotel. Trafford had parked the staff car across the street from the entrance. Yale suggested that they could sit in the car if she wished.

"I wish, Yale," she said and sighed happily as she slumped into a corner of the back seat. "God, it's good to be quiet. I hope they stay away all night." She looked at Yale. "You're angry with me, aren't you? You thought it was pretty cheap to do some private bedroom gyrations in front of all those men."

"I don't have any right to be angry with you," Yale said, intrigued by her forthright manner, "but I was. You're so very lovely I guess for a moment I thought you ought to be dancing like that just for me. Silly, isn't it? I scarcely know you -- so why should I care?"

"You still want to know whether it's skin deep, though?" Anne asked mischievously.

"Somehow," Yale said, reaching out and taking her hand, "I don't have to ask. I know it isn't." She came into his arms, and he kissed her gently. "You frighten me, Yale Marratt," she whispered in his ear. "You won't believe it. It sounds corny, but you're the first man I have kissed since my husband was killed. I just haven't wanted to get in the clinches with anyone else."

Slowly, they tried to explain themselves to each other. To tell their emotions, and their fears and their loneliness. It would take days and months and years and a lifetime, but they each sensed a deep desire to break through the limitations of human consciousness; for a moment to become the other. He kissed her slender neck, snuggling his nose into the hollow behind her ear. "You smell warm and soapy and nice," Yale said. He sat up suddenly. "How did you manage to wash your neck so recently?"

She giggled. "In the ladies' room, silly. Before we ate." She curled up in his arms. Breathing sleepily against him she said, "I'm sorry about the dance. I did it because I knew it would make you angry . . . I scarcely know you. Why did I want to make you angry, Yale . . . ?"

She was sleeping in his arms when Trafford, Kanachos, and Stevens returned. She heard Trafford's sneering remark, "Well, ain't this charming," as they piled into the car. The idyll was over. Yale looked at his watch. It was four-thirty in the morning. It had lasted five hours. A simple thing . . . a man and a woman . . . and a longing for communication. But he was a Lieutenant and she was a Red Cross girl invited to India to run an enlisted men's club, and this was the backwash of the war. As Trafford drove toward the air terminal, reciting the events of the evening, both Anne and Yale wondered if they would ever be together again. The impossibility of it left them silent and constrained.

On the flight to Karachi, Anne sat in a bucket seat near Yale. They spoke only occasionally. Sitting across the aisle, Trafford watched them both with a leer that seemed to be a permanent part of his countenance. He made caustic remarks about the two love-birds. He suggested that the Army should see to it that all its officers were more adequately supplied with female diversion. His painfully spelled-out nastiness froze Anne into silence.

In the cold light of morning, without the warmth of Scotch releasing her inhibitions, she regretted that she had been so friendly with Yale. Nothing could come of it. In Karachi, they would be sent to different destinations. The brief, casual contact that a war had given them would vanish as quickly as it had come. She knew that she had been seeking a moment's refuge from a frightening loneliness, and yet she knew that huddling in the warmth of a stranger like Yale Marratt was no solution. Having Yale's arms around her was a false security, momentarily concealing her deep need to live and share another human's life. That was the trouble, she thought. Once a woman has lived her life for a man, she knows that there can be no other way for her. Trafford would probably state it boldly. A widow was easy; once she'd had "it" she wanted "it." But what was "it" when you stopped to analyze. A small response really in much larger picture.

"It" was the final offering one human could make to another. The only blending possible to say: "I care for you so much I want to be you." She grinned to herself. Not for Trafford she guessed. For him "it" was a form of gymnastics, with laurels for virility. She wondered what "it" was for Yale. She shivered. She was frightened of her reaction to YaJe. She knew that for some puzzling reason, given the opportunity, she would seek Yale with all the strong sexuality she had suppressed for nearly a year. It was a good thing, she guessed, that it would be impossible. Tonight they would be in Karachi, separated quickly by impersonal mimeographed orders into the vastness of the China-Burma-India theater. There was no surcease for loneliness. Certainly not a few hours in bed with some man. Hours that might mean infinitely more to you than to him.

The pilot started to drop altitude. Looking out the narrow windows of the plane, they could see miles of date palm trees. In the distance, mixed incongruously on the ancient landscape, were the huge superstructures of oil wells.

"That's a part of the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company," Trafford said. "Some Arab is making more money out of this war than you will ever dream of. Probably has a hundred wives and several Cadillacs. It's all in knowing how!"

A staff sergeant, the navigator, told them to fasten their seat belts. They would be landing at Abadan to refuel with a half hour layover.

As the place circled for a landing, the sunlight caught in the propeller shafts and flicked rays of sunlight through the cabin. Anne looked at Yale and smiled. Suddenly, the starboard engine coughed. . . . It sputtered . . . conked out . . . then caught again. The plane lurched sickeningly, rapidly losing altitude. Again the engine misfired and then lapsed into silence. The quiet in the cabin, the sound of wind rushing by, was unbearable.

"He's got to bring her in," Trafford said grimly. "He'll never get it up again, now."

They skimmed the tops of date palms. "Hang onto your hats," someone yelled.

Yale had a momentary glimpse of a concrete runway. They screeched across it. Hard. Bounced and then bumped hard again . . . again . . . again.

Anne screamed and clutched at Yale.

The plane overshot the runway; leaped into the sandy desert beyond, and flipped up on its nose. The seat belt lashed against Yale's middle but it held him secure. Anne was flung violently against him.

For a second there was a horrible silence . . . then screams of pain and yelling as some of the passengers, who had only been stunned, revived, and knocked out the emergency exits. Yale found that he had both his arms around Anne in a bear hug. She looked at him in shocked horror . . . tears streamed out of her eyes.

"You're all right, Anne," he muttered. "You're all right." Trafford staggered across the tipped plane and hacked at their seat belts with his trench knife. "Get out, quick," he shouted. "The damned thing may catch on fire."

Yale pushed Anne through the exit. An emergency crew grabbed her and lifted her out. Yale could see Trafford working his way forward. The son-of-a-bitch has no fear, Yale thought. He tried to follow him but Kanachos pushed him into the exit. "Come on, stupid, get the hell out, and be glad you can walk! There's a few in front who are pretty smashed up."

The plane didn't catch on fire. It simply stood in the air, like a huge dead bug with a smashed proboscis. The pilot, the navigator and two passengers were killed.

Standing in the tiny terminal building, Anne held Yale's hand tightly. "We were lucky," she whispered. An open truck passed in front of the terminal, carrying bodies covered with blankets.

"There goes four more telegrams," Trafford said brutally. "We regret to inform you . . . shit, I need a drink! It looks as if our maker wants us to see the year nineteen forty-five." He looked around at the bleak airstrip and the bamboo terminal building. "Only for my money, this is a hell of a place to spend New Year's Eve."

"Wasn't that a pisser? I guess we're lucky to be standing here," Al said, slamming the door as he walked into the terminal.

Stevens looked as if he were going to be sick. Trafford slapped him on the back. "Jesus, man, get into shape! They'll never get us out of here tonight. It'll give us a chance to see Abadan."

"I'm game, Major." Stevens grinned weakly and looked at his watch. "It's only two o'clock. We've got plenty of time. If you don't mind I need to crap out for awhile, and I don't care where . . . right here on the floor will do." He slumped on the floor, curled his arm under his head and started to snore.

A grey-haired Lieutenant Colonel walked into the terminal. He smiled grimly at them. "There were twenty-six on board. Four were killed. God knows why, I don't." He shook his head; took a second to ponder their fate, and then dismissed the dead. "As the saying goes . . . there but for the grace of God. . . . Well, we don't have tremendous facilities here. This is a refuel stop mostly. Exotic Persia . . . you can see around you. We have a medic and I want you all to report to him." He looked at Anne. "Ah, I see we have an American girl. Only stateside girl aboard, as the saying goes. You can have the female transient quarters to yourself. We are in touch with Karachi. I'll let you know later when we can move you out." He started to leave. "Oh, yes, there is a Polish refugee camp next to us. Both the enlisted men and officers' club are having a little party tonight. They have an excess of females in the D. P. camp so we are inviting quite a few. You are all invited to join us."

After the doctor, a Captain, had checked him and dressed his leg wound, Yale went to his transient billets and located a cot. The officers' quarters was a low cement building. Trafford, lying on a bunk across from him, watched Yale undress.

"So you really did get knifed?" he said, noticing the bandages on Yale's leg and stomach. "What happened between you and that Red Cross tomato last night? Did you screw her?"

Yale didn't answer.

Trafford yawned. "Oh, I remember you're the pure one. Never mind. Tonight, I'll show you how to plug her little thatch!"

Yale heard Stevens choke with laughter. Almost shuddering with his anger Yale stood beside Trafford's bed and stared down at him. "Major," he said, pronouncing the words very deliberately, "stay with your own kind. Leave that girl alone, or I'll slit you from crotch to Adam's apple."

"You bastard," Trafford said, sitting up and glaring at him. "I could have you court-martialed."

"You just try it, Major."

Yale walked toward the showers. He heard Trafford muttering to Stevens that he wasn't taking that shit from any Second Lieutenant.

Yale and Anne ate supper together in the mess hall and then walked to the officers' club. Although it was only six o'clock a cold wind was blowing off the desert. Anne shivered. She leaned against Yale. She was thinking about the plane crash. The transition from Miami to this remote desert in Iran had been too sudden. She felt an overwhelming desire to just lie down and cry and not stop until all her tears were gone.

The club was deserted. An enlisted man bartender sold them a bottle of Indian whiskey and then made them drinks. Yale took the bottle to a small bamboo table in a corner of the club. They sat and looked at each other in silence.

"I suppose in a little while it'll be crowded here," Anne said.

"I suppose so . . . it's New Year's Eve."

Anne sighed. "I guess I'm not in the mood. I feel kind of low."

"Did you get hurt in the crash?"

"I've got a nice black and blue spot." She toyed with her drink. "Must be from you. I hit you like a ton of bricks. How about you?"

"I'm okay," Yale said, wondering how to say the words that filled his mind whenever he looked at the clean lines of Anne's face. He wanted to stroke the wisp of hair that grazed her cheek.

"I suppose that Major Trafford will be around here soon," she said.

Yale was surprised. "Do you want to see him?"

"No, of course I don't. . . Yale Marratt." She smiled at his pleased grin. "If you could be anywhere you wanted tonight, or do anything you wanted to do . . . where would it be? . . . What would it be?"

"What do you mean?" Yale asked.

"Oh, I don't know . . . once a long time ago before wars . . . when I was a girl . . . it was something you thought . . . who you went with . . . where you went . . . what you did on New Year's Eve . . . it seemed very important."

Yale poured another drink for them. "I guess, if I really stopped to analyze it, I would say right here is where I want to be. Anything else would mean either repeating the past or predicting the future . . . both kind of futile."

Anne drank her drink silently.

"What about you?" Yale asked. "For you it would be back somewhere in time?"

She shook her head. "No . . . not and know that time was running out."

Yale understood her meaning. He wondered what kind of man her husband had been. He asked her. She told him, disjointedly, catching at moments of her married life. Yale sensed her need and loneliness.

"He must have been a gentle person," he said. "I was like that once. There isn't any room in the world for the meek or humble."

"So now you play at brutality," Anne said. "What about last night?"

He told her, and in the telling tried to convey his feeling of disgust. "It wasn't for the money . . . why did I take the gamble? I guess I'd have to tell you my life's history to explain that." Yale smiled.

She listened in detail to his recital of the events in Casablanca, asking him questions and weighing his answers. "I think you are still a gentle person," she said finally. "Look, it's starting to get crowded in here."

Yale stared uncomfortably at the officers who had gathered in the club. Trafford would probably arrive any minute, drunk, ready for a quarrel.

"You know, a little while ago you asked me if I could do anything I wanted tonight what would it be?"

Anne nodded.

"When twelve o'clock comes," Yale said slowly, "I'd like to be alone with you in bed . . . holding you close in my arms . . . reciting the last lines of Dover Beach to you."

Anne looked at him quietly. "Is there any point to it? What happens afterwards . . . tomorrow?"

Yale shrugged. "I guess I just want to escape into another world for a few hours. Forget it, I'm sorry if I offended you. A few drinks and I get a kitten complex. I like to curl up with the other kittens."

Anne stood up. "It's silly . . . tomorrow I'll be sorry . . . but I agree. It's a sensible way to spend New Year's Eve. Come on, Yale Marratt!" On the way to her room, she asked him what the last lines of Dover Beach were.

"I'll tell you at midnight," he whispered.

Her room was tiny. Two wooden charpoys supplied with thin mattresses and rough wool army blankets and a table were all that occupied the room. They locked themselves in. Anne found a candle and lighted it. "It's better than that bulb hanging from the ceiling," she said. "This way there's shadows." Yale moved the mattresses from the beds to the floor.

Sitting on the mattresses, they looked at each other awkwardly. For a moment Anne regretted her easy acquiescence. She wondered what Yale was thinking. Was she just what it appeared? An easy make? A loose goose? She grinned, and then started to laugh. Yale asked her what was funny.

"I am," she gasped. "I don't know where I heard the expression, but it's me all right. A loose goose. I'm asking for it, aren't I? I'm cheap. On the make." Anne's laughter had turned to sobs. She didn't put her face down and cry. She just cried, sitting up, her shoulders square, looking at Yale. Her face revealed such misery and loneliness that Yale wanted to reach out and pull her into his arms. He held her shoulders and kissed her gently on her tear-wet lips.

"Anne, if I thought you were cheap -- or on the make -- I wouldn't have asked you. I'm not Major Trafford. I haven't been with many women. For all I know you may have known a lot of men intimately, but I don't think so."

Anne shook her head, still crying. "I guess that's why I'm scared, Yale. The only man I have ever been with was Ricky."

He took her in his arms. She lay close to him, and he kissed her tear-stained cheeks. For an hour or longer he held her, touching her face occasionally with his fingers. Outside they listened to the passing of footsteps, and the low male talk and laughter of soldiers on their way to the officers' club. They were near enough to hear the throbbing beat of the music. The candle sputtered and flickered as it burned to the end.

"Before it goes out," Anne said softly in his ear, "I'll dance just for you." Yale watched her get up and slip out of her skirt and underclothing. She moved easily with the rhythmic beat of the music. "I love music," she whispered. "It's an aphrodisiac."

Yale watched the shadows undulating on her breasts and belly. The light brown pubic hairs at the juncture of her thighs swayed, enticingly near him.

"Anne, come here!" Yale shed his clothes and embraced her, still moving and sinuous in his grasp. "I don't need an aphrodisiac." With the curve of her buttocks in his hand, her breasts against his chest, he gently touched her vulva. She sank to her knees . . . her lips parted. She sighed, "Oh, Yale . . . Yale . . . come inside me quickly . . . hold me close."

Midnight came. Still embracing . . . Anne was lying on top because his thigh hurt from the knife wound . . . they held onto the sacredness of their communion as they listened to the roar of welcome to 1945 from the officers' club.

He looked up into her face. She smiled, and leaned over and kissed his shoulder where she had bitten him. "Happy New Year, Yale Marratt." He heard her chuckle, and then say softly, "Ah, love, let us be true to one another! For the world which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new. . . ."

He pinched her buttocks, delighted. "You devil, you knew it all the time." He laughed. "Let me finish it. 'Hath really a joy, a love, a light, a certitude, and help for pain. And Anne and I are here, as on a darkling plain, avoiding the confused alarms of struggle and flight, while revelling in a warmest delight.'" Yale looked at her affectionately. "A few hours ago I would have said it the way it was written. . . ."

6

Anne walked slowly along the worn path that skirted the edge of the Axonby's tea plantation. It was a day like more than a hundred others she had known in India. Days of heat, and titanium white skies that suddenly turned red around four in the afternoon when cool winds blew off the shadowy peaks of the Himalayas.

A little over three months, she thought. Already, she moved in another world . . . absorbed in the strange timelessness and placidity of this land and its people. In the dry smell from the tea bushes that she plucked as she passed; in the brash hint of animal urine, perhaps from the tiger that had been lurking near Chatterji's village -- the tiger that she and Yale had tried to shoot, with carbines, only a week ago, as they perched giggling in a tree, while a staked-out goat bleated helplessly -- in the ever present smell of burning dung that dominated the cool early evening air. She sensed, almost dizzily, the strong sexual earthiness of the land and the people.

Walking toward the Indian village, leaving the Air Transport Command base at Talibazar, was like shedding the vestiges of western civilization that the Army had brought with it, and putting on the clothes of an older timeless world that seemed somehow closer to the roots of existence.

In a few minutes she would be in their house . . . Yale and hers . . . a tiny bamboo basha covered with dried grass to keep out the rain. Chatterji and his relatives had built this for them. A house in the forest, she told Yale. The first night Yale had made love to her in their basha she felt as ephemeral and evanescent as Rima, the jungle girl, and she knew that in her first quarter century of life, nothing . . . not even her marriage, and the loss of her husband . . . had touched and changed the well springs of her being so thoroughly as had these three months with Yale.

Helen Axonby had cautioned her against "going native."

"We all have to watch it here in India, my dear. When you come to know them there is something irresistibly attractive about these people. The British have been trying to change India for years. In the end, you'll see, India will change them and the West too."

But Anne had not listened and for a few days stolen out of every week she had gone native with Yale. Wonderful, crazy days when she sneaked out to Chatterji's village, walking the narrow road across the rice paddies, to find Yale eagerly waiting for her. But it had been Helen Axonby's admonition that worried her as much as Colonel Trafford's blunt appraisal.

She remembered the flight from Abadan, and Trafford's speculative manner as he surveyed her and. Yale. She remembered his remark, "So you shacked up together, huh? Well, I don't blame you, baby . . . but don't keep it all to yourself. Spread it around. You won't wear it out."

He had guffawed at Yale's "Shut your rotten mouth," and had been silent for the rest of the flight.

Anne had been silent, too, knowing that she was "marked" by Trafford, who would spread the rumor about her availability. Echoes of the popular notion that Red Cross girls were provided for soldier comfort; rumors she had heard about girls who had actually gone into business in certain theaters of war selling a few minutes of "next-in-line" ecstasy for twenty dollars or more for a thrust or two, swarmed through her mind. She had wondered what Yale thought about her, and had been sad because the next day he had said little. She remembered him tenderly tracing the curve of her face and saying, "Thank you, Anne, for a warm wonderful New Year's Eve." But she had been frightened. It was a nice thing to say, but somehow it wasn't enough.

In Karachi, at the officers' club, eating bowls of shrimp and tremendous steaks served by Hindus who watched them resignedly as they ate the "uneatable," Yale told her about Cynthia.

"You and I seem to reach out to each other the same way, Anne," he had said. "I don't know what it was about Cynthia. Perhaps because we studied together for four years I absorbed a little of her into my being. It's crazy, really. It's more understandable for you since you were actually married, but I never thought I could experience the same relationship with another woman." He touched the ends of her fingers. "Maybe because until I met you I never wanted to experience it with anyone else."

For two days they wandered the streets of Karachi, reporting back to the base every night for their orders. They were unable to dispel the feeling that this wisp of love they had found would soon be blown away. Living from minute to minute, delighted in their discovery of each other, and fearing the inevitable separation that their orders would bring; choked with a feeling of loneliness that almost corroded their relationship.

Yale hired a gharri to drive them around Karachi. Silently they listened to the clip-clop of the horse's shoes. Without speaking, they watched the curved back of the Indian driver who occasionally turned to describe a historical site. They nodded bemused acknowledgment of his attempt to enlighten them.

"Yale," she had asked, "where is the world going? Does this war mean anything? We all take it so uncomplainingly . . . like the Indians, here, who follow their Karma endlessly from one reincarnation to another. I can remember back in college when we used to get angry. There were America First meetings. We talked endlessly about what a sucker the United States had been, and how we had fought a war to make the world safe for the armament makers. . . ."

Yale remembered. He told her he didn't believe it would ever happen again. There would be no Sassoons or Hemingways caviling against war. "I think too many people on both sides like strife; they like the herding together that occurs in a war. You know the saying, 'They've found a home in the army.' The gregarious ones . . . the pack which runs together . . . which is most people . . . they fear loneliness more than anything in this world. They are afraid to look into themselves and find the great nothingness that is there. When the war is over the people of the world will have been conditioned to accept the leader to obey the organization . . . to identify themselves with the morality of numbers. Why? Because human beings fear loneliness worse than death." Yale had sighed, and there were tears in his eyes when he took her in his arms. "God, Anne, I don't know as I blame them. I am lonely for you. I fear losing you. If it is because I only want basically to hide my face in your breasts, it won't be a good love, will it?"

Morosely, they analyzed and re-analyzed their desire for each other. They made a case study of their needs. They stripped the warmth of their first embrace of its wonder. They tried to pin it down with words until it was almost a crass and ugly thing. And then Yale had said suddenly, "Anne, Anne, this is stupid! Why are we afraid? Because we may be separated? It's as simple as that. But I care for you deeply, and you care for me. Let's not analyze it anymore. Let's just be glad we met." He looked at her tenderly. "At least I am glad. How do you manage to look at me with such love in your eyes?" He grinned and kissed her. . . . "And you are a pretty good belly dancer, too."

When their orders came through, they were amazed to find that they both were assigned to the Assam Valley; to a new pipe line base that was just being established. Talibazar. Anne was assigned to the enlisted men's club with three other Red Cross girls. Yale's orders directed him to establish a finance office with a complement of enlisted personnel who in civilian life had been bank clerks and accountants.

Anne remembered Joe Trafford's sardonic grin when they boarded the plane. "Well, ain't this just cozy," he had said, grimly. "You're all going to be under my jurisdiction. Talibazar is mine! Read it and weep!" He dropped his mimeographed orders in Yale's lap.

In essence Major Trafford had been promoted. He was now Lieutenant-Colonel Trafford in full charge and authority of the new base at APO 1468. Talibazar . . . in the Assam Valley.

On the long flight from Karachi to Talibazar Trafford remarked ominously to Yale and Anne, "What I know is my business, Mrs. Wilson. We're with a new group now. These other girls will know nothing about you and Marratt from me. But understand this. When this plane sets down at Talibazar, you, Marratt, are running a finance office, and you, Mrs. Wilson, are running an enlisted men's club." He looked at Anne sourly. "And never the twain shall meet. Just keep it in mind. I won't encourage a private romance on a base where there will be a few thousand men, and only a handful of Red Cross girls and a few nurses. Like I told you, Mrs. Wilson," he finished balefully, "spread it around; and everyone will be happy."

A few days after they arrived at Talibazar, Trafford drove up in front of the huge Red Cross basha in his jeep. He found Anne perspiring as she worked with the other girls moving in equipment supplied by the recreation officers. Trafford was genial. "You girls won't have to bunk here any longer. I've found you a home."

Merrily, they piled into his jeep. Martha Burton, Chris Powers, Jane Belcher, and Anne. She listened warily as Colonel Trafford drove them off the base, past the town of Talibazar, deep into the country. As he drove he extolled the merits of the Axonbys. "They are English, you know. Been out here for years. Most of Talibazar was a huge tea plantation before the Americans took over. Half a dozen English families live here and run it for some big outfit in England. You girls are lucky. They have an empty house right on their property. They've turned it over to you four plus a few of our nurses."

"How will we get back and forth?" Chris Powers had asked. "It seems pretty far out."

"You'll be picked up and delivered by a sergeant from the motor pool," Trafford said. He turned to stare at Anne. "The Army believes in taking care of you girls. You can all appreciate that we can't watch two thousand men every minute. Some of them have been out here for nearly thirty months." He turned off the dirt road and pulled up in front of an English bungalow. "You know men. You can take it from there."

Helen Axonby greeted them. 'This is so much fun," she told them. Her lean, English face was bright with her enthusiasm. "We've been out here all by ourselves for so many years. Now the U.S. Army has moved in and brought civilization with it."

Trafford followed them into the house, listening while Helen Axonby apologized for the smallness of the rooms. She told them that they could decide which girls would share a room together. There were four small bedrooms, a primitive kitchen, and a sitting room. No bathroom.

"There's no plumbing." Helen Axonby sighed. "But then there isn't any on your dusty old base either, and we do have plenty of servants." She waved at the shiny faces of three Hindu girls who had followed them in, carrying jugs of water. Wrapped in saris, they looked shyly at the American girls. For no accountable reason they burst into laughter.

Anne took a room with Chris Powers. "This is for the birds," Chris said, shaking her long corn color hair in dismay. Anne liked her easy Texas accent. "I didn't join the Red Cross to get plopped out in the sticks of India, old top. This ferret face Colonel Trafford can shove this place, you know where."

"I don't think you'll get anywhere with him," Anne said, knowing that her interest in Yale had played some part in Trafford's decision to get the girls off the base. "He's pretty tough."

Chris tried her charm on Trafford and met with quick rebuff. "You're here to do a job, Miss Powers. If you're not happy, I'll contact the local field director. You can leave. I'm just stopping trouble before it occurs. I'm not particularly in favor of these clubs anyway. You girls flipping your butts around the base can be more of a challenge than some men can endure. At least, I'll sleep better at night knowing you're five miles away."

"Won't we even see you, Colonel?" Jane Belcher asked, teasing him.

Trafford smirked at her. "The code for officers who are presumed to be gentlemen is somewhat different. I'm sure you won't be lonely. You are right next door to the local tea planters' club. Any Army officer in good standing with me is automatically a member."

In the following two weeks Anne saw Yale twice. Once to wave at, as he passed her with several other officers, and the second time for a few minutes on a Sunday at the bar of the tea planters' club. Anne had decided that he was purposely avoiding her. She reacted coolly to him when he passed her a warm gin and orange crush.

"Tasty English drink," he said, sipping his gingerly. "They like warm drinks. Ugh. Tastes like a lollipop." He looked around. A group of officers were sitting on the porch. "Trafford's not here yet. Thank God. But that snotty looking character on the porch with the Captain's bars is his adjutant."

"So you're afraid of Trafford," Anne said bitterly. "That's why the brush-off."

Yale took her arm in a fierce grip. "Don't be stupid! First, I've been to Calcutta for two days and then to Dacca getting funds and instructions on activating this finance office. Next Saturday is the end of the month. Pay day. Remember. i've also been dabbling in rupees. Remember my francs. They are now a hundred and forty thousand rupees. Not as much as I expected, but -- in dollars -- about twenty-two thousand more than I had in Miami. We've got enough to set up light housekeeping."

"Which leg did you get hacked off this time?" Anne asked sarcastically.

Yale looked at her, a hurt expression on his face. "That's unkind."

"I'm just beginning to realize how important money is to you." Anne sipped her drink. She looked at him and felt that odd tugging at her heart. What was there about Yale that charmed her so much, she wondered. "I can see you when you are fifty years old piling furs and diamonds on a plump wife while you patiently explain how lucky she was to have married you."

"I'd like to paddle your plump little fanny," Yale said, half in anger. "Didn't you hear what I said about light housekeeping? I've bought us a house. . . ."

"I see you two have met. . . ."

Yale and Anne looked around startled to find Trafford walking toward them. Trafford ignored Anne. "Are you all set up for pay day, Marratt?" he asked. "Colonel Beaver may be up from headquarters to see how it goes. I was talking with him yesterday."

"I'm sure he'll be pleased, Colonel Trafford," Yale said coldly.

Trafford turned to Anne. "I just drove Howard Tuttle out. He's on the porch. I suggest you meet him."

Yale quickly touched Anne's hand. She could feel a piece of paper being pressed into her palm. "It was nice seeing you again, Anne." He watched through the open screened windows as Trafford introduced Anne to Tuttle.

Later Anne had read the note with tears in her eyes. "If you are reading this note," she read, "it's because I haven't been able to escape the eagle eyes of our friend Trafford. I know you are probably angry with me, but for reasons only Trafford would understand, I believe he would like nothing better than to have me transferred off the base. He can't do this unless he could prove to Headquarters in Calcutta that I was a bad boy. Problem. How to be with you and keep it a secret when five or six thousand male eyes know everything you do? You might sigh and say it was impossible, but then maybe you're not so much in love as I. If you love me do what I say. The very next day you are free, go to the base officers' club. It's a bamboo building across the swamp from the enlisted men's club. Behind the bar is an Indian Walla, called Vaswani. When no one can hear you, say to him, 'Take me to Chatterji.' He'll know what to do . . . I love you."

Two days later, in the afternoon, feeling her heart pounding, dismayed with her need to be with Yale and trembling with fear at being discovered, Anne went to the officers' club. Feeling like a spy or fellow-traveler, she whispered the words to the fat brown face behind the bar. The face, attached to a well-balanced, corpulent body, broke into a happy grin. "Me, Vaswani. You, memsahib! Tee kai! Come with me."

She followed Vaswani at a distance, watching him waddle in the direction of the officers' quarters. She waited on the road before a group of bamboo bashas, wondering who might see her. Vaswani returned in a few minutes followed by a tall Indian whose thin emaciated appearance was in striking contrast to Vaswani's fleshy body.

"He, Chatterji . . . Sahib Marratt's bearer. Take to his gaon, thori dur."

Chatterji had smiled at Anne's bewilderment. "Means village," he said, showing beautiful white teeth. "Not far. Follow. But not look like." Anne realized that he meant that an American would not walk beside a Hindu servant. Certainly not a woman. She followed him, watching his clean white dhoti billowing behind him. They had finally left the base on a footpath leading through rows of tea bushes.

It's the same path that I walked that day, Anne thought. Then the rolling green terraces of tea bushes had looked strange and unfamiliar to her. She had had an instinctive reaction to flee and not follow Chatterji. What if she had, she wondered? What if ninety days or so ago, she had thrown Yale's note away? That would have ended it. She would have lost all the wonder of this fairytale existence and the ecstasy of their greeting after a few days of separation. She would have lost this love. Because now she was wildly . . . passionately . . . crazily in love with this Yale Marratt who sometimes made her feel so tender, engulfed in her emotions, that she would cry from happiness; and who at other times awoke in her a strange bewilderment that she had surrendered herself to a stranger who was already committed to another woman.

As she walked toward the village she waved to some of the tea pickers who looked shyly in her direction. Soiled and dusty in their grey saris, they peered decorously from behind veils. She knew that some of them were Moslems from a nearby village. But the language they spoke softly to each other, commenting on this strange American woman, was the same warm glissando Hindustani that was now so familiar to her, and some of the words were beginning to trip on the threshold of her consciousness.

She looked at her watch. It was five-thirty. Yale would be waiting, wondering what had detained her, fearing that she had been assigned some project that would keep her from the village that night.

She remembered that first overwhelming day when Chatterji had led her across the rice field into the cool oasis of the village, along narrow paths between the bamboo houses. And then she had caught a glimpse of Yale, before he saw her, leaning indolently against the side of a tiny house built of bamboo, and roofed with dried grass several feet thick.

He had led her inside. There was a big rope bed covered with mosquito netting, and bamboo chairs and a table. On the wall was a print of the three-headed aspect of the Indian world Shiva, Vishnu, and Brahma. He had chuckled when she looked at it in consternation. She mentioned that it was not very pretty. "It's Chatterji's house-warming present." Yale hugged her excitedly. "Say you like it, Anne! Please. This is our home. This is where we escape Trafford. The lines of communication between us are Vaswani and Chatterji. Right after Vaswani brought you to Chatterji, he came to me. I rushed out here to welcome you. Chatterji's relatives built it for us. The whole thing cost two hundred rupees. Sixty dollars. Isn't it wonderful?"

"It's crazy, Yale Marratt," she had said. She withheld the thought that crossed her mind. So I'm an Army shack-up job and the smooth Yale Marratt, the big operator, has not only outwitted Colonel Trafford, he has what every soldier wants, a little sexpot, at his beck and call.

Now nearly three months later she knew that she had been wrong. In the twenty or so times they had "escaped" from the base, Yale had created for them a world of warm friendliness. Distant at first, the Hindu villagers soon responded to Yale. Anne was amazed at the rapidity with which he had grasped Hindustani. She recognized in the persistence in which he filled notebooks with Hindustani phrases a dynamic energy that was frightening in its powerful drive. "I can't help it, Anne," he told her. "I am driven. Have you ever read Thomas Wolfe? Remember him trying to absorb the entire Harvard library? Read every book in it. Know everything. I can understand that. A Faust-complex. It comes out in strange ways. I've heard so damned many Americans deprecate this country and these people that it makes me sick at heart. Here we are with an opportunity to learn about the culture of Hindus and Moslems. What do most of us do? We call them dirty wogs. Here is the oldest civilization in the world, but we are so sure of our own machine superiority that we look on these people with disgust. The Communists understand these things. In the bookstores in Dacca are thousands of books printed by the Russians in Hindustani and sold to these people for a few annas. We will lose India after the war to Communism because we ignored the mind of Indians. We think feeding their bodies is enough. Some day we'll find it isn't."

Often, they were invited to Indian ceremonies in the village, ceremonies that were part of a seemingly endless procession of holidays whose meanings Anne and Yale tried to understand. There were village dances, and feasting. They ate rice wrapped in large palm leaves, and they sat cross-legged on the ground, enjoying the friendliness of the villagers. Yale brought back from Dacca, on his twice-a-month trip to the bank, several books on Hindu beliefs and customs. Anne and he studied them avidly.

One day Anne made the discovery that the villagers were Tantrics. She and Yale were naked on their rope bed, idly playing with each other's body, finding sheer delight in a caress or touch. The gasoline lantern Yale had taken from the finance office sputtered on the table. It cast weird reflections on the wall and open ceiling, making a checkered pattern of shadows through the mosquito net.

Anne held Yale's penis gently, examining him with interest, a mischievous grin on her face. "This is a silly thing to worship," she remarked. She pinched him lightly. "Do you know something, Yale Marratt! The people in this village worship the lingam and yoni. They believe in 'Circle Worship.' Sunanda Gupta told me yesterday. I'm supposed to be privileged to know. It's a very secretive thing." Anne rested on her elbows. She looked at Yale seriously, trying to divert his attention from her dangling breasts. Yale knew Sunanda Gupta. She was the wife of Surya Gupta, the head of the village. Sunanda had learned to speak English at a British school in Calcutta.

"She's a very pretty woman," Yale had said. "I can't figure out why she wants to live here. I know they believe in Chakrapuja. It's a ritual based on the belief that this is the Age of Kaliyuga . . . a time on earth when men have come so far away from the ultimate godhead that they cannot worship in any ascetic way. Since for the Hindu all paths lead to Brahma, the Tantrics seek Salvation, for this time in the life of man, through something called the five Makaras: Madya, liquor; Mansa, flesh; Matsya, fish; Mudra, corn; and Maithuna, sexual intercourse. Wine, women and song, for the West." Yale kissed her nipple. "I knew Sunanda would talk to you. Surya Gupta asked if we would like to participate some evening." He looked at Anne with a wide grin on his face.

". . . and what did you say? Yes, I suppose." Anne had demanded. "Let's not let our curiosity run away with us, chum! I've been reading, too! Chakrapuja is where men and women sit together, naked in a circle, with their wife on one side and their 'spiritual' wife, meaning the wife of the guy next door, on their other side. Then all the men play house with the girls next door."

Yale had choked with laughter. "They do that in the United States, only it's not in fun. It ends up in divorce courts."

"I think that Sunanda wants to try you out," Anne said bitterly.

"Maybe Surya Gupta wonders how a white woman would be," Yale said and then was sorry that he had carried the kidding too far because Anne was crying. He had soothed her.

"I can't help it, Yale. Sometimes all this sneaking around to be together gets me down. I know you are joking about Chakrapuja but sometimes I get frightened. We can't plan anything. Either one of us could be transferred. And that's the end. Some day, when the war is over, you will be sitting back in your country club in Midhaven, Connecticut, and you will tell the boys about the nice little set-up you had in Talibazar," Anne sighed. "It makes me feel a little cheap, and available. I guess it's just that I know you'll never quite love me, Yale."

He had protested that he did love her.

"Do you?" she had asked, her eyes blue-black and bright with tears. "Do you know how often you call me Cindar? My name is Anne."

As she crossed the half-mile long dike that joined the village to the road and separated the rice swamp, she watched a straw-hatted farmer whipping his water buffalo out of its age old inertia, Onto the dike. The shadows of night were feeling their way out of China. From some nearby Moslem village the mournful evening prayers of endlessly repeated nasals were being cried to the sky. The sadness and eternal longing of the prayers to Mohammed seemed to blend with the cool night air and become a part of the aloof and remote quality of India.

That was a month ago, she thought. Before Mat Chilling had arrived. Yale hadn't apologized. "Anne, of course, I love you. I love Cindar, too. If I have called you Cindar, it was a compliment. Why do people try to live by the idea that love is like water from a faucet . . . that you draw only when you're thirsty and turn off at will. I can't love that way. You can't love that way either. Ricky, your husband, is dead, but you still love him. Only some perverted idea of religion has made the greatest emotion man can have an exclusive one-to-one relationship."

"I suppose you love everybody," Anne said, half in joy and half in anger. "You should go and hold hands with Trafford."

"I don't hate Trafford," Yale said, amused. "I only wish he could know a love like yours for me, or care as much as I do for you; then he would be unable to deny his fellow men."

Yale was elated the night he told Anne that Mat Chilling had been transferred to Talibazar. "Can you imagine! I was walking toward the mess hall, and I saw this long skinny frame approaching, looking down at me from heaven." Yale chuckled. "Mat Chilling! I guess I yelled his name at him. He came out of the clouds, and recognized me. Honestly, Anne, wait until you meet him. He's a good six-foot-five, with a tremendous lean and bony face. If he weighed about fifty pounds more, he'd look like God himself."

Anne felt a strange jealousy for a moment. Yale seemed to be to inextricably woven with his past. How, she wondered, if what Yale had told her was true, could he accept and like this Mat Chilling? She asked him point blank.

Yale looked at her silently. "I wish I could answer you, Anne. I've always admired Mat. He has such an inquiring mind. Do you know that he can speak fluent Hindustani? Somewhere, he studied Sanskrit. Then he got interested in various yoga disciplines and theories of Vedanta. He learned to read Hindu scriptures, like the Bhagavad-Gita , in the original. That's why he was sent to India. Actually, he's in Talibazar both as base Protestant Chaplain, and also to help the Army as interpreter with several local political problems that have developed."

Yale handed Anne a package. "It's a sari. I bought it for you to wear because you just wrap it around yourself. It makes you so nicely accessible."

Anne took the package, smiling. "You haven't answered my question," she said.

"I asked him how Cynthia was," Yale said. "She's gone home to New Jersey to live with her father."

"Did you tell him that you still love her?"

"Anne!" Yale said delightedly. "You're jealous." He kissed her. His touch gradually aroused her and they made love, but she didn't forget about Cynthia.

Two days later Colonel Trafford introduced Anne to Mat Chilling. Yale had flown to Mytikinia to transfer some funds to the finance office in Burma. Anne had been sitting with Helen Axonby when Trafford arrived at the tea planters' club. From Yale's description she recognized Mat instantly, but was unprepared for the deep musical quality of his voice. Mat introduced them to an Indian, who smiled obsequiously, showing very white teeth in his dark complexioned face.

"This is Sri Sundari," Mat said. "He is a very wise guru."

"Sahib Chilling is most kind," Sri Sundari said in perfect Oxford English. "But he exaggerates my abilities. Guru means 'dispeller of darkness' and I'm afraid no man in the last analysis can dispel another's darkness."

Trafford shifted uneasily on his feet. "I don't suppose I can buy you a drink, Captain," he said, ignoring Sundari. Mat refused for himself and Sundari. Relieved, Trafford left them for the inner recesses of the club.

"Your Colonel does not approve of his Indian brothers," Sundari said, smiling. Mat shrugged. "If we are offensive to you ladies," he said bluntly, "let's not find it out by innuendoes. I'm sure Sundari will understand."

"My! My!" Helen Axonby said. She tapped her cigarette on her fingers. "You are a rude one, aren't you? It so happens I have heard Sri Sundari lecture several times on his Love Yoga, or whatever you call it." She smiled at Anne. "My husband calls it bosh, but I think it's because he is envious. You have nothing to fear from Mrs. Wilson either, Captain Chilling." Anne looked quickly at Helen Axonby, hoping that she wouldn't reveal the many things Anne had told about Yale and herself. "Stop worrying, Anne. Any confessions you wish to make, you can make directly to Captain Chilling."

Mat laughed. "Sorry, but I maintain no confessional."

Anne knew from the way Mat responded that Yale had not mentioned anything about her to Mat. She wondered why. Was it because he was ashamed of her? Was it because Mat's wife had been his beloved Cynthia? Or was it that Yale didn't really like Mat despite what he had told her? After all, Mat had taken Cynthia from him.

"Sri Sundari, I enjoy India," she had said. "It's a privilege to have come to this country. I am interested in this Love Yoga of yours. I have been reading about yogas and Tantrics and find some of it rather shocking."

Sri Sundari leaned against the balustrade. "Memsahib Wilson, I do not know your background but I assure you, properly understood, there is nothing shocking about love." He sighed. "Until we are better aware of each other's limitations, however, I find it wiser to discuss less febrile aspects of Hinduism."

Chris Powers and Jane Belcher joined them on the porch with Howard Tuttle. Tuttle immediately tried to engage Sundari in a discussion of Moslem and Hindu problems. He asked Sundari whether he believed in the partition of India. Jane Belcher, a serious girl, who loved to discuss India and "solve the Indian problem," joined the discussion, citing Gandhi's theories of non-violence and the "spinning-wheel" as the salvation of India.

Anne noticed that Mat Chilling did not participate in the discussion. She drew away from the group, and he followed her.

"I'm afraid I'm not a political person," he apologized. "I find most of these discussions deal only in surface realities and hence tend to fly in ever diminishing circles."

Anne chuckled. "You mean like the filylu bird," she said delightedly.

"You don't think it appropriate that a minister would know that old joke?"

"I would expect that Mat Chilling would know it."

Mat looked at her surprised. "You say that as if you know me."

Anne wanted to say, I have heard nothing but Mat Chilling for the past two days. Instead she said, "Let me be mysterious, will you? Let me ask you questions which you must answer without asking me any questions in return."

"That's so very feminine. I can do no less than assent."

She thought, you'll be sorry, Mat Chilling, and so will you, Yale Marratt. She paused as if framing her first question with great deliberation.

"The year is nineteen thirty-nine. You have just graduated from theological school. You meet a girl named Cynthia. A Jewish girl. You marry her. Did she love someone else when she married you?"

Mat looked at her intently before be answered. "There are two possible reasons for your question. One, you know Cynthia. Two, you know Yale Marratt. I'll take the last as a logical guess. If that is correct, you know Yale pretty well."

Anne could feel her face coloring.

"You are blushing, Mrs. Wilson. Very charming. I wonder if you are asking the question for Yale? I could see it in his eyes in Miami, and the other day when we talked briefly."

"I'm asking the question for myself," Anne said, trembling a little. "Now I'm sorry I asked it. Please forgive me."

"I care for Cynthia very deeply," Mat said. "We were married not in nineteen thirty-nine, but in nineteen forty-three . . . two years ago. You look puzzled. I'm sorry I never did find out what actually happened between Cynthia and Yale. I suspect it was a religious problem." Mat touched her arm. "I would be very obtuse if I couldn't see your interest in Yale." He looked out across the rolling green lawn of the club's golf course. "So your question is one of dates. In this case I don't think the dates substantially changed anything. I think you can safely say that Cynthia still loves Yale." He noticed that there were tears in Anne's eyes. "When you love you give away a part of yourself, don't you think?"

Anne agreed. As she walked the path that led through the village to their bamboo house, she could hear the first sibilant sound of crickets and night insects. Far away a jackal cried mournfully to the coming of night. Rolling clouds seemed huddled close to the earth as if pressed by infinity. Somewhere overhead an airplane droned. The round-the-clock movement of pipe and gasoline into China continued. The night was close and warm and somehow fidgety with a feeling of something about to happen.

She caught up with an Indian woman who smiled at her as she passed. She was carrying a baby who nursed unconcernedly on his mother's swaying breast, half covered by her flowing sari. The baby's tiny arms and wizened penis bobbled in unison with his mother's step. Anne wanted to hold the baby and she smiled her emotion through tears at the woman, thinking as she smiled that she was becoming very sentimental lately.

Should she tell Yale that she had missed her period? Two weeks . . . it could be nothing. What would it accomplish anyway? She had literally asked for it. More than once when he was about to use a contraceptive, she had told him it was all right, knowing that he was as reluctant to interrupt their embrace as she was. And there was Cynthia. Could Yale ever escape his desire for her? Certainly not because some blonde stranger announced she had fertilized his seed.

"Baba achchha, manzur hai?" Anne parroted the words at the slowly comprehending woman. She wondered if her pronunciation was correct. The woman smiled. She repeated the achchha several times, patted the baby's rump, and hurried along toward the center of the village.

Yale, sitting in front of the basha with Chatterji, caught sight of her.

"Hey, I've been scared to death. It's nearly seven o'clock. Chatterji has baked a chicken. We are having a feast." He hugged her affectionately. "You're too beautiful to be wandering around alone at night. I think I'll have to make you wear a purdah, and just look at me."

She undressed, complaining about the dusty two-mile walk to the village. With a wet cloth and soap he lathered her body, and then led her in back of the house where there was a well. He threw buckets of water on her while Chatterji, embarrassed, but still enjoying himself, watched them defy the Hindu customs that forbade the exposure of one's body.

"Stop it! Please," she pleaded, shivering. Droplets of water coursed over her body. "Ten minutes ago I never thought I would be cool again." He helped her dry herself and watched with delight as she clumsily wrapped herself in a sari.

They drank gimlets which Yale had taught Chatterji to make. He asked her why she was late.

"Well, you know how it's been today. Everyone on the base acts stunned." She wound her fingers in his. "I guess I feel a little bewildered myself, Yale. I talked with a couple of G.I.'s who actually were crying. It doesn't seem possible that he's dead somehow. It's as if a world had died; a way of life. Some of the soldiers actually wonder if we can win the war now that he's gone.

"It's funny," Yale said, "I come from a family who have probably said 'Thank God . . . at last he's gone.' Now the Republicans will come blinking into the sun again, after so many years . . . but I feel the way you do. I'll miss his 'My friends . . ." At the same time be glad that all leaders are mortal, too. It's unfortunate that Hitler couldn't have gone first."

They ate the meal Chatterji had prepared and told him how delicious the chicken was. They both were a little worried as to what sanitary measures Chatterji had taken. "Tastes as if it were boiled in ghee," Anne said, wrinkling her nose.

"You've got to eat it," Yale whispered. "He's so proud of his culinary ability." He had to admit that it was very greasy. "The liquor will cut the fat," he said, and poured her another drink. "Anne, I want to marry you."

She looked at him in surprise, a chicken bone suspended in the air. "Oh, Yale . . . that's nice." Yale made the statement so matter-of-factly that Anne at first didn't grasp the words. When she understood she couldn't restrain her tears.

"I asked Mat Chilling if he would marry us but Mat said no." Yale shook his head disgustedly.

"Why not? Who does he think he is, -- God?" Anne demanded angrily. She brushed the tears out of her eyes. "He has Cynthia."

"It's not that he objects," Yale said, ignoring her reference to Cynthia. "It shakes down to this. To make it legal, it has to go through Trafford and then be okayed at Headquarters. Mat is absolutely certain we'd be turned down. He thinks the best thing is to wait." Yale kissed her cheek. "Anne. A marriage is in your mind. A ceremony doesn't make a marriage. Mat feels that we are married. Why proclaim it? It's just asking for trouble. Trafford would get one of us transferred."

"I know," Anne said dully. "He's right. I have a feeling we will never be married. So what? When we look back on it we can say: He was nice. She was nice. It was fun while it lasted. What lasts in the world, anyway?"

Yale led Anne toward the bed. He waved goodnight to Chatterji who grinned understandingly. Chatterji bid effusive goodnights to them. Anne lay on the bed unresponsive to Yale's touch.

"I didn't tell you that Sundari has talked with Surya Gupta," Yale said. "Mat asked him to. It was Mat's idea. We could have a Hindu marriage! Right here in the village."

"You mean like Sunanda suggested all of us get in a circle?" Anne demanded fiercely. "I won't do it!" She started to cry. "Oh, Yale, I'll do anything you want, I love you so very much."

"You mean you'd go through a Chakrapuja for me?" Yale grinned at her. "Well, baby, get it out of your head. Surya Gupta can't have you!" Yale hugged her, and kissed the wet corners of her eyes. "You dumb dodo. This would be an ancient Vedic marriage ceremony. Very nice. Very sacred. Something we could kind of hold onto until the war is over."

She lay in his arms, feeling the fulfillment of their love inside her -- and Yale's warm breath on her cheek. The nervous quiet of the night presaged the monsoons. Somewhere in the methodical rows of tea bushes a turkey buzzard flapped its wings. The shrill night yappings of the jackals as they howled their discontent with the world rolled to a crescendo. Soon . . . as they did every night, their plaintive calls would mysteriously cease. A hush would descend on the village and the night would be more intense and restless without their shrill howls. Anne could feel the warm perspiration from their bodies; the boniness of Yale's chest, and the curve of his stomach, wet and damp against her breasts and belly. She kissed him softly and fervently as he slept.

7

Dressed in a pale purple sari woven with gold threads; a huge pearl, a wedding gift from Yale, suspended on her forehead, Anne nervously watched the crowds of villagers gathering for the wedding ceremony. Looking from the window of Surya Gupta's house, she could see the ceremonial tent. The accumulative excitement of the past two weeks had built to almost a kind of hysteria for her. What had started out as a joke, being married in a Hindu ceremony, had suddenly been embraced with great seriousness by Yale and Mat as they studied the ancient ceremonies with Sundari.

Mat told her she would be taking part in a ritual older than any known marriage ceremony. When she protested to Sundari that it was sacrilegious for her and Yale to go through a ceremony they would scarcely understand, let alone believe, Sundari had smiled. "Many people today are joined by religious ceremonies they obviously don't believe. The important thing for a man and woman seeking the divinity is the accumulation of shared experience. For you and Sahib Marratt, this will be an experience that will add one more link in the chain that binds you, and will merge you with the Atman . . . until you both together can say, 'I am He' and your cry of joy in this discovery will be the pinnacle of your ecstasy with each other."

During the past month their bungalow in the village had become a kind of literary and intellectual gathering place for those at the Army base who had been accepted into their magic circle. On Friday evenings, which was Anne's day off at the Red Cross club, Mat Chilling, Sundari, Surya Gupta, and his wife Sunanda, Chris Powers, and Helen Axonby (who told her husband that she was helping at the base), and several pilots that Yale had met and trusted, gathered, and aided by beer, Indian whiskey, and the exotic village setting, discussed philosophy, politics, and life. In the intimacy of their shared knowledge, enchanted with the quick probing mind of Sundari, Yale and Anne would forget the Army for a little while and delight in the warm companionship they had engendered for each other.

"It's you and Yale," Helen Axonby told her. "Your love graces the entire village and transforms these evenings. I'm amazed at how much Indian culture you have assimilated in such a short time."

Anne had been surprised at Yale's obsession with learning. "The finance office is running itself," he told her. "Oh, once a month there's some activity, but mostly there's just a wonderful expanse of time. I could spend it playing endless games of gin rummy or drinking at the officers' club or out at the tea planters' club, but I have you and the vast world to know."

Anne remembered the day he had said it. A Sunday, when they had their basha to themselves. Yale was outside, lying naked on a charpoy, a pile of books he had brought from Dacca on the ground. He had been trying to converse in Hindustani with two naked Indian boys about five or six years old, who regarded him with merry black eyes. They choked with laughter at Yale's awkward pronunciation.

Yale had tried to persuade Anne to sun bathe with him, but she had declined. "I come from the Midwest, honey. I'm not used to your wild ideas. Besides, look at Chatterji. If he could blush, he would do it for you."

Surya Gupta had told Chatterji that the village was a little shocked at Yale's lack of modesty. Amidst sighs and smiles Chatterji had tried to convey this to Yale. Yale had looked at him with a dense expression, enjoying Chatterji's confusion.

"Nanga Sahib," Chatterji shrugged. He looked hopelessly at Anne. Anne thought it wonderful. Nanga meant naked in Hindustani. She had called Yale her Nanga Sahib ever since.

"Tell Surya Gupta," Yale had told Chatterji, "that I am a reincarnation of Krishna. Memsahib Anne is one of the Gopi girls. I'm filling her with love."

Anne had blushed for Chatterji as much as for herself. She wondered how much Chatterji, who looked at them in awe with solemn black eyes, understood.

"I don't think Krishna is ever represented without clothes," Anne said to Yale. "You're thinking of Shiva and Parvati."

Yale flipped the pages of one of his books. "Look, Chatterji. What do you think of this?" Chatterji stared at the photograph for a moment which showed a sculpture of Shiva and Parvati. Parvati was holding Shiva's lingam in a tight grasp. Chatterji bobbed up and down grinning. "Very good, Sahib, very good."

Anne chuckled. "You've struck a common chord of male delight. He likes the idea."

"Look," Yale had said, ignoring her. "Shiva's naked. Parvati's naked. I don't understand you Hindus. Nowadays, so far as I can see, even when Hindus take a bath they wear dhotis."

"Long time ago," Chatterji said. "Now Hindu man very modest." He stared at the photograph again. "Memsahib Anne. She Parvati. Very good. All women Parvati."

Sunanda came into the room. She smiled at Anne. "You are very beautiful, Mrs. Wilson. It will be only a few minutes now. Sri Sundari has obtained the assistance of the priests from two nearby villages." Sunanda was wearing a flowered print sari that Yale had brought her from Calcutta. She looked at Anne, her large brown eyes sparkling with excitement. "There are so many people. All the people from our village and from Taon. They want to see a blond memsahib. Every Indian man thinks about this marriage. They wish in their hearts they were Sahib Marratt."

"Oh, Sunanda, not when they can have a lovely Indian girl."

"Indian women get old quick. Sunanda will be an old woman at twenty-five." Anne knew that Sunanda was seventeen. She had had two children already. The philosophy is fine, Anne thought. The Hindu adores women. He accords the female supremacy, but practically . . . she withers before his eyes, and he can do nothing about it.

When Sundari and Mat Chilling came out to the village later that day, they found out what Chatterji had meant by his statement that all women were Parvati. Anne remembered that Sundari had looked at Yale with amusement. He made some comment about white men lying naked in the sun to achieve the color of the Asians they despised.

"It's not the color," Yale said, grinning. He made no attempt to dress, although Anne had appeared with his pants. "It's the cool breeze blowing across one's testicles . . . gentle as the touch of a woman who loves you."

Sundari had been delighted. He turned to Mat. "I think this young man already understands the Sakta theory . . . that the ultimate and active principle in the universe is feminine. I do think that since Sahib Marratt and his Memsahib have asked me to officiate at this marriage I would be remiss if I didn't attempt to give them an understanding of Bhakti Yoga and some of the Hindu concepts of love."

Anne had asked him if this was what Helen Axonby had meant by "Love Yoga."

Sundari smiled. "What I tell people in my lectures is an ancient formulation, based on the Tantras. Love Yoga somehow fails to render the idea. It has journalistic overtones in my mind." Chatterji opened cocoanuts for them. They had sipped the cool milk as they talked.

Anne remembered that Yale had pointed out to Mat that it sounded to him a little like Mat's idea of "Seek the True Love."

Surya Gupta interrupted Anne's reveries. He bounced into the room with a happy grin. "We are ready for the bride, Memsahib."

Her legs trembling, Anne listened to the sigh of approval as Surya Gupta led her through the crowds of spectators forming a pathway for them to the wedding tent. She saw only a blur of faces through her veil. In a moment she was kneeling yoga fashion before the sacrificial fire. Yale dressed in suntans was beside her. She caught a glimpse of admiration in his smile. He touched her hand gently. Sundari was busy chanting in Sanskrit what he had told them would be an extended invocation to the ancestors. As he sang the verses, assistant priests to his right and left fed rice and ghee into the fire. The tent was crowded. The sides were lifted. In every direction Anne glimpsed happy brown faces following the ritual with great seriousness.

In the long discussions they had had concerning the Vedic marriage ceremony, Anne knew that it would be some time before they reached the Kanyadan, or wedding itself. Honor must be paid to the Gods. The Spirits must be propitiated. Without understanding the language (something which she had protested to Sundari as seeming a little false to her), Anne was able to grasp the essential meaning of what Sundari was saying. He had explained to her and Yale that very few Hindus understood Sanskrit . . . any more than Catholics understood Latin. It should be easy for them to participate as long as they understood the ceremony generally.

The heat was overpowering. Kneeling so close to the fire, smelling the ever-present warm smell of dung and burning of rice and ghee in the sacrificial pot, Anne felt suddenly faint. She clenched her hands. She prayed. Somehow she must get through the ceremony. She knew how much effort the villagers . . . Surya Gupta, Sundari . . . all of them had put into the wedding. It was an occasion they would remember, an honor that these Americans had bestowed by accepting their beliefs and rituals. Anne knew the marriage had been a continual subject of discussion in the village for weeks. Sunanda had asked if she really were a Hindu in her beliefs. Anne parried the question by telling her that "all paths lead to Brahma." She wondered as she said it what her religion was. Not Christian, certainly . . . for wasn't living with Yale . . . wasn't this marriage a blasphemy in Christian eyes?

Again, she felt a wave of dizziness spread over her. She swayed slightly. Sundari continued his oblations. I'm really pregnant, she thought, wondering when she would have the courage to tell Yale. Oh, dear God, let him care for me when he knows. Let not these wonderful discussions of love and philosophy that we have had be just abstractions that fold their tents and disappear when the hard reality is known. What had Mat Chilling said to her that day? Her mind drifting over the peaks and valleys of Sundari's singsong chant, she remembered:

"You see, Anne," Matt had said, "'Seek the True Love' was a very crude formulation of an idea that has gradually come to obsess me, and made it impossible for me to preach Christianity in the accepted theological ways. For years I have been searching for the ultimate fulcrum that will pry man loose from his hatreds. Idealistic sexuality seemed the answer. Here is a common bond for all men which our established religions have unfortunately renounced. No human consciousness can ever know another human consciousness. We are circumscribed by our own existence. Yet in the sexual giving and receiving of a male and female, not only bodies, but minds themselves, finding the unity of two lovers with the universe, can participate in the Ultimate. Isn't this really the best and only approach to God for man? By our understanding of the microcosm, which is all man, we can approach to an understanding of the macrocosm, which is God. What I was trying to say in 'Seek the True Love,' Anne, was that the truly sacred love of God could be achieved just as blessedly for any man or woman in a clean warm sexual act, as for the saint or mystic in the transports of his ascetism. Maybe even better . . . because with the communion possible in the sexual act, properly enjoyed and understood, moves not the 'still sad music . . .' but the joyous music of humanity."

Anne remembered. As she had listened to Mat she wondered about the strange affinity that he and Yale had for each other. She wondered what Cynthia thought about Mat's ideas. Was she, Anne, simply an outsider to an established triumvirate, with the unknown Cynthia in the center?

She recalled Yale answering Mat, "I think I have always felt this way."

She remembered he had touched her arm. "This sexual rapport takes a very complete understanding of a man and a woman for each other. Perhaps this molding of two people is as difficult to achieve as Nirvana itself. If it can be brought about, a man and woman will transcend the sexual act itself. It has happened to me."

Anne remembered the reminiscent tone in Yale's voice. Had he meant with her or with Cynthia? Again, that gnawing doubt.

Sundari had finished his long apostrophe to Krishna and the ceremony of the marriage itself was about to begin. For several weeks she and Yale had studied their parts like actors in a play. Sundari had translated some of the Sanskrit ritual into the ultimate vows that she and Yale would take. As if she were a spectator instead of a participant, as if the significance of the ceremony were not for her but for some person she was watching with unconstrained interest, she heard Sundari ask,

"Who giveth this woman?"

As they had previously agreed, Surya Gupta answered, "I do, acting as the father."

Oh, yes, Anne thought, Anne's father is dead. But he was alive when Ricky and Anne were married. What would he have thought of this heathen ceremony, Anne, the watcher, wondered? Horrible! Indecent! A blasphemy! Even broadminded Ricky would have been shocked. For Ricky's liberalism embraced science and biology, but, wherever he was now, if he could see his wife pregnant, being married before a fire representing a Hindu divinity named Agni, he would have shouted his protest loudly.

"What is her name?" Sundari asked.

"Anne Meredith Wilson."

Sundari ordered them to throw rice into the fire. Anne, the participant, was aware of Yale's voice. He was speaking to her. She heard the words he had practised, spoken, now tenderly, with a warmth of affection that made her tremble.

"Look upon me with no angry eyes; be not hostile to me; be tender to animals, be amiable, be glorious; be the mother of males; be devoted to God; be the bestower of happiness; be the bringer of prosperity to our bipeds and quadrupeds."

She grinned, remembering how she had kissed him and murmured to him, "I didn't know I was marrying a farmer. Oh, Yale, my dearest, I do love you."

The ceremony was proceeding. She was being linked to this man she had known only a few thousand hours.

Solemnly Surya Gupta said, "In the attainment of Dharma, Artha and Kama. She is not to be transgressed."

"Transgress her I will not," Yale said quietly.

How delighted Mat and Sundari had been with these vows! "You see the point?" Sundari had asked her. "No Hindu wife is chattel. She is very much the mistress in her home. Anne is your equal in every way, Yale."

Yale had quibbled. "Well, not quite every way," he had demurred. "Ultimately a woman receives, and a man gives."

And now Sundari was passing the yoke to Yale. Smiling, Yale placed it over her head. Anne knew her eyes were bright with tears; for this was the act of submission, the passing of authority to her husband. Sundari continued the ceremony, speaking a flowing river of sound that embraced them. Sunanda had moved forward to assist in the symbolical tying of their garments. Since Yale was wearing a chino shirt, they had planned this so that a piece of ribbon from Anne's sari was joined loosely to his arm.

Looking at her, with a tiny grin; an expression of love on his face, as tangible as a caress, Yale said, following the translation Sundari had prepared for him, "First Soma had thee for a bride; Gandharva obtained thee next; Agni was thy third husband; thy fourth husband is myself, born of man. Soma gave thee to Gandharva, then Gandharva gave thee to Agni, and Agni has given thee to me for wealth and sons."

Anne remembered the discussion that this had engendered when Sundari had explained it to them. "I know that these Gods take care of a girl during her youth and protect her virginity," Anne said, teasing them. "But unfortunately I'm not a virgin. Even if I had not lived with Yale, I have been married before. You see, Sundari, even your Eastern religions want their women inviolable."

Sundari was equal to any problem. "Love properly understood," he had told her, "occurs only between virgins. What does virginity mean? I will tell you. Pure, unsullied . . . not yet used for any purpose. Note the word use . It cannot exist in love or in the sexual act. Use implies a destruction of value. It implies that this is a contact that depreciates the flesh. This, I tell you, is not so! Love exists without man or woman. Participation in this never born, never ceasing love is possible for man and woman through the wondrous commingling of their minds and bodies. In this world of Maya, or illusion, we must recognize the truth; for those who are pure the sexual act is a perpetual renewal of virginity."

Listening to him chant the Sanskrit marriage texts, Anne remembered the night that Helen Axonby persuaded Sundari to explain in more detail his Tantric conceptions of Love. "I think it is time," he had admitted. "This man, Yale Marratt, and his woman Anne Wilson, should know as much as possible. A good place to start is in this village. These people are Vanamargis, or left-hand worshippers, known as Tantrics. Their complete worship of sex, and the active female principle in the world, is not easily understood by ascetics. You from the West believe that the only final way to reach God is in the renunciation of life. A Christ-like detachment. That is understood by Hindus, too. Hence many forms of yoga seek God through self-abasement. This is the right-hand path which denies the world. The left-hand path embraces the world. You might call the right-hand path the male principle, the left-hand path the female principle. In China our Buddhist friends call this the Yang and the Yin. But there are many ways to reach Atman. All paths converge. The Sakta principle which attributes all things in the universe to an active feminine drive; the feminine principle, absorbing the male . . . containing it, is more acceptable to many of us in the East, perhaps, because it is compassionate . . . something a society based on male dominance cannot be."

Sundari had smiled at his bewildered listeners. "Do not look so worried, the Tantric accepts this as an image. Parvati, the wife of Shiva, symbolizes it for him with a wealth of story and myth. Similar to your Christian Mary in a way. I understand in certain South American countries there is much more actual worship of Mary than of Christ." He chuckled. "A more logical trinity perhaps would be The Father, The Son, and Mary. But not a Virgin Mary. Oh, dear, no!"

"Now, I understand what Chatterji meant," Yale had said, "when he said all women are Parvati."

Sundari nodded. "You can readily see how this idea could lead to a form of worship based on sex. I think you and your Memsahib would find a study of the Tantras valuable to your own sexual consummation and your identification with the Universe."

"This is a difficult concept for Christians to understand," Anne remembered Mat saying. "In the Christian world Divine Love is the Love of God. It is somewhat surprising for people who have been brought up in a tradition that still looks upon the sexual act as an animal act. . . bestial, even dirty . . . to conceive of a sexual love in which the man and woman are incarnations of the divine."

"This is the doctrine of the Tantric Maithuna. Imagine, Sahib," Sundari had said, turning to Yale, "that you and your Menisahib are seated naked, in the cross-legged yoga position. Your Memsahib then clasps your waist with her thighs. She puts her arms about your neck."

"Good heavens!" Anne laughed. "A woman would have to be an acrobat."

Sundari smiled. "These things can be learned, Memsahib. This discussion is only to illustrate a point. There are many ways of intercourse. You try this with your Sahib. You will find the proximity of his member to your yoni will result not in a penetration but an absorption. You will be joined in the real sense of the word yoga which means 'to join' . . . in this position of course no motion will be possible if you are to remain joined. For hours you will stay together doing nothing to excite the ultimate orgasm."

"Sounds nice." Anne had smiled at Yale, who grinned back at her.

"It is more than just nice," Sundari said sternly. "You and your Sahib will find your individuality vanishing, your breathing will slow down, your lives will come and go without grasping, without loss. Slowly, you will obtain a psychic transference into the Self of the Universe. You will find that your love has become divine. In your wonder and contemplation of each other you will have surrendered your individual bodies to include all the external world. Better still you will find that as you prolong the final ecstasy, Sahib, that you and your lady will discover a blending of your minds, coupled with a blinding wonder at the miracle of each other . . . a wonder that you have never dreamed possible."

Mat leaned toward Anne and Yale. "Do you see what this can mean?" he had demanded excitedly. "In this idea are the seeds of a religion based not on an archaic idea of a male God ruling the world, but a religion based on humanity finding itself and the Ultimate in each other."

Anne remembered she had said, "It is not really possible to put these feelings into words. No matter how clinically you discuss it, it seems to me that it must remain a very private experience."

Sundari had smiled. "No, Memsahib, I disagree with you. I believe we must find a way to teach this feeling to all men and women and teach them how to achieve it, if we are to preserve human beings from extinction."

Anne realized that while she had been reminiscing the wedding cermony had arrived at the Panigrahana, or hand-taking. She felt Yale's fingers entwine with hers. A thrill of delight and panic electrified her body. Surya Gupta tied their wrists with a gold and silk cord while Sundari, unsmiling, chanted endless religious verses to which the crowds of villagers listened with rapt attention.

It really is a marriage, Anne thought, bewildered. I am really being joined to Yale Marratt in this strange and ancient ceremony. Sundari poured sacred water over their joined hands. Slowly, Yale led her in the tradiditional Saptapadi. Seven times around the sacred fire, circling the priestly group with tiny steps, Anne could feel Yale's wrist bound to hers. She stared at the leaping flames, feeling a flood of desire course through her body for Yale. He looked so wonderfully wholesome, so serious, as he guided her, whispering softly, "I love you, Anne."

On the final trip around the sacred flames she suddenly recognized Colonel Trafford watching them. A feeling of terror grasped at her heart. He was standing just outside the tent with his adjutant, Captain Baker. A broad smirk was on his face. He caught Anne's glance, and even at the distance she knew that he understood her gasp and half-stifled "Oh, my God."

She felt Yale's fingers tighten on hers and saw his expression of disgust as he recognized Trafford. This was it, she thought dully, remembering Trafford's warnings. Now, he would do everything possible to get one of them transferred. The feeling of panic that seized her, the scream of dismay that was so close to her lips, made her forget for a moment that the marriage ceremony was still continuing.

She heard Yale say, "Now that we have taken seven steps together; be thou my companion. May I never part from thee nor thou from me. Let us be united; let us always take counsel together with glad hearts and mutual love. May we grow in strength and prosperity together. Now we are one in mind, deed, and desires. Thou art Rik, I am Saman; I am the sky, thou art the earth; I am the semen, thou art its bearer; I am the mind, thou art speech. Follow me faithfully, that we may have wealth and children together."

Numb with fear, she saw Sundari smile at them as he made a concluding oblation in Sanskrit, and then said in English, "Let this union flower, witnessed by the gods, and sanctified by the Vedic texts. Live together a full life in good health."

Sunanda handed Yale the tali, Surya undid the cord that bound them. Kneeling beside her, as he placed the necklace of flowers on her shoulders, she heard him whisper, "Darling, Trafford can't hurt us. Stop worrying this instant, you scared little goose." He dipped his finger in the red oxide of lead powder that Surya had placed in front of them. Anne bowed her head, and he rubbed it lightly into the centre part in her hair. This was Sendurdan, the mark that the bride was his; the symbolic taking of possession.

"You can't escape from me now." Yale grinned. "I am the master." Laughing, Sundari tossed a fistful of saffron rice at them. The wedding ceremony was over. Yale led Anne through the crowds of villagers who followed them singing, throwing rice, waving torches, and forming a pathway to their house.

"According to tradition," Yale said as he walked beside her, guiding her through the crowds, "we sleep together three nights before we make love. I told Sundari you couldn't stand that. He understands that you are a hot baby, so he gave us a special dispensation."

"Yale Marratt, you're awful!" Anne said indignantly. "You didn't say that! It's not true, anyway. Oh, Yale, how can you joke? Trafford saw the whole thing. Oh, God, how did he ever find out about the wedding?" She held his arm. He could feel her trembling. He recognized the near hysteria in her voice. "Don't you see, Yale, we're sunk. He'll get one of us transferred, and then it will be over."

"Stop it, Anne," Yale said, seeing Mat and Sundari approaching them. "We are married. Even if the worst happens and we are separated, we are married. You can't escape that."

Tears in her eyes, she tried to smile at Mat and Sundari who were congratulating them. She watched the hundreds of villagers as they gathered around them talking and chattering gleefully. Anne wondered where Colonel Trafford had gone. What would he think of their marriage? Would he be content to just go back to Talibazar . . . to forget this afternoon, and permit Yale and her to have this small haven in a world gone mad? Almost as the questions formed in her mind, she had her answer.

Trafford followed by Captain Baker pushed through the crowd. He pointed the riding crop he always carried at Yale. "Well, if this isn't the quaintest god-damned idea I ever heard of." His lips curled in a sneer. "I'd like to know what in hell you think you are doing, Lieutenant Marratt, and you, too, Captain Chilling. I can't understand a so-called 'man of God' tolerating this travesty of a wedding. I presume that, in addition to being an officer and gentleman, you are a Christian . . . and a citizen of the United States. Being a senior officer I hold you as responsible as Lieutenant Marratt for not reporting this incident."

"Captain Chilling has nothing to do with this, Trafford," Yale said, before Mat could answer. "Since my wife and I are not on a U.S. Army base, and we are not interfering with you or the conduct of the war, I fail to see your concern. In fact it's none of your damned business."

"Your wife and you!" Trafford roared with laughter. "You call that wog ceremony a marriage? You just try to have it stand up legal-like. The judge advocate's office would just call it a polite way to cover up a little whoring."

Noticing Yale's anger, Trafford stepped back as if to duck a possible blow. "I wouldn't try to hit a superior officer, if I were you, Lieutenant. If you just ain't mighty careful, I'm going to give you a direct order to put your ass in the back seat of my jeep and we'll go back to the base while I have Captain Baker study the regulations for a good juicy court martial. Now, if I do that, it will be a damned shame. Anyone can see that this little girl needs servicing on her wedding day. I just guess she wouldn't mind if I broke the cherry for you." Trafford started to laugh raucously. For the first time they smelled the odor of whiskey, and realized that Trafford was quite drunk. "Get it." He jabbed Captain Baker with his elbow. "In these tribal marriages the head man always gets the first poke. Now," he said, and grabbed Anne's arm, "if I'm not the head man, hereabouts, I'd like to know who in hell is? Huh?" he demanded, shaking Anne, who looked at him terrified.

"Let go of her, you bastard." Yale's face was scarlet with his anger. He twisted Trafford's arm.

"Get your hands off me, son," Trafford snarled at him, "or I'll trample you to death, right here in front of your whore and wog friends."

Mat intervened. "Whether you realize it or not, Colonel, there are other women here." He pointed in the direction of Mrs. Axonby and several of the Red Cross girls who, with two pilot friends of Yale, had worked their way through the crowd of natives. They were all listening to Trafford. "Whether it bothers you or not," he said, playing on Trafford's pride, "I would suggest that we are but a handful of Americans and one British lady in the midst of all these Indians. It certainly doesn't seem in the best taste to demean the rank you hold by engaging in a knock-down fight."

Trafford clapped Mat on the back. "You're damned tooting right, preacher. We'll just forget all this crap until tomorrow. Then we'll look at the matter with a clearer vision. Such vision would say to me, Lieutenant Marratt . . ." He smiled nastily at Yale . . . "that I've got to hand it to you for arranging your life so handily . . . having yourself a big wallah-wallah deal right here in old India where everyone else has to subsist on dark meat. Very neat. Unfortunately, not conducive to happiness when it gets known around the base. I think we will just have to find us a new f. o." Trafford grinned. "I mean finance officer, Lieutenant, and I'd be mighty careful with your temper unless you plan to spend the rest of your life in Leavenworth."

Trafford turned his attention to Sundari who had been following the conversation impassively. "Since this is supposed to be a wedding, I think I should be invited to the celebration. What do you think, Sundari?"

"I am sure you are welcome to join the villagers. I must warn you, they do not drink."

"It's all right," Trafford said agreeably. "I brought my own. Let's get my jug, Captain, and wander around. There's some good-looking quiff around here." He pointed at Sunanda Gupta who was standing near Anne. "Look at that little brown baby."

They all watched Trafford and Baker walk toward their jeep.

"This man make trouble, no?" Surya Gupta said to Yale.

"I'm afraid so," Yale said. "I'm sorry to have inflicted him on your village."

"Do not worry, Sahib. This is your wedding day. There is much feasting, thanks to your generosity. I will be responsible for the Colonel's good behavior."

"I wonder how he found out about the wedding." Helen Axonby put her arms around Anne, feeling a deep sympathy for her. Anne seemed to have shrunken into herself. The dismay and terror at the encounter with Trafford was frozen on her face. "Come on, Anne," she said, leading her toward the bungalow. "You've been a beautiful bride, and it was a lovely ceremony."

"Let her lie down awhile," she said to Yale. "I'll stay with her."

Mat told Yale that he and Sundari would not stay for the wedding feast. "It's a shame about Trafford," Mat said unhappily. "I suppose it was inevitable that he would hear about it. All the bearers gossip so much. I do think the wisest thing would be to avoid him tonight. In fact, if you could get your friends to leave early, it would leave Trafford and Baker awkwardly alone." Mat pointed out to him that since it was their wedding night the villagers would not expect that he and Anne would stay at the party.

"I'm afraid it's already too late," Yale said. He nodded toward the centre of the village. Mat noticed the tables set up for the wedding feast. They both saw Trafford and Baker wave a bottle of liquor toward Jane Belcher and Chris Powers. The girls were escorted by two pilots who evidently thought it best to accede to Trafford's demands. Yale saw them take a drink from the bottle. "I think I better talk with Surya Gupta," Yale said, worned.

He thanked Mat and Sundari. He was glad that they had decided to leave. Trafford didn't seem to have any fear. Yale was afraid that the villagers, peaceful as they were, might be so shocked by Trafford's behavior that real trouble would ensue. Sufficiently angered, he knew that some of these Indians would not hesitate to use one of their rapier-like knives on Trafford.

Yale walked toward the huge fire that had been started in the centre of the village. Although it was still early evening the fire cast huge dancing shadows on the hundreds of villagers who already were passing and eating hot and exotic curries in earthenware bowls. Yale had given Surya Gupta three thousand rupees for the celebration. He remembered that Surya Gupta had looked at him unbelievingly and said, "Sahib Marratt, this is enough money to feed two villages for months. We will have a fantastic wedding celebration."

As he walked through the crowds of grinning Hindus who stopped to congratulate him, Yale was certain that Surya Gupta had invited more than a thousand guests. A native orchestra was playing monotonous Oriental scales. After the feasting there would be dancers and mummers, and storytelling from the epic Mahabharata, stories that would go on all night.

Yale couldn't find Surya Gupta who was evidently busy supervising details or entertaining local Hindu officials. As he searched, he discovered, to his shock, that Trafford had corralled Sunanda Gupta. She was sitting against a palm tree with Trafford on one side of her and Baker on the other.

"No, Colonel, I do not like leeker," Yale heard her protest.

"Come on, baby," Trafford said. "One little drink won't hurt you a bit."

Trafford looked up and recognized Yale. "Look at this cute little babe, Marratt. Speaks pretty good English, too. Not so white as yours but I'll wager she's a hot little piece. Look at those cute little titties palpitating under her sari. Before the night is over, I plan to squeeze them up a little."

"Joe," Yale said, kneeling beside him, "do me a favor, just once, will you? Take off! This is really a Hindu celebration. Anne and I aren't going to stay. You and Baker will be the only white people left. Chris and Jane are going in a few minutes." Yale smiled at Sunanda. "You better find your husband, Sunanda."

Sunanda started to get up. Trafford grabbed her arm. "Sit down, baby. We haven't got acquainted yet." He shook his head sadly at Yale. "I don't know what's the trouble with you, Marratt. You're just plain hoggish! I plan to stay at this here party. Before the night is over, with a small 'token payment, if I know these wogs, I can borrow this little girl. Just for a half hour or so . . . What do you think, Baker? I'll bet she's not over fourteen years old. Very sweet stuff. We'll both give her a whirl. Toddle on, Lieutenant. I don't need your advice."

Yale stood up. He stared at Trafford, fighting back a desire to lash out at him. It was all he could do to refrain from kicking him in the face. Quickly he walked away. He heard Trafford grumble, "I'm going to have to take the starch out of that young fellow, Baker. We should have taken him back to the base tonight. He just doesn't appreciate my essential generosity."

Yale walked through the village to his basha. Helen Axonby was sitting in front waiting for him. Chatterji sat cross-legged against the wall, at her feet.

"Your Colonel is a problem." Helen Axonby sighed. "Is he still in the middle of things?"

Yale told her what Trafford was doing and that he was nervous. He hoped that once Trafford realized that he and Baker were the only white people left in the village he would feel uneasy. He prayed that Trafford would leave before he caused trouble.

"I'm praying with you," Helen Axonby said. "Anne is almost hysterical with worry. I don't blame her. That man is an ass! There's absolutely no need for him to behave the way he has to you two youngsters. You're both doing your job. I'm sure that your being married won't interfere with Army discipline. What business is it of his, anyway?" Helen Axonby took Yale's hand. "I wish you the best of luck. Anne is such a nice person." She smiled at him. "You go to her, now. Jane and Chris are waiting to drive me home. Tomorrow is Sunday. I'll expect you and Anne to come for dinner. Please."

Anne had lighted their kerosene lamp. She was sitting on the charpoy in her slip when Yale entered. "He's still out there; isn't he?" she asked despondently.

Yale put his arm around her. "Stop fretting, Anne. He'll leave soon." Gently, Yale tried to push her back on the bed. She lay beside him motionless, listening. When Yale kissed her she started to cry. "Oh, Yale, I'm so frightened. I just can't make love. How do you know he won't find us here? I can just see him bursting through the door, saying something foul and rotten." She stood up. Her face was tearstained. There was a note of desperation in her voice. "I think I should get dressed and go back to the base."

Yale pulled her back on the bed. Slowly he lifted her slip over her head. "Honey," he murmured, "this is our wedding night. At least you can lie in my arms. It's early. We won't make love until we are sure that Trafford has gone."

Somehow, drugged with exhaustion, they must have fallen asleep. Yale awoke with Chatterji shaking him. "You come, Sahib. Big trouble." Chatterji ignored Anne's consternation as she awkwardly tried to cover her breasts with her slip.

"You wait," she said to Yale. "You're not going without me." She slipped into her skirt and jacket, listening as Chatterji tried to explain. "Colonel, he get very drunk. Memsahib Gupta very frighten. She run. Colonel grab. Pull off sari. Very bad. Sunanda nanga." Yale realized that Chatterji was trying to tell them that Trafford had somehow torn off Sunanda Gupta's sari. This was a serious disgrace for Sunanda. God knew what the Indians would do to Trafford.

"Where is the Colonel now?" Yale demanded of Chatterji.

"Colonel very sick. His friend very sick. Fall down," Chatterji said. His eyes were big with fear. "Many men carry. Come, Chatterji show."

Yale looked at his watch. It was two o'clock. As they walked through the village it seemed unusually quiet. Yale had the feeling they were being observed through apertures in the bamboo walls of the houses they passed. Chatterji led them through the village. They passed Trafford's jeep. Yale looked in it. The keys were in the ignition. The silence around them was ominous.

"Where are you taking us?" Yale demanded irritably. "Colonel not this way."

"Colonel this way," Chatterji whispered. "Come." He led them out on the dike that connected the village to the main road. Half way out, Chatterji stopped and pointed down the steep embankment. Yale directed his flashlight into the rice paddy. At the edge of the water, his light caught the mud-covered bodies of Trafford and Baker.

"Oh, my god," Anne screamed. "They're dead!"

Yale scrambled down the side, followed by Chatterji and Anne. He leaned over Trafford. To his amazement Trafford stared back at him . . . blinking his eyes trying desperately to move his lips. Yale felt his pulse. It was strong. He looked at Baker and found him in the same condition.

"Anne, they're both alive," he said, unbelievingly.

Anne felt Trafford's pulse, and listened to his heart. "They've been drugged, Yale," she said in awe. "Look at Trafford. He can hear us, but he can't answer. Someone must have fed him an Indian mickey. Sundari told me once there are many Indian herbs and medicines that the white people know nothing about."

Yale pointed his flashlight at Chatterji, who looked at him with a happy smile. "Hindu man, no take life." He pointed at Trafford and Baker. "No good men. Someone fix good. Now, you push in water. Soon gone." Chatterji shrugged. "No one find. Gone bye-bye, all time."

Anne shivered. "He's telling you to push them in the water." She pointed at the expanse of water-covered rice land. "It's only a few feet deep but they'd drown in a second, and our troubles would be over."

Yale leaned over Trafford. "Can you hear me, Trafford? I think it's a good idea. A couple of shoves and you and Baker would sink -- into a muddy grave." He reached for Trafford as if he were going to roll him into the water. "No, Yale," Anne screamed, "don't do it."

Yale looked at her, grinning. "I should. They've interrupted our wedding night. Now, we're going to have to get them back to the base and God help us if they don't recover." He started to drag Trafford up onto the road. "It would be easier, and probably a blessing for the world, if I just accidentally pushed him in."

After he had pulled Baker up onto the road alongside Trafford, he told Anne to go back with Chatterji and get Trafford's jeep. She would have to drive to Talibazar and find Major Manning who was the chief medical officer at the base. Major Manning could bring an ambulance to get them back. Yale wondered how serious their condition was. They could die while Anne was gone. It was obvious that Anne had the same thought. She studied them carefully. "Do you think they'll be all right, Yale?" She examined Trafford, who continued to stare at her. All that he was able to do was blink his eyes. Both Trafford's and Baker's mouths were open; coupled with their staring eyes, their faces both had a fearful, idiotic expression.

Chatterji was obviously disappointed that they had rescued Trafford and Baker. In response to Yale's questioning, he denied any knowledge of what had happened.

"Colonel, no, sick, long time. One day. Two day. Okay. Feel fine," he grimaced. "Too bad. Very bad men."

When Anne returned with Trafford's jeep she stopped for a moment. Sitting behind the wheel, she looked at Yale. Her eyes glistened with tears. "I love you, Yale. I just love you." She nuzzled her face against his for a second. "It was a nice wedding."

Yale watched the taillight of the jeep disappear. He sat down beside Trafford and Baker. Pointing the flashlight at Trafford's face, he asked, "Why? . . . Why? . . . That's all I want to know . . . Why? . . ."

8

Colonel Trafford and Captain Baker were kept in the base hospital for five days. To squelch rumors, Major Manning stated that their ill health was due to a violent attack of dysentery. Two days after they were released by Major Manning, Trafford sent a message to Yale to report to his office. He was leaning back in his chair, one foot in a desk drawer, when Yale walked in and saluted.

"I don't suppose you thought you'd get away with it," Trafford demanded, blowing a cloud of smoke in his direction.

"Get away with what?" Yale asked insolently.

"You know what I mean. Telling those fucking wogs to poison me and Baker. Stand at attention, you bastard, or you'll leave Talibazar under guard."

Yale ignored his order. Leaning on Trafford's desk, he grinned. "You're lucky you're not floating in some rice paddy with the buzzards pecking at your rotten flesh. You were trying to rape the wife of the head of the village, at a party to which you weren't even invited."

Trafford snapped his riding crop on his desk with a shattering bang. "And you, you wise bastard . . . you let them feed me and Baker a 'mickey.'" He looked at Yale slyly. "Just what in hell did that Gupta character put in our drinks, anyway?"

Yale shrugged. "They didn't consult me, Colonel. You can call it a form of 'passive resistance' and thank your lucky stars you were mixed up with Hindus. They have a religious repugnance for taking human life. Even at that they have Mohammedan friends in a nearby village who would have cut your balls off willingly as a gift to Allah."

"Listen, you litle snot, I know all about you. A rich man's son. You think the world was buttered just for you. The Marratt name will do you no damned good here. You're finished." Trafford banged on his desk. "Baker. Come in here. Bring O'Hara with you."

Captain Baker walked into the office. He gave Yale a frigid look. Behind him was another Captain wearing Finance Department gold diamonds.

"Captain O'Hara," Trafford said, coldly, "this is Lieutenant Marratt. Captain O'Hara is your replacement, Marratt. You re to report to headquarters in Calcutta. There's a plane going down to Calcutta at six o'clock. That will give you four hours. I understand from Headquarters that the transfer of funds can be accomplished without too much difficulty. You be on that plane, Lieutenant. Don't miss it!"

Yale, flushed with anger, stared at Trafford. For a moment he was filled with hatred, ready to reach across the desk and despite the consequence to himself punch Trafford's sneering face. This was it, he thought. Anne had anticipated it. "Yale, he won't permit it," she had told him. "This is the end. Just as soon as he and Captain Baker get out of the hospital they will have one of us transferred."

As he stared at Trafford his anger slowly dissipated. Yale thought of only one thing. Before O'Hara could accept the transfer of accountability it would take every second of the time for O'Hara to count all the money and balance the accounts. He would have Sergeant Prouty, his master sergeant, stay with O'Hara. That would give Anne and him at least three hours.

"We'll do our best," Yale heard O'Hara saying. "You realize, Colonel, this office disburses over a half a million dollars a month. It will take me time to verify the account."

Trafford smiled and said sarcastically, "Lieutenant Marratt will give you his full cooperation, I'm sure." Trafford was obviously a little disappointed that Yale had shown no overt anger. "Lieutenant Marratt, Captain Baker is having your orders cut now. You are to stay with Captain O'Hara until your departure. I've made arrangements with Captain Johnson for O'Hara to take over your room. Very comfortable quarters, O'Hara. Lieutenant Marratt has the feel of the land. These natives would do anything for him. You can have his bearer, Chatterji." Trafford smirked at Yale. "I'm sorry to say that his personal whore doesn't go with the deal . . . which is too bad because she looks like the coolest piece of ass ever to find its way into these parts." Delighted, Trafford noted that Yale was clenching his fist and breathing heavily. "Don't do it, Marratt. She's not worth it. No woman is. Not a dishonorable discharge and the jug." He re-lighted his cigar. "Okay, get the hell out of here. I got work to do."

As they left the office he thrust his final knife into Yale's back. "Just in case you think you can go shed tears on Mrs. Wilson's voluptuous tits, let me advise you that she, Harold Tuttle, and Jane Belcher have taken a staff car and gone to Shillong for a week to the rest camp." The last words Yale heard Trafford say were, "Never saw anyone so eager in my life as that Tuttle, amazing how easily we men are led around by a little hairy pussy." Trafford's laughter followed them across the courtyards.

Mat Chilling wasn't aware until two days later that Yale had been transferred. When he heard the news he sought out Colonel Trafford.

Trafford beamed at him. "Preacher, if I hadn't known that you left early from that little shindig last week you'd be on your way to parts unknown right now." He stared at Mat. "What in hell do you think I'm running here? A country club?" he guffawed. "That's good! A 'cuntry' club. Get it, Captain? Well, for your information this is a supply base to Kai-shek forces in China. The Germans are just about washed up, but the way it looks now we may be fighting Japs for another ten years, and I mean to do my part in shortening this affair just as much as possible. I ain't got a thing against a man getting a little nookie, but when he usurps one of the three or four white women around here and starts this Romeo and Juliet crap, it's damned right debilitating for base morale. I did the only thing that could be done. What's more, I'm not showing any partiality. I've contacted Red Cross headquarters. Mrs. Wilson is going down to Calcutta in a couple of weeks. When I clean up a mess I do it thoroughly. I don't want her mooning around the base getting all the rest of the women up in arms against me for being a first class prick."

Mat realized that it was useless for him to comment. He knew that in a subtle way Trafford was right. Yale and Anne . . . particularly Yale . . . had once again deviated too sharply from the patterns that men lived by. Listening to Trafford, Mat was aware that Yale was fighting over again the same battle he had waged in Midhaven. Colonel Trafford was simply a crude version of Pat Marratt; both had the identical commissar mentality.

Mat remembered prophesying in college that the most important single fact of the twentieth century would be the end of intellectual man; the balanced intellectual, who had sufficient knowledge of man and the learning man had so arduously accumulated, that he would be able to interrelate not only knowledge itself but the hopes and aspirations of all mankind. When that kind of man disappeared from the earth, civilization would crumble with him. There was no room in a world of specialists, in a world that was delightedly cultivating mediocrity, for men like Yale who dared to challenge their gods, their morals, and their ethics.

Would he himself have the courage to revive the "Seek the True Love" venture? He was beginning to doubt it. Too many of his most enthusiastic supporters were faddists, who at the end had tried to usurp his ideas and combine them with their own screwball notions. He had played the game of "popularizing" an idea. Putting it across to the people in such simple terms that they couldn't fail to understand it. In the end his idea of man saving himself by a deeper understanding of the act of love had been corrupted by his own closest followers who had begun to interpret his theories as a carte blanche for sexual license, rather than as an approach to God.

The Sunday after his talk with Trafford, Mat preached a conventional sermon in the base chapel. He was listened to by a few dozen soldiers who had sacrificed their sleep for the spiritual solace. He saw Anne, by herself, following his words with an attention they scarcely warranted. From behind the pulpit he felt the impact of her proud, lonely beauty. For a second he lost the thread of his theological argument as, in a kind of telepathy, he not only sensed her loneliness and need of Yale, but felt a deep sorrow for all men in a world where hatred, anger, fear, and sadism were such popular emotions.

After the service Anne remained in her seat while Mat talked briefly with a few of the soldiers. When they had gone he came over and took her arm. "Come on, Anne. I've been waiting to talk with you. We have to get out of here. Father Harris has an eleven-thirty Mass. Do you want to walk out to the village?"

Anne shook her head. Mat could see that she was close to tears. "I could never go back there, Mat." He saw her shiver with the intensity of her emotion. "Oh. God, why did it have to end this way?"

"It hasn't ended, Anne. The war will be over, you'll be together again."

Mat took one of the jeeps assigned to the chaplains. Sitting beside him as he drove away from the base, Anne told Mat what had happened. "Colonel Trafford certainly left no stone unturned in getting his revenge," she said bitterly. "Howard Tuttle told us Wednesday night that Jane Belcher and I had to be in Shillong on Thursday. It was a real cock-and-bull story about a new club opening at the rest camp. Tony Martin and a lot of Hollywood celebrities were to be there. I tried to get out of going. I was supposed to meet Yale in the village but Howard laid the law down. Trafford had obviously told him all about Yale and me. Howard tried to imply that because I was in love with Yale I wasn't doing my duty. Can you imagine that? The truth is that because I am in love with Yale, and, perhaps, because I felt guilty at being so happy, I have been working longer hours and planning more projects for the fellows than any of the other girls."

Mat stopped the jeep in a small clearing at the edge of the road that led into a green bamboo forest. The shade and a cool breeze that blew on them from deep within the forest was such a sudden change from the searing heat of the day that Anne shivered.

Mat had the peculiar sensation of having lived the moment before, and then realized in one sense he had. As he had been with Cynthia the day she lost Yale, so he was with Anne. Again he had a vivid image of Joe Trafford and Pat Marratt as symbols of the strong forces of a new order in the world. The new leaders who loved mankind but hated men; especially they hated the men who refused to conform to what they conceived to be "the greatest good for the greatest number."

"I found the truth a few hours after we arrived in Shillong," Anne said. "Howard told me that he had no choice; that I was a disgrace to the Red Cross, that if he had followed Colonel Trafford's recommendation I would be on my way back to the States now." Her hands shaking, Anne lighted a cigarette. "Oh, God, Mat, I guess I just wanted to die. When the world itself has gone mad, why do individuals have to be so full of cruelty and hatred?"

Mat shook his head sadly. "Believe me, Anne, I feel badly for you and Yale."

She looked at him dazedly, her blue eyes large with tears. "You don't understand, Mat. You just don't understand. I've lost Yale just as surely as I lost my husband, Ricky. I don't know where Yale has gone. Colonel Trafford won't tell me. I went to his quarters last night and begged him. He just sat there with that hateful grin he has and offered me his services." She shuddered. "He was disgusting. How do men like him ever get to be leaders?"

"I guess without the cruel ones," Mat said softly, "we'd have little chance of winning this war." He gripped Anne's shoulder. "We'll find Yale. My sergeant knows one of the men in the adjutant's office. I'll get a copy of his orders."

Anne opened her pocketbook and handed him a piece of paper. "There's his orders, Mat," she said bitterly. "Proceed to Hastings Mill, Calcutta, for re-assignment from there. Yale probably already has another set of orders. At Headquarters they could send him anywhere. Don't you see, Mat? Trafford has made very certain that I can't find where Yale has been sent."

"Yale will write you here, Anne. Trafford can't stop that. Then you'll know where he is. You'll be able to write to each other."

"It's too late, Mat." Anne tried to stop her tears with a handkerchief. "I'm leaving Talibazar tonight. Oh, our friend Trafford did a thorough job. I have been reassigned to the European Theater." She shrugged and said hopelessly, "It doesn't make much difference, I guess. I'll never get to Europe. Very soon, now, I'm going to have to walk into the office of some field director, and enjoy his shocked expression when I tell him that I'm pregnant."

She saw Mat's surprised look. She wondered what he would think if he really knew her thoughts. How she had been unable to tell Yale, because she wasn't sure whether he loved her or not. How she had hoped that the hundred-and-fifty-mile ride from Shillong, occurring as it had right at the time of her second period, might have caused a miscarriage. How she had examined herself so carefully for traces of blood. How she had looked at her body this morning, after Chris Powers had left, examining the shape of her breasts and stomach and finding only slight traces of change. A vein on her left breast closer to the surface of her skin. Her nipples just a shade browner. How she had touched herself lightly, pretending it was Yale, and feeling a desire so strong for him that it wracked her body as she released it in pent-up sobs of despair.

"No, Yale doesn't know," she said, answering Mat's question. "Don't you understand, Mat? I can't hold him that way! Our Hindu marriage was so beautiful. I think sometimes he loves me. Other times I'm not so sure. He seems far away. Lost in memories. Do you know what I think sometimes?"

Mat nodded and said slowly, "You think he is still in love with Cynthia."

"I know he is, Mat, and for that reason I can't tell him I'm pregnant. We've been pals. We both needed each other's physical love. I'm to blame for being pregnant. Unless I dissuaded him he was always very careful."

Mat took her hand, noticing Anne's long tapered fingers. He was silent, remembering Cynthia's hands, thinking unaccountably of the beauty of the human hand, and wondering why artists and photographers hadn't related the loveliness of the female face and body with the hands of a woman; hands so capable of expression and beauty in themselves that they equalled any other aspect of the feminine body, as an incarnation of God in man. "I think you undervalue Yale's love for you, Anne. Even if he still cared for Cynthia, I think he would want to assume his responsibility. When you go back to the States you can contact his family in Midhaven. He will have written them."

Anne withdrew her hand. "That's not worthy of you, Mat," she said, a playful smile suddenly on her face. "It's almost as cliché-ridden as your sermon this morning. I have heard enough about Patrick Marratt not to walk into his house and expect to be greeted as a long lost daughter-in-law."

Mat caught at her return of humor. "You might be surprised. Pat Marratt would appreciate your blonde grace. Anne, I am sure that Yale will do everything he can to contact you. I'll have the mail sergeant watch for his letters and will personally forward them to you. And," Mat said firmly, "you've got to do more than accept this with a Hindu fatalism. You've got to approach it in a Christian belief that you and Yale were meant for each other. . . ."

"And all's for the best in this best of all possible worlds," Anne said quietly. "Really, Mat, either the things you preach for the general public conflict in your own mind, or you don't understand the implications of your 'Seek the True Love.'

Mat sighed. "I do speak with a forked tongue. Blame it on the Army. I know what you mean, though. You're trying to say that if the ultimate can be found in the male-female relationship as Sundari preaches, then it cannot be particularized; that any woman or any man who have opened their minds to each other, can take the final step and blend their bodies. . . ."

"And . . . marriage in a Christian or Judaistic one-for-one conception," Anne interrupted, "inadvertently perpetuates the myth of the separateness. From this inevitability come the seeds of hatred, building the divisive factor in human life." Anne smiled. She smoked her cigarette thoughtfully. "Have you ever discussed these things with Cynthia?"

Mat nodded. "You're not saying it, Anne. But, I assume, what you are driving at is, that, if Yale has absorbed all this discussion of the past few months, then he does not feel that his love for you has an exclusive existence . . . that it could be equally attained with Cynthia or someone else . . ." Mat turned the key in the ignition. He backed the jeep onto the road. "I'm not shocked by this idea, if that's what you think. The fact is that any religious concept of man and woman exists in a social framework. That must be accepted. Cynthia is married to me. Yale has married you. Willingly. Wake up to the fact that he wants you, Anne."

As they drove back to the base Mat tried to explain his growing belief that a religion based on human love, a religion that idealized sexuality would allow civilized man to take a vast forward leap. "It would do for us in a social and psychological sense what science has done in a physical and material sense. With this kind of belief, with children brought up believing in the wonder of man . . . it might, eventually, be possible to have a real brotherhood of men. Children would be taught, not only in their churches, but in their schools to exalt man; to realize that, in the incomprehensible wonder of the act of creation, every man is united by a sacred bond. For in the act of love a man and woman could be taught to give themselves up to each other, not in degradation, but in devotion . . . in this act, common to all men and women, is the embryo of a civilization without hatred . . . without war. . . ."

"Men love in anger," Anne broke in, forgetting for a moment her own problems. "Men rape . . . I think Sundari has infected you with an idealism that is beyond achievement in this world, Mat." She smiled, thinking that with one statement she could jar Mat out of his complacent dream-world. She decided to say what she was thinking. "You once said to me that Cynthia still loves Yale. It has been apparent enough to me without your saying it. I can't believe, Mat, that for all of your high-sounding goodness you like the idea. You just as much admitted it when you said, 'Cynthia is married to me.' It sounded kind of possessive . . . not so rational as you would like to believe that you are."

Mat turned the jeep into the base road. He didn't answer Anne until he stopped in front of the enlisted men's club. Then, when he replied, Anne listened to him, astonished.

"Of course, I said Cynthia is married to me. I love Cynthia. But I'm not jealous of her. Marriage is not possession. I do not believe that God is concerned or interested in the sanctity of marriage. Sanctity is desirable only for love itself. Sanctity means 'inviolable' . . . real love is all inclusive and impossible to violate. The only validity marriage has is from the standpoint of men; not to protect the right of possession, but to make each mating of man and woman responsible in the event that a child is conceived.

"When you really analyze it . . . what is love, anyway? I don't mean passion. Passion is for animals. If men and women were really taught how to unite in love, the experience would approach divinity." Mat smiled. He looked at Anne strangely. "I believe, for example, that you and I have the possibility for that kind of love. In honest fact . . . I love you. What does that mean? It means, probably, foremost that I find it very easy to communicate with you both in the surface of words and the deeper understanding that lies unspoken between us. From time immemorial the inability to communicate is at the root of all misunderstanding . . . all hatreds . . . all wars; so the existence of this ability should create a favorable groundwork for love. If one day this ability of ours to share thoughts and experience brought with it a mutual desire for bodily contact . . . for the act of love . . . we would have intercourse. Just as, I expect, would Yale and Cynthia . . . If the impulse, natural to all men and women, was not constrained by me, then the horizon of Cynthia's love would be extended. She should love Yale . . . She should love all human beings . . . If she should mate again with Yale . . . and if she really loves me . . . she will continue to love me. . . ."

"Mat Chilling . . . do you know something?" Anne interrupted him, "You have such crazy ideas that you are dangerous! You better not seek a pulpit, or try to preach this philosophy. You would end up like Henry Ward Beecher. Your women parishioners would all fall in love with you. They wouldn't really believe that you mean what you say. They would just think that any man who could talk so charmingly of love was just a big boy making up nice little stories . . . and basically all that he needs to be cured is to be cuddled on their trembling breasts."

Anne held Mat's hand a second, feeling his bony fingers and large knuckles. She smiled at the deep, questioning look in his eyes. Pulling his head down, she kissed him on his mouth, and then quickly hopped out of the jeep. "I'm going to miss talking with you, Mat," she said. Her voice was edged with a sob. Trying to hold back her tears, she grinned crookedly at him. "You know something, Mat Chilling? You may be right!"

Mat watched her walk up the path to the enlisted men's club. He felt Anne's unhappiness deeply. She was a strong, lovely woman. He prayed that Yale's love for her was sincere enough to re-unite them. Mat started the jeep, and drove slowly back to his basha.

I AM RIGHT, he thought, I'm on the right track. Recognizing that I love Anne has not diminished my love for Cynthia. I have almost come full circle. Wasn't this really Christ's idea before the theologians took over? Somehow, he thought, I must find a way to tell the world. . . .

9

Two days after he arrived in Calcutta, Yale received word to report to Chengkung, China, a small Air Transport Command base ten or twelve miles from Kunming. The finance office, already in operation under authority of the Fourteenth Air Force Service Command, was being transferred in an organizational shift to the Air Transport Command. When Yale was given his orders he found that he had been promoted to a 1st Lieutenant and had been assigned, together with qualified, enlisted personnel, to take over as disbursing officer. Yale realized that Trafford had simply used his influence to get him transferred out of Talibazar. He had shown no prejudice nor had he reported Yale's marriage to Anne.

Yale's orders gave him a week before he had to report to the base commander at Chengkung. Dangerous though it was, he knew that he must see Anne. He moved his belongings from Headquarters at Hastings Mill to Dum Dum Airport in Calcutta. The next day he hitched a ride on a C-47 back to Talibazar. The pilot who had agreed to take him without orders told him that he preferred not to know Yale's problems.

On the three-hour flight into the Assam Valley back to Talibazar, Yale was the only passenger. He was surrounded by cargo intended for use at the base. Amused, he noticed several cases of Scotch earmarked for Colonel Trafford. He was tempted to pry one open and write an insolent message to Trafford but he decided against it. All that he really wanted was to arrive at Talibazar, unnoticed, and find Anne. He prayed that he could have one more night with her, not only to tell her where he was assigned but to make plans for the future. He knew that if he waited until he got to China, and relied on the Army postal service to contact her, it would be weeks before she would hear from him or get an answer back to him.

Tonight they could plan for after the war. Tonight he would whisper softly to her, "Anne, I love you. I'm glad you're my wife. For the first time in many years I seem to be alive again." Alive, he thought, because I am not alone. He wondered why he had neglected to really tell Anne how much he loved her. He had laughed when she suggested that he seemed aloof and pre-occupied, but he knew that she was right. The shadow of Cynthia seemed to have grown longer, to have dominated his life even more, in Talibazar. He knew that in their contacts, Mat and he had been afraid to probe into each other's feelings.

The shock of being separated from Anne had shown him how really close they had become. It wasn't that she had supplanted his love for Cynthia; it was rather that for the first time he realized that love for another person was capable of multiplication. Waiting nervously in the cabin for the flight to be over, he couldn't help grinning. It was Mat's idea, but worth exploring. If you really loved once, you not only never ceased loving, you became susceptible to an arithmetical progression that could embrace the world.

When the plane landed at Talibazar, the co-pilot came back into the cabin. He looked sourly at Yale. "Jesus," he scowled, "we would have you aboard. We make this milk run week in and week out, and nobody knows we're living. Now, here you are with no damned orders and we get the red carpet treatment. They just radioed in that Colonel Trafford was meeting this plane personally."

"Oh, brother! Now, the fun begins," Yale said. He wondered if he should try to hide, and then decided against it.

"It's not because of you," the co-pilot said. "It seems we have two cases of Scotch aboard. The Colonel is giving a party tonight. He's concerned about it. Just keep out of the way. He probably won't notice you."

Both the pilot and co-pilot were considerably shocked when Colonel Trafford did notice Yale. "Wait a minute!" Trafford bellowed. He grabbed Yale's arm as Yale tried to walk by him unnoticed. "You've got your nerve with you. I suppose you have orders to cover this trip."

Yale shook his head gloomily. Trafford started to laugh. "You should be pissing in your pants," he said nastily. "I would, by God, if I were you! And you two," he pointed at the pilot and co-pilot, "transporting a soldier without orders could get you both up to your ass in trouble. You can all thank your lucky stars that I'm in a damned good mood this morning."

To Yale's surprsie Trafford patted him on the shoulder. "Just to show you there's no hard feelings, and that I'm not such a prick as you might believe, I'm going to forget the whole thing. You're invited to the club tonight. We're entertaining the British. Your friend Helen Axonby will be there."

Trafford didn't tell him that Anne had left Talibazar two days earlier. He watched Yale head in the direction of the enlisted men's club, knowing that Yale would find out for himself.

"She won't have any address for a while," Jane Belcher told him sadly. "It's a darned shame. Colonel Trafford must have had something to do with it. She's enroute to Paris. I suppose it's a break. It would be for me. But Anne wanted to stay here, Yale. Honestly, she was quite broken up. Howard Tuttle says that he had nothing to do with it. Of course, everyone on the base knows about your marriage. Wild stories have gone around that you had one of the natives feed the Colonel and Captain Baker a mickey. You and Anne really set this base on its ears for a few days. They'll be telling their grandchildren about what happened here."

Yale tried to hide the dismay that he felt. "I must find Anne, Jane. I must! I must. She doesn't know where I am."

Jane shook her head. "Eventually, she'll write to me or Chris, Yale. You leave us your address in China. When she writes, I'll write you. At the same time I'll send her your address. Howard can wire Anne your address. You just wait. In a couple of weeks we'll make the connection for you. You'll be writing each other, at least."

Yale thanked her. He knew that Jane was optimistic. The way mail was forwarded between theaters of war, months could elapse before he located Anne. He walked toward the chapel in search of Mat Chilling. Trafford drove by in his jeep and stopped. "If you're looking for the Reverend," he said, "you won't find him. I cleaned house. Chilling loves these wogs so damned much, I saw that he was dispatched a little farther up the valley. Who knows, maybe he'll become a yogi? He looks like the type that should be sleeping on a bed of nails." Trafford laughed, obviously enjoying Yale's misery.

Yale looked at him coldly. "There's one word for you, Trafford. You're a shit."

"One more remark like that, son, and you're dead," Trafford said calmly. "If I were you, I'd get myself over to operations, and plead with them to get me the hell out of here before the day is over." Trafford shifted the gears on his jeep. "I've just been too goddamned lenient with you, Marratt, and you know it!"

There was nothing Yale could do except leave. Two days later he had crossed the Hump to Kunming, China. Wandering the narrow streets of the city, bending and swaying through the thousands upon thousands of Chinese, Yale felt an immediate affinity with these grinning, sweating humans who, by sheer force and perseverance, had refused to surrender to the Japanese. Even now with their backs against the Himalayas, with the country half immersed in a civil war, they good-humoredly lived each day at a time. They offered you the main commerce of living . . . money . . . food . . and sex, in that order, with a blunt take-it-or-leave-it manner that even shocked the blunt take-it-or-leave-it Americans.

Yale stayed in Kunming two days before he requested transportation to Chengkung. He was alone again. A sense of loss dogged his footsteps as he walked the city. He kept trying to tell himself that what had happened with Anne was more than a war-time episode. Somewhere she was as lost and solitary as he was. Just as soon as she could, she would write. Somewhere, sometime when this god-forsaken war ended he would find her again. For his own sanity he must believe that.

He remembered Anne telling him that the word "alone" was a contraction of the words all one, and how when you thought about it "all one" summed up the feeling expressively and horribly. You were "all one" . . . bottled up . . . contained within your flesh; dissolving into nothingness. Anne had kissed him and whispered, "But not us, Yale" . . . she had said . . . "Not us . . . you and I, are 'all one' together."

But thoughts like these didn't belong in a feverish, boom-town city built by pioneers as stalwart and crafty as any new settlers the world had seen. Yale restlessly probed the city, rejecting offers to buy and sell. Kunming probably contained under its skies more greed and more evil than any city in the world . . . and the men and women, who had fought their way over thousands of miles of hard, unrelenting country to reach this backwoods, were tough, uncompromising people.

When he reluctantly obtained transportation to Chengkung, a distance of twelve miles, Yale resolved to return to Kunming to search out its meanings. The Chinese were much more individuals than the Indians. Here there was no immersion into the unknown. No desire to blend their individuality with the Ultimate. This was a proud, individualistic people unaffected by the years of war. In the final analysis, the contrast was that India was more of a conquered country than China. And that was the weakness of the East. The weakness that Mat Chilling had overlooked. India was a god-drunk country, a Brahman-soaked people; searching for the Ultimate beyond themselves, they had simply lost interest in daily living. There was only one god for Man, Yale thought, and that was Man. It was too dangerous . . too early in Time for men to search for the final Nirvana. Man must first discover his own essential goodness.

It took Yale several weeks before he absorbed the details of running the finance office at Chengkung. He accepted the transfer of accountability to himself, and with it nearly a million dollars. For the first time his payments were in actual American dollars. With Chinese National dollars nearly valueless, exchanging at three thousand to one U.S. dollar, the U.S. Army had been forced to use American currency to pay the troops. With the wildly surging economic life there would be opportunities for Yale to speculate again. With the influx of dollars brought by the U.S. Army, the Chinese were scrambling wildly to convert anything of value into these wonderful American greenbacks.

Working late in the finance office, after his enlisted assistants had gone to their barracks, Yale carefully counted the rupees he had purchased in India with the French francs. Computing the rupees in terms of dollars at the official rate of .30344 for one U.S. dollar, he could switch his rupees back to dollars for approximately forty-one thousand, eight hundred dollars. Sitting alone in the vault of the finance office, he counted out the American dollars, and made the substitution. He finally had completed the transaction that had started with Max Bronson in Casablanca. His money converted back to dollars, and he had made more than twenty thousand dollars profit. His accounts were in balance. Was it morally right? He refused to think about it. Developing in the back of his mind was an even more dangerous step. Tomorrow, he was going back to Kumning for the first time in three weeks. He remembered, and it had remained restless and irritable in his thoughts, that in the black market at Kunming rupees with a value of thirty cents each were selling five and six for one U.S. dollar. There was a possible profit of eighty cents on every dollar. All he had to do was convert the rupees he purchased back to dollars.

Every day, complying with latest finance regulations, he had been exchanging rupees for Army personnel at the official U.S. rate which remained .30344. Yale knew that many of the rupees had been obtained in the black market in Kunming. Following Finance Department regulations, he could have refused to exchange rupees for dollars in excess of a hundred rupee transfer. But the regulation could be circumvented by any soldier willing to sign a crude mimeographed form stating the rupees had come from India.

In one day if he didn't get slugged, knifed, or actually murdered, it was possible that he could buy anywhere from two hundred thousand to two hundred and fifty thousand rupees on the black market and then convert back to dollars with his own U.S. Army Finance Department funds. Almost double your money in one transaction. Aunt Agatha would certainly approve. So would Pat Marratt.

Yale tried to keep out of his mind what Anne would think. It was true. He was obsessed. Not by the purchasing power of money, but the satisfaction and the identity it gave him to know that if the war were ever over, he would be free of his father.

He told Sergeant McFee, who was bonded to him as deputy finance officer, that he was going to spend a few days in Kunming. Sergeant McFee was to run the office and cover for him. He explained to his barrack roommate, Captain Stower, a quartermaster officer, that he had been invited to the home of Mr. Yee, manager of the local branch of the Central Bank of China.

His movements thoroughly covered, Yale drove to Kunming. His money belt was strapped tightly around his middle. A Colt revolver hung from his waist. If he was lucky it would be possible to convert any black market rupees he obtained back into dollars at least once a month without overloading his dollar account. He would have to proceed carefully; it would be embarrassing to explain to the Theater Finance officer in Kunming, if he turned up with too many rupees in his account.

He locked his jeep with a chain and left it in a parking lot near the American Red Cross building in Kunming. The Red Cross headquarters reminded him of Anne. Six weeks had gone by. It was July and no letters had come from her. No letters from Talibazar. No letters from Mat Chilling. Each day it seemed a little bit more hopeless. He had known so little about Anne. Who were her relatives? Where had she lived with her husband? All that he really did know was that she had been born in Ohio; that her father and mother were both dead. Unless she made an attempt to contact him either through her friends at Talibazar, or through his family at Midhaven, he knew that it would be practically impossible to find her. Such a long time had already elapsed. If Anne had wanted to find him, surely she would have managed to write him by now. For some reason, he thought miserably, she didn't want to write him. Something must have happened. Trafford might have said something that frightened her. But when he thought about it and admitted the truth to himself, Yale knew that if Anne didn't write him, it was basically his fault. He had failed . . . until it was too late . . . to give her any real assurance. He knew that she had learned a great deal about Cynthia. He had told her too many things himself. She had probably found out more from Mat. Why hadn't he said to her, "Anne, I love you. What happened with Cynthia is past. You are the only one."

He knew why; because his love for Cynthia was not past. It would never be past for him. How could he say, "I love you, Anne. Our love will be full and good; but I will always love Cynthia, too." Such a statement sounded like pure ham. It was not credible in a society where concomitant with the act of love was the admonition to "forsake all others."

Wondering if the local field director might help him locate Anne, Yale went into the Red Cross building. It was filled with soldiers, and a goodly sprinkling of girls, American and Chinese, in Red Cross uniforms. Here, with coke machines, ice cream, juke boxes, hot dogs and hamburgers, an attempt had been made to establish an outpost of America. While many G.I.'s patronized the club, many also made their way to the United Nations' Club on the other side of the city. There, the more continental atmosphere of wine, song, and available women, Russian as well as Chinese, may not have been so antiseptic but was definitely more exciting.

The director of the club, a woman, listened to Yale's problem. She was not encouraging. "We can locate her eventually, I suppose. They have all the records in Washington, D.C. But it may take months. You're probably not giving it enough time. If she's in the E. T. O. it would have taken her time to get located." She looked at Yale and shrugged. "Of course, you know, Paris can be pretty exciting for a young woman."

Yale knew what she had left unspoken. This was war. Romance was not for keeps. Mostly, it was the girls who thought so. When the situation was reversed, and a man was starry-eyed, well, it was too bad, but it was ridiculous, of course.

Leaving the Red Cross building Yale was exhilarated by the chattering, ceaseless tide of people, rickshaws, and Army jeeps and automobiles, flowing through the narrow, sometimes almost impassable streets. Followed by tiny boys, begging money; watching wretched beggars collecting cigarette butts that they would eventually remake into "new" cigarettes; ignoring the almost constant solicitation for sex; "my sister very good, mister"; Yale drifted in and out of hundreds of Chinese shops. He examined shoddy collections of goods for sale: pens, cameras and flashlights, many of them made in the United States, and "dumped" in China years before.

Occasionally, he was approached to buy a few rupees, but when he suggested that he wished to buy a thousand or more, he was greeted with negative shakes of grinning Chinese faces. Everyone seemed to have a few rupees they wanted to sell, but no one seemed to have any quantity. Yale wasn't interested in small one hundred dollar transactions. It was too dangerous. With forty thousand dollars in his money belt, he knew that he would have to contact a big operator. With no knowledge of the Chinese language, it probably would be sheer luck if he managed to do it.

Toward evening he had almost decided to stop looking. He had walked miles; tramping in and out of Chinese shops, being greeted with blank stares, as he tried to explain his mission, or shy grins and endless jabbering. Much interest would be shown. He would be told to wait. Sitting uncomfortably, he would be appraised, sometimes by whole families. Eventually the runners they would send out would return breathless, and he would be offered a few hundred rupees. Using a small Chinese-American dictionary he had purchased, he tried to make them understand that he wanted to buy "dwo chyan." He knew they understood; but there just didn't seem to be "much money" in one large transaction.

As he walked, wondering where he would spend the night, refusing the bare-footed rickshaw boys, who couldn't understand why an American would walk when even poor Chinese would pay to be dragged on two wheels through the city, Yale was suddenly aware that a thin Chinese boy was following him.

Because of the crowds of people it was difficult to be sure. It could be the boy was just going in the same direction. But he wasn't. Yale stopped in one shop for ten minutes. When he left, the boy was still behind him. Yale turned and grabbed the boy's arm. A grinning crowd of Chinese immediately formed.

"Why are you following me?" he demanded, looking into pleading brown eyes. The boy was dressed in the monotonous clothing worn by most of the Chinese in Kunming: a blue cotton coat and blue denim pants. This one wore a cotton hat that covered his head. It made his face seemed even older and more wizened.

"No follow," the boy shouted. He pulled out of Yale's grasp and dashed into the crowd. Yale ran after him, oblivious to the gale of laughter.

The boy ran into a narrow alley. Yale pursued him. The alley ended abruptly in the dead-end of a high stone wall. Frantic, the cornered boy watched him approach. He refused to look at Yale and sobbed when Yale shook him.

"Hey, I won't hurt you. I just want to know who told you to follow me?"

The boy shook his head. "Me need dollar. You give, mister."

Yale shrugged. He handed the boy a dollar. "Now, you tell me."

The boy grinned. "No father. No mother. Me see you rich. Give money, poor girl. Very hungry."

Surprised, Yale looked closely at the boy again, and snatched off his hat. The black hair was cut close. It was nondescript. Yale shook his head, puzzled.

"Me girl." The tiny face broke into a grin. Drawing back her denim jacket, she displayed two small brown breasts. "Me Tay Yang. Very poor, mister. Fuckee. One thousand!"

Yale knew that she meant that she was available for one thousand Chinese National dollars, about fifty cents. He walked away. She followed him. "Me clean, mister. No take chance. Suckee two thousand!"

"You go home, Tay Yang," Yale said, feeling a terrible sorrow for this child trying to sell herself.

She couldn't be more than fifteen years old. He knew that for most of the Chinese in Kunming, pursued and raped by the Japanese, stripped of their families and their religion, the sex act had about as much meaning as the need to urinate. This pathetic youngster was only one of thousands plying the streets. She competed with prettier and better dressed whores whose better looks had brought them sudden wealth gained from servicing the American G.I.'s. He knew it, but Tay Yang's thin pathetic face was like a knife drawn across his conscience. While he was walking around with enough money strapped around his middle to support a Chinese village for years, this tiny creature was on the edge of starvation.

"No home," Tay Yang said. She followed him into the streets. "Come from Canton. Long way. Very bad, mister."

Yale wondered where she slept. He knew that if he encouraged her, she would continue like a stray kitten to follow him. He started to walk faster until she was almost running to stay abreast of him. It was growing dark. He saw a small building with a sign in English stating that it was a Chinese Hotel. Hastily, he walked in, knowing that a Chinese urchin wouldn't dare follow him. As he asked for a room, he noticed through the window that Tay Yang was watching him impassively.

"Two beds," he said to the Chinese desk clerk who was making notations with a scratchy pen. "My house boy is outside." Yale walked out. Hesitating a moment, he pulled Tay Yang into the hotel. They followed the clerk down a long hall to their room. There was but one small cot.

"Two beds," Yale said. He backed out of the room. The clerk stared at him, obviously wondering why he needed two beds.

"One bed. No two beds. He sleep on floor," the clerk said, pointing at Tay Yang. Relieved that the clerk, too, thought Tay Yang was a boy, Yale took the room.

Tay Yang looked shyly around. She smiled uncertainly at Yale.

"You pay, now?" she asked nervously.

"No pay, now," Yale said, shaking his head. "Eat now. Lots of rice. You tell where."

She led him through the streets. Could he explain to her what he wanted her to do? She seemed to have a sharp intelligence. All that he had to do was bridge the language barrier. Once she grasped that he was trying to buy rupees, she could function as an interpreter. He'd give it one more try tomorrow. If nothing developed, he'd forget it. Someone in Kunming had a great many rupees that he wanted to change into dollars. Yale was sure of that. Else why were so many small transactions available? The problem was to contact the right man. Tay Yang could help.

They ate in what Yale guessed was a Chinese farmer's restaurant. The food was available in appalling quantities, served from steaming metal drums. It was the kind of place the U.S. Army warned all soldiers to stay away from for fear of catching dysentery or worse. Yale couldn't guess what he was eating. It was extremely hot. A rice base containing vegetables and some kind of meat, and gravy.

Surrounded by Chinese sitting at bare wooden benches, he watched Tay Yang as she consumed several enormous platefuls of the hot stuff. She washed it down with boiling hot, pale, yellow tea. She smiled gratefully. Her brown eyes sparkled in her thin face, a face that he could cover with one hand. Beneath her almost translucent skin he traced, with his eyes, the major bones. He asked her how old she was. It took her some time to grasp his meaning. "Baby. Long time. Very old. Sixteen. Maybe seventeen." Yale doubted that she was seventeen. Yet, he remembered, her breasts seemed mature in her frail body.

Back in the hotel room she tried to indicate to Yale that since he had bought her supper, he was entitled to her services. She looked at him puzzled when he refused. She insisted again that he no take chance. "Tay Yang clean girl."

Yale made her sit on the bed while he took a low bamboo chair. Slowly, he explained to her that he wanted her to help him buy rupees. In the light of a flickering kerosene lamp he looked up the Chinese words for money . . . the words for buy and sell. While black-market trading in currency was going on daily all around her, it was obvious from the wide wonder in her eyes that Tay Yang only half comprehended.

She nodded enthusiastically when Yale put a U.S. dollar on the floor. When he put six Indian rupees alongside it and kept saying, "Six. Find man give six. Lots of dollars." Tay Yang grinned happily. He thought at last she understood. Then she picked up the rupees and examined them. She shrugged and asked "Chyan?"

Yale realized that she had never seen a rupee before. She was asking him if the rupee were really money.

Whether she understood clearly or not, she was eager to get started. Yale was too tired to walk further, or mingle with the crowds in the streets which at this time of night would be equally jammed with Chinese and American soldiers.

"Sleep now," he said. He lay on the bed and closed his eyes. She looked at him, smiling happily, and curled up on the floor beside the bed. Getting up, he lifted her on the bed. She was lighter than he thought. About ninety skinny pounds, he guessed. She looked at him questioningly. He pushed her against the wall and turned down the wick on the kerosene lamp. He lay on the bare mattress beside her. It probably wasn't much better than the floor, he thought, but it assuaged his protective feeling toward her. "Sleep," he said again, as she wiggled inquisitively.

He awoke first. Tay Yang was curled against him, breathing in his face. Her breath was sweet, and warm with sleep. Yale wondered when she had last bathed. He guessed it might be months. Yet she had no odor.

By noontime, while Tay Yang had made no contact, Yale knew that she understood her mission. They conferred with one shop owner after another. The direction she led him gradually became more purposive. Yale noted in the last shop a glimmer of interest on the face of the owner. He had spoken rapidly to Tay Yang, and she had answered, obviously repeating directions.

"Find." She grinned. She led him rapidly through street after street until they were near the gates of the city. In an open market, she spoke at length with a Chinese soldier. She pointed at Yale. The soldier, carrying an ancient Springfield rifle, half lowered at Yale, walked over.

"You have dollars. Come."

Yale wondered if he were walking into a trap. He remembered Anne's sarcastic remarks about his need to make money, and her fear of the needless chances he took. Following the soldier, he reminded himself that he was simply playing a long gamble. If his bluff was called he would lose forty thousand dollars. Since he had no interest in what money would buy, only the vague power it could give him, he would lose a very intangible thing.

The soldier led them into a compound. They crossed the courtyard and were stopped by another soldier who stood in front of a sandstone doorway. Finally, Yale was led inside. Tay Yang, who pleaded in Chinese her right to do so, followed Yale.

A young Chinese lieutenant stood up behind his desk. After listening to both Yale and Tay Yang he surprised Yale by responding with a British accent. "I was educated at the University of Calcutta. You are desirous of exchanging money?"

"Perhaps," Yale said, meeting his uncomfortable stare without flinching. "I never transact business unless I know with whom I'm dealing."

"A rather unusual request. Don't you agree?" the lieutenant asked coldly. "Since you, an American officer, are planning an infraction of regulations concerning the black market, I fail to see you have any rights in the matter."

"The right not to do business," Yale said. He smiled at the lieutenant. "I would prefer not to engage in a chess match with you. Either you have rupees to sell or you haven't. I can see that your uniform is not that of a Chinese National. To whose army do you belong? The Communists?"

"Chiang Kai-shek, Mao Tse-tung, are nothing! Some day they will disappear from the earth. I am adjutant to General Sheng-Li. The forces of Sheng-Li will one day take over the whole of China."

The lieutenant looked at Yale insolently, as if he were waiting to be contradicted. Yale had heard the name. General Sheng-Li was a local warlord who refused to cooperate with Chiang Kai-shek or the Americans. He had been in business for himself ever since the Japanese had arrived in China. Neither the Japanese nor the Americans had sufficient troops in the backwoods of China to divert them for bandit warfare; so General Sheng-Li, who, it had been estimated, had his own private army of approximately thirty thousand men, flourished in the midst of war that was not his own, planning for the day when the victorious and defeated would withdraw and leave the battlefield to the scavengers who would inevitably appear. General Sheng-Li planned that there would be no contestants after him.

The Chinese lieutenant told Yale to sit down, and wait. He would confer with the general to ascertain his interest. In a few minutes, he returned. The general himself, he told them, would see the American finance officer. Yale insisted that Tay Yang come with him. They followed the lieutenant into the next room which was empty except for a battered desk, several chairs, and a stained map of China on the damp wall.

A stern grey-haired man, with a full moustache, got up from behind the desk and greeted Yale coldly.

Yale had a feeling he had seen the man before. It dawned on him that the general was wearing the same high collared uniform, and the same style moustache that Yale had noticed on the pictures of Sun Yat-sen, whose profile and bust appeared on Chinese National currency. He remarked on the resemblance. General Sheng-Li was flattered. "He was a very great man. China needs his kind today. I understand you wish to buy rupees. I have several million. At the moment, with all the American equipment available, your dollars have a better purchasing power than rupees. How many dollars do you have?"

Yale was astonished at the general's precise and blunt approach. "I have about forty-one thousand dollars," Yale said slowly. "But I could have more later."

"Get the Lieutenant a hundred and sixty-four thousand rupees," General Sheng-Li said to his adjutant, who started to leave the room.

"Wait a minute," Yale said. "I want six rupees for a dollar. To round out the transaction for you, let's say two hundred and forty thousand rupees."

General Sheng-Li looked at Yale with an inscrutable smile. "You are a very daring young man. You realize that I simply have to say the word. My soldiers would be pleased to relieve you of your forty-one thousand dollars, and send you and your little whore on your way."

Yale smiled at Tay Yang who seemed frightened, though she obviously didn't understand the conversation. "General Sheng-Li, you dishonor yourself to speak in such a way," Yale said. He hoped that he had gauged the man's ego. "Some day you yourself will be fighting for China. You will follow in the footsteps of the honorable Sun Yat-sen. Besides, if you take my forty-one thousand dollars without recompense, you will lose the opportunity to purchase additional dollars."

The general beamed. He stroked his moustache. "Your flattery has no interest for me, Lieutenant. But your second reason is highly practical. Shall we agree on two hundred thousand rupees? Or shall I simply have you robbed?"

Yale took Tay Yang back to the center of Kunming in a rickshaw. He tried to say good-bye to her in front of the Red Cross Building but she followed him to where the jeep was parked.

"Me come," she said, holding his arm. "Me big help." Yale smiled at her. "You sure were a big help, Tay Yang. The general and I will probably get well acquainted in the next few weeks, thanks to you. But no girls where I go, now. Only soldiers. Good-bye, Tay Yang." He unlocked the jeep. Tay Yang looked at him pathetically. The engine caught and purred into life.

Before he could reason out his motive Yale said, "Oh, hell, get in, Tay Yang."

She sat, silently happy, beside him as he drove the jeep over the bumpy dirt road to Chengkung. He was so preoccupied with the problem of what to do about Tay Yang, that the transaction with General Sheng-Li faded in his mind. As he approached the base, he wondered why in hell he hadn't given her a few dollars, and sent her on her way. But he couldn't do that. Somewhere he had heard an adage that the giver was obligated to the receiver. It was obtuse enough to be Chinese in origin.

It occurred to him that since Tay Yang had deceived him, she could easily pass for a boy. He decided to tell his roommate, Captain Stower, the truth. Although Yale had roomed with Stower for six weeks, they had kept pretty much to themselves. Stower was a gentle appearing, grey-haired man. Yale guessed that he was in his late forties. He was regular Army. Most nights he spent in the officers' club playing cards or in some other officer's room. If he were agreeable, Tay Yang could sleep in the empty bunk over Yale. Stower would have to know that she was a girl. If he agreed, the only danger was that another officer might get billeted with them. Since it appeared that Chengkung might soon be de-activated, Yale doubted that they would have any additional roommates.

"It's not for sex," Yale told Stower. "Hell, you can scarcely tell she's a girl. I just thought I'd like to give the kid a break. If you're against it, say so. I'll dump her back in Kunming tomorrow."

Surprisingly Stower was charmed with the idea. He stopped playing poker, and spent every evening with Yale and Tay Yang. He tried to teach her English. He blushed when Yale told him that he acted like a mother hen with her brood. "You see, Yale, I got a youngster in the States. Just about Tay Yang's age. It's funny about teenagers, Chinese or American, they have an infectious quality about them. Makes me feel a little Stateside to have a woman around."

Yale was thankful for Stower's interest, especially when a few days after she arrived they guessed that Tay Yang was menstruating. "She asked me for an old undershirt," Stower said, and delightedly produced his surprise, a box of sanitary napkins.

Yale was amazed. "Where in hell did you get those?" he demanded.

"I told the PX officer it was a joke. They carry them for the nurses." Stower laughed. "He thinks I'm going to hand them out on a quartermaster requisition."

The evening they spent demonstrating to Tay Yang how to use them was both funny and pathetic. It took some time before she grasped their meaning. Both Yale and Stower went through an elaborate ritual to make their point as delicately as possible. When Tay Yang finally understood she turned slowly away from them, tears in her eyes. For a day her high spirits vanished. She made their beds, swept out the room, and kept to herself. They suddenly realized that she was embarrassed. They had bungled into a subject that no man should know about. She appreciated the gift, however, and a few days later was back to her normal self.

The second week she was with them, she went again with Yale to General Sheng-Li's headquarters. Yale was able to buy three hundred thousand rupees, worth at conversion nearly a hundred thousand dollars. Stower didn't ask where Yale was going or why Tay Yang was going with him. He cautioned Yale that they would both have to be careful. They were both a little too friendly with their "houseboy." If any of the other officers discovered she was a girl, they'd probably be court martialed.

"Well, at least reprimanded by the Colonel," Yale said. He laughed at Stower's concern.

When they returned that evening Stower seemed to have something on his mind. He puffed on his pipe, blowing smoke reflectively in the air. "I've been thinking that it must have been a hot sticky ride back and forth to Kunming, today." Yale agreed that it was. "You took a shower when you got back . . ." Stower continued. The words dangled. He stared at Tay Yang who was turning the pages of a Sears Roebuck catalogue, they had found for her.

Yale looked at Stower in wonder. "You're right, by God!" Yale said. "She hasn't had a bath since I've known her. Brother!" Yale pawed through his Chinese dictionary. "Here it is: 'shi-dzaw' means bathe." He shook Tay Yang's shoulder. "Shi-dzaw! You! When?"

She looked at him puzzled, and then smiled happily. "Shi-dzaw. All time. Tay Yang clean. You want go to bed, now?"

Stower looked at Yale. "Listen, she'll give us bugs. Sleeping right here with us. She probably hasn't washed for months." He dumped the ashes from his pipe. "Tonight while I stand guard you're going to give your orphan a damned good scrubbing."

The officers' shower was a few hundred feet from the barracks. During the day the place was a beehive of activity while Chinese houseboys boiled water for washing and showers, pouring it into huge wooden drums on top of the building. At night the water drums turned cold in the chilly night air and few officers patronized the place, except for a few eager ones who shaved by an unshaded light bulb, with cold water, in order to avoid the morning rush.

At midnight Stower and Yale awoke Tay Yang. She was sleeping in her blue denim coat and pants. Frightened, she stood near her bunk. She listened impassively as they insisted that she needed a bath. "Me clean, Tay Yang clean girl," she protested. They forced her to undress. Yale put his Army jacket around her skinny naked body. He cautioned her not to make any noise. They led her to the officers' showers.

Yale undressed quickly and while Stower watched he grabbed Tay Yang and shoved her under the shower. When the cold water hit them they both gasped. Tay Yang started to yell. Yale clasped his hand over her mouth. He shook his head violently, muttering to her to shut up. Tay Yang's eyes were big and terrified but she made no further noise. Yale thoroughly scrubbed her, raising a lather despite the cold water. As he washed her skinny boyish body, Yale felt a surge of pity go through him. Tay Yang . . . this bright little person; what would become of her? She was dispensable in an economy like China's. She held such a tenuous grasp on life. One tiny life among four hundred million lives was equal to nothing. Almost bitterly, he shoved her toward Stower who rubbed her down with a big towel. Keeping Tay Yang this way was unfair to her, Yale thought. When he and Stower moved on, they would leave her not quite so resilient; weakened by the warmth and care she had never experienced up until now.

When they got her back to the room Tay Yang was quite indignant. "Me clean. No need 'dzaw.' Every day go to lake. Wash. Use soap. Wash clothes. Clean girl."

Stower and Yale looked at each other and exploded with laughter. It had never occurred to them that while they were at work, it would be a simple matter for Tay Yang to walk the half mile to Lake Chengkung, and bathe in its wild privacy. They begged her forgiveness. Yale promised to buy her a new cotton suit. She indicated there was no need. One cotton suit was enough but she did like to be washed by 'Ale. It was the first time she had attempted to pronounce his name. She blushed.

And suddenly it was August. No letters had come from Anne. Yale had been in China for nearly ten weeks. At the longest it would have taken Anne three weeks to get to Paris. If she planned to write, another few weeks would have brought a letter. It was obvious that she had no intention of writing him.

Night after night Yale lay in his bunk and probed for reasons. He was conscious that Tay Yang was puzzling over magazines that Stower or he had brought her from the recreation office. He would listen as Stower patiently repeated words for her until she triumphantly managed to pronounce them correctly. When she did, she would bubble with excitement and run over and repeat the accomplishment for Yale's benefit. Often he only half listened, preoccupied with thoughts about Anne. To the endlessly repeated question, why hadn't she written him, he had slowly added the disillusioning thought that in some way the very need he had for Anne and Cynthia had destroyed their love for him. He wondered if perhaps it was a reckless man indeed who revealed himself completely to a woman. Perhaps the truth was that no woman who knew the fears and hopes and despairs of a man would continue to love him. What was the old saying? In love you had to keep a sense of mystery. Even the casual revelation of your body to another person could destroy something intangible. Familiarity breeds contempt. No, it couldn't be true. Only the ignorant could be contemptuous. For it would take the familiarity of a million lifetimes to understand even so simple a creature as Tay Yang.

One evening after they had returned from Kunming, Tay Yang sat on the step in front of their room with him. Silently she watched him as he stared across the air base to the Himalayas in the distance. Stower had not returned; working late as he reclaimed quartermaster property from soldiers being rotated home.

"'Ale, I sorry you not happy," Tay Yang said.

Yale smiled. He touched her hand. "I'm not unhappy, Tay Yang. Just lonesome . . . Not for home. Not for anything tangible. I might as well be here as anywhere else. I guess the truth is that I'm happy being aware for a moment of all the activity around me; all the not-me in the world, while I survey it like a fat, complacent Buddha."

Tay Yang listened intently as he spoke. He knew she didn't understand. "Americans very silly, huh?" he asked her.

"Come," she said. Taking his hand, she led him behind the barracks to a tiny footpath worn hard by industrious Chinese feet. He followed as she guided him over neatly tilled terraces. Up and up they walked, past mounded graves of Chinese ancestors. Higher until he felt breathless, and intimately a part of the flickering, sunlit clouds still above them. And then, below . . . like a liquid altar, lying at the foot of the cloud-capped mountains, he saw a lonely lake, and around them, in a sweeping circle, mountains . . . and the lake glowing in the sunset seemed to disappear into remote foothills and deep chasms sprayed with cloud-filtered sunlight. It was this effect man had been striving for when he built a Gothic cathedral, or wrote a Ninth Symphony; striven for but not quite attained.

Yale sat down. He looked at the spectacle, feeling amazed both at the beauty before him and the even stranger fact that Tay Yang had understood his feelings, if not his words. She sat near him, her chin propped on her knees. Together they watched the wildly changing colors as the sun slowly disappeared behind the jagged hills. Above them, breaking through the clouds, they beard the drone of a plane approaching the base from India. Up ten thousand feet, it too had the beauty that comes with things remote.

Yale put his arm around Tay Yang's shoulder. The passive lines of her face softened for a moment in a quick smile. "In morning, lake happy. Lake sad when sun go."

Reluctantly, they walked back to the barracks. Yale wished that somehow he could tell Tay Yang what she meant to him. Deeper than words, deeper than any overt touch such as a kiss, or a hug. More than the fragile, momentary contact of a man and woman; ultimately just a simple "Thank you, Tay Yang. Thank you, for just being. For in your being is the perennial wonder that makes life so exciting."

Stower greeted them when they got back. "It's all over," he said excitedly. "It's all over. The Japs have surrendered! Whatever those atom bombs are, I guess they just about blasted Japan out of the Pacific."

They drank that night. Drank until there was no more liquor left. Some of them shot off rounds of ammunition. Some of them snake danced around the base. The runways were a blaze of light. Signal flares were lighted, impromptu orchestras sprung up. Yale and Stower joined the crowds in the officers' club. And as they drank, they talked about going home. "It's over." They kept repeating the words, almost unable to believe them. "We'll be home by Christmas. Kiss this ass hole of the universe good-bye. No more goddamned slopies."

"I like slopies," Yale said drunkenly. "I love 'em all."

"Not me, kid," someone yelled at him. "Let them come and ask me for any contributions to China Relief, and I'll shove a pair of chopsticks up their ass. There's too fuckin' many of the yellow bastards, anyway."

Yale put his glass down on the bar. He walked out of the officers' club. What am I celebrating, he asked himself? What am I drinking a toast to? Insensibility? Insularity? Stupidity? He walked back to the barracks.

Tay Yang looked at him from her bunk. "Big noise. War all done. 'Ale go home? Me come."

He looked at her, startled. And Tay Yang? What about her?

During the next few days he explored dozens of plans with Stower. Stower suggested the Red Cross. Yale disagreed. Tay Yang was an orphan. She would end up in some crowded orphanage. "She's a very bright kid," Stower said. "But what can we do?"

Yale sighed. "I don't know. I wish I knew some family. I could give Tay Yang enough money. She needs a home with people who would like her."

"If we could get her to Calcutta," Stower said thoughtfully, "I know a British family. They have a couple of kids, but if Tay Yang arrived properly endowed . . . Well, they could use some additional money. He works for the British civil service."

Stower agreed to bum a ride to Calcutta, and sound out the Eltons, his British friends. While he was gone Yale made his last contact with General Sheng-Li. Although he was careful not to show his hand, Yale knew that it would be impossible for him to buy any more rupees. The volume of rupees he had already purchased precluded any further conversion into dollars.

General Sheng-Li beamed happily as he watched Yale counting blocks of hundred rupee notes. "You will have exactly one million and eighty thousand rupees, my friend. When you change them into dollars, you will have something over three hundred and thirty-four thousand dollars. You will be a very rich young man."

Yale packed the rupees into a small canvas bag. He tried to conceal his nervousness. He knew very well that if General Sheng-Li thought they had arrived at the final transaction the cat-and-mouse game would cease.

"Three hundred thousand dollars is nothing, General," Yale said, trying to exude confidence. "Not when I know you still have several million more rupees. Shall we meet again next week?"

The General, smiling, agreed.

On the drive back to Chengkung with his bag crammed with rupees beside him, Yale felt better. He had done it! He had more than a million rupees. And he had come through with a whole skin. He wondered what Anne would think of that.

But now the jig was up. If he tried to change the rupees into dollars, using his Finance Department account, he would exhaust more than half the base's monthly payroll in the conversion. If he went to the Theater Finance officer in Kunming and tried to convert them, he would invite immediate investigation. Even though his Army accounts were in perfect balance, they would certainly find some Army regulation that he had broken. The plain truth was that he was the owner of a million rupees which he couldn't convert to dollars until he got back to the United States. He grinned. He probably couldn't convert them even in good Old Uncle Sugar. In the States be might end up using them for wallpaper. It really didn't matter since he had no idea why he wanted three hundred thousand dollars, or a million rupees, anyway!

When he got back to Chengkung, Stower had returned from Calcutta. He was jubilant. "It's all set, Yale! I've even made arrangements to fly back to Calcutta with Tay Yang. They are delighted. Especially with the five-thousand-rupee a year present! Are you sure you have the money?"

Yale wondered what Stower would think if he knew that the small canvas bag that Yale was using for a foot rest contained a million rupees. He smiled and told Stower that the difficult problem was not the money, but how to convince Tay Yang that she couldn't stay with them any longer.

It took several nights to do it . . . to explain to Tay Yang that she was going to live in a very nice home with very nice people . . . far away across the mountains. She smiled at them, her eyes big and black in her creamy round face, and agreed enthusiastically. "Go far. Long way. 'Ale come. Captain come. Nice."

When they finally made her understand that she would not see Yale and Captain Stower for a long time -- neither of them had the heart to say never -- she became very quiet. Try as they would, neither Yale nor Stower could get another word out of her the remainder of the day except a resigned, "Tay Yang go far away. Aw-right. Okay."

Stower received his orders to return to the States before Yale. Within three weeks after the end of the war the base was being rapidly de-activated. Yale knew that very soon he would be re-assigned back to India. They agreed that when Stower left, he would take Tay Yang with him to Calcutta. Stower made arrangements with one of his pilot friends to smuggle her aboard a C-47 to Dum Dum airport in Calcutta. Neither he nor Yale had revealed to anyone that their "houseboy" was a girl.

The day before Stower's orders directed him to leave for Calcutta, Yale decided that they should give Tay Yang a going-away party. He and Stower took her into Kunming, and as she followed them bewildered from shop to shop, they bought her dresses, underclothes, stockings, and shoes; trying them on her for size, while she touched the materials, staring at them in awe, unable to believe they were for her. Yale bought her a watch, a pearl necklace, and a bracelet. Then he insisted on returning to some of the clothing shops they had already visited while he purchased additional dresses and stockings, to the delight of the Chinese shopkeepers. Stowers finally protested that he would be unable to lug all the stuff to Calcutta.

"When I arrive with all this junk they'll think Tay Yang is wealthy," Stower warned him. "This Elton family where she'll live hasn't much money."

That night they opened boxes of K rations. By candle-light in their room they had a farewell party. They helped Tay Yang dress in her new clothes. When Yale fastened the pearls around her neck she suddenly started to cry. They watched her, the candlelight shadows dancing on her face, a pink ribbon tied through her short black hair, and realized for the first time that Tay Yang was a very pretty young woman. At a loss for words, they didn't know how to console her. Yale told her that he would write to her. They wrote out their addresses and told her that she could write to them. All the time they talked Tay Yang just looked at them and said nothing, while tears streamed down her cheeks. They couldn't even be sure she understood them.

Both Stower and Yale agreed that they felt like heels. But there was nothing they could do. Again Yale wondered whether he and Stower had the right coolly to decide Tay Yang's future. He gave Stower fifty thousand rupees and told him that while he appreciated what the English family was doing he would prefer that Stower set up a simple trustee arrangement with some bank in Calcutta so that they would be sure that Tay Yang was supported until she married. Whatever was left could be a dowry.

When Stower wondered aloud whether she would meet any Chinese boys in India, Yale knew that he was really wondering whether they were doing the right thing in taking Tay Yang out of China. Would it be simple kindness in the long run to take her into Kunming, give her some money and say good-bye? Where should love for another individual cease? At what point did responsibility for your brother become a yoke around his neck?

Yale was even more doubtful when he took Tay Yang to the plane the next morning. She was dressed like a boy again in her blue denim coat and pants. Yale kissed her cheek. Several Chinese soldiers watched with interest as they boosted her through the cargo door. Stower stood beside her in the plane. She spoke rapidly in Chinese, and waved good-bye to Yale. One of the Chinese soldiers looked at Yale curiously, and laughed. Yale asked him what she had said.

"She?" the soldier asked bewildered. "Not boy? Girl?" Then his face broke into a grin. What he had heard finally made sense. "Oh. She say: 'Too bad you no marry her. Make fine wife.'"

PART THREE

Then if any device could be found how a state or an army could be made up only of lovers and beloved, they could not possibly find a better way oj living, since they would abstain from all ugly things, and be ambitious in beautiful things toward each other; and in battle side by side, such troops although few would conquer pretty well all the world. -- PLATO Symposium

1

The shore route between Boston and Midhaven is about thirty miles shorter than the highway through Hartford, but in January it is not always the best way. One portion twists and turns through the Connecticut Hills as it follows the original dirt road trails of the early 1800's. After snowstorms it gets plowed carelessly.

When Yale left Boston he was so lost in thought that he was almost in Providence before he realized that he had planned to come back through Hartford. Now, he knew that he should have kept his mind on his driving. It had been snowing since early morning. The half hour radio forecasts warned of continuing snow, and perhaps the worst blizzard in ten years.

He grabbed the wheel a little tighter. The snow whipped across his windshield in such a fury that at times the road was almost completely obscured. The glare of lights from infrequent cars moving in the other direction created a momentary blindness that forced him several times to bring his Ford convertible almost to a stop.

When he had started for Boston early that morning he had ignored the storm warnings. Four months of hanging around after his discharge, trying to make up his mind what he wanted to do, had left him jittery and nervous.

It had been impossible to tell Liz and Pat that he was married. Not that they could have any real objection to Anne. But how could he tell them that he had no idea where his wife was. Pat would have looked on it as typically Yale. To get himself married -- to be in love with a girl who obviously didn't care about him. If Pat had known about the Hindu ceremony he would have been amazed at such romanticism. Yale could imagine what he would have said once he recovered from the shock. Something like: "Forget it, Yale. It was a wartime romance. There were thousands of them. You shacked up for a while with a dame. Lots of us did the same thing in 1917. You huddled in each other's warmth like frightened animals. Then the war was over and the need vanished."

Perhaps that was the truth. If it were, he didn't need Pat's counsel, whatever it might be. He could well imagine Pat's utter surprise and Liz's shock that he would consider a Hindu marriage inviolable. They would have simply considered it an insane thing to have done. Something he should forget as rapidly as possible . . . as Anne Wilson had obviously forgotten. An interlude, which in a few years would seem completely unreal to him; something one dreamed in the early morning hours vacillating between sleep and wakefulness.

And yet it wasn't the marriage ceremony that bound him to Anne. It had been the complete giving of himself, for the second time in his life, to a woman. It was as if, in the giving of his love and the acceptance of the love of both Cynthia and Anne, he had lost a part of himself, irretrievably. In a true love union of a man and woman there was the usurping of each other's personality. What was a man, anyway, but the sum of his experiences? What more significant experience could man have than the act of love?

Or was that an intellectualized concept . . . strictly his own? Had he expected from Anne's love, as he had from Cynthia's, an emotional sharing of personality beyond her wish or desire to accept? Was the simple act of rutting the deepest relationship a man or woman could have? Didn't the individual ego rebel at a merging of personality? Most people in love maintained a distance. Most marriages were but a sharing of thousands of superficial relationships.

Yale had pondered these questions every day since he had come home. He compared himself to Swann in Proust's novel. He wondered if the same quirk of personality obsessed him. To be forever in love with a woman who didn't love you. A strange futility. Better to take a mechanistic view of the man-woman relationship. A view uncluttered by romantic notions. Something necessary but not essential in the life of a man. A piece of ass, a fuck, a life urge without reason.

But then he would remember Anne, and the quiet of an Indian night punctuated by the distant yelping of jackals. And the gradual penetration of her body as she undulated her hips toward him, whispering, ". . . I am you. . . ." The Brahmin chant of merger with God. A geometric progression of men and women everywhere embracing each other while the ceaseless flow of life whispered back, ". . . I am you. . . ." Until the sum total of all lives, all life . . . was the one Nirvana.

A few days after he had returned to the States Yale started an extensive search for Anne that had led him nowhere. He hired a detective who four months later was still assuring him that they would locate her. Twice, Harrigan had turned up what he called "hot leads." The first was the Red Cross director who had known Anne in Paris. Yale went to New York to talk with him.

"She came to me in August. She said her husband was in China," the Field Director told him. "She seemed a little distraught, as I remember. Said she had to go home. She wanted a transfer Stateside because her father was ill. I didn't question her. I knew from her records that she had no living family. Her husband was killed in the Pacific, you know. I suspected that she must have been having a pretty hot affair. A friend in Talibazar wrote and told me about your Hindu wedding. . . ." The Field Director smirked unpleasantly, implying that he felt a Hindu marriage ceremony for two Christians was peculiar to say the least. "Anyway, the simple solution was not to argue with her. We sent her home. The records show that she was at a canteen in Philadelphia until last September. After that she left the Red Cross."

The Field Director knew nothing else.

A few weeks later Harrigan located a girl who had worked at the Red Cross in Philadelphia and remembered Anne. All that she could offer was that Anne was a strange person. "She kept to herself. Several of us guessed that she was pregnant. But no one knew for sure. One day she was just gone. . . ."

Yale was shocked. Could Anne have been pregnant? If she were, why hadn't she contacted him? She knew where he lived. He had told her about the Marratt Corporation. The truth must be that Anne didn't want to find him. In India she had doubted that he really loved her. Now, she must be simply giving him the easy way out. Anne had left him because he had failed her, Yale thought bitterly . . . failed her the same way he had failed Cynthia.

The car radio interrupted his thoughts with further predictions on the intensity of the storm together with warnings to stay off the highways. Gusts of wind whipped the car. The canvas top flapped alarmingly against the metal supports. On curves he could feel the tires slurch. Fifty-five miles to go before he would be back in Midhaven.

For the next six weeks he would have the house to himself. When Pat had announced that he and Liz were going to Florida through April, Yale had tried to conceal his elation. At least he would have time to think and decide what he was going to do without the constant nagging that had been going on for the past few weeks. Pat and Liz had left two days ago. Yale grimaced, remembering the days before they had left. There had been one long round of squirming to avoid a showdown. Every night Pat had made Yale's attitude the subject of dinner discussions.

"I frankly don't know what the hell is the matter with you, Yale. You act as if you were in the middle of combat. Do you need psychiatric reorientation? All this crap about the serviceman readjusting leaves me cold. All you have to do is to dig into some project. Get your teeth into reality. The war is over. There's money to be made.

"When you first got home I had high hopes for you. You looked good. Mature. I hoped that after a couple of weeks of hanging around, you would come down to the plant. There's a new office waiting for you, boy. Your name is on the door. The Marratt Corporation is in great shape. We've ridden this thing out with the biggest contracts in the history of the company. I predict that the post-war boom will exceed anything yet. . . ." Pat chomped on his cigar. "You've been home nearly two months and you've been flopping around like a chicken with its head cut off. I'm pretty damned disappointed. What's eating you?"

Yale hadn't answered.

The next night Pat tried a different approach. He told Yale that his Army pay wouldn't last forever. He reminded Yale of the check for ten thousand dollars that he had given him. "I wasn't kidding you when I told you that was the end of the road," he said. "You can earn your own money from now on."

Yale wondered how he would be able to tell Pat that he wasn't going to work at the Marratt plant, that under no circumstances was he going to be involved with day-to-day dealings with his father. He was convinced that the personality clash would be violent and disruptive. He simply wasn't going to live a life dominated by his father. If he gave in and be couldn't find Anne, he would eventually get involved in a routine marriage into one of Midhaven's better families, to some girl, approved by Pat and Liz, who was adjusted to the suburban golf, yacht-club, cocktail, merry-go-round. It was impossible for him to adjust to that kind of middle-class world and conform to its ingrown mores.

For him it was a "crock of shit" -- "shit for the birds." Yale grinned as he recalled the Army expressions. He imagined Pat's disgust had he used them. They were immature. He knew that. But in their inanity they summed up the confused ideas beleaguering him.

Liz had misinterpreted his vacant grin. "It's nice to see you smile, Yale. Why don't we have Yale come to Florida with us for a few weeks?" she had asked Pat. "After being in India and China this New England weather has probably got him down. It begins to get me at this time of year. You'd meet some nice girls, Yale," Liz said enthusiastically. "Pat could rent you a car. You could be on your own." Liz continued with a discussion of how nice it would be to have Yale in Miami with them.

Yale knew that she had visions of herself being escorted by her son to some of the fancier night clubs. No doubt she would suggest that he wear his uniform. Even if the war was over -- no one could possibly object to his wearing his uniform for a little while longer.

Of course, Yale wasn't a Major, but a First Lieutenant would provide a nice backdrop for Liz.

Pat quickly took up the idea and embellished it with the glamor of daily jaunts after sailfish. Pat had chartered a boat. It was already waiting for him.

Neither of them believed that Yale would refuse. When he did, it became just one more instance of his intractability. Five years away from home had obviously not changed his stubborn disposition. It was incomprehensible. There wasn't another young man in Midhaven who wouldn't have jumped at the idea.

To close off the discussion and avoid further arguments, Yale told them that he wanted the next few weeks to iron out things in his own mind. Perhaps, while they were gone he would go down to the plant and look things over.

It was a vacillating answer and he was angry with himself for the indecision. Before Pat got back from Florida he would have to make up his mind.

What would Pat think if he knew that his son had a suitcase under his bed neatly packed with a million rupees? More than three hundred thousand dollars by present rates of exchange. Pat wouldn't worry about the moral issues -- that was certain. He would consider it a financial coup of the first order.

Yale hadn't given much thought to the rupees. Money didn't interest him. He was directionless. But, very soon, he should attempt to convert them into dollars. Actually, any plans for the future hinged on whether he could make the conversion. He had only a few hundred dollars left from his mustering-out pay. The second he ran out of money Pat would have won.

The lights from an approaching truck jarred Yale back to the present reality of the storm. As he crawled nearer, hugging his car to the side of the road, he realized that the truck wasn't moving. It was a snowplow. Yale stopped and cranked his window down. "How is it up ahead?" he yelled at the driver who was slouched down behind his wheel. A surly looking man leaned out of the cab and looked at him.

"Couple of real drifts about a mile ahead . . . your way. I busted through them on this side, but they'll be filled in half an hour. My engine's conked out."

"Sorry," Yale said. He wondered whether the driver planned to sit out the storm in the cab of his plow. "What is the name of this place?" Yale asked. The driver of the snowplow told him that it was Berks County.

Yale waved good-bye. He had thirty more miles to go. At this rate it would take him an hour or more. It had been crazy to drive all the way to Boston. Doubly crazy to drive back in a blizzard; If he had been a little more cold-blooded, and not worried about what Cynthia thought, he could have been in bed with her right now. Why couldn't he just screw a woman and move on . . . that's all that was possible with Cynthia now. Why had he reopened pages of his life that should have been left closed?

Was it the dark shadow that Mat Chilling had cast over his life ever since he had known him? Or was it because he was haunted by his love for Cynthia? Yale had tried to tell himself that the reason that he wanted to find Mat was that Mat might very well know where Anne was. Anne had liked Mat. She might have written to him. If Yale had told Harrigan, Harrigan would have investigated and found whatever Mat knew about Anne. But Yale told himself that he really must talk personally with Mat. If Mat were interested in re-activating his "Seek the True Love" . . . maybe he could help. It would be something to do. Once he got the rupees converted he could at least offer Mat financial help.

The reasons he mustered were plausible reasons but Yale was too honest with himself not to admit the truth. He wanted to see Cynthia. He wanted to have her tell him why she still wore the ring he had given her in college. More than anything else he wanted to have the answer to the riddle that had haunted him so long. If Cynthia loved him, why had she left him? Once he found out, maybe he could banish the ghost of her forever.

Knowing that it was a kind of immaturity to be at once so desperate to find Anne, and at the same time to feel this compulsion toward Cynthia . . . knowing it, but telling himself . . . to hell with such middle-class concepts . . . the day after Pat and Liz left for Florida Yale drove over to Midhaven College. The Alumni office would have Mat's address.

Walking toward the administration building, he met Doctor Amos Tangle who greeted him warmly. "Pat told me you were home, Yale. I'm glad that you made it safely. A great many Midhaven boys didn't." Doctor Tangle looked properly sad. "Well, well . . . a lot of water has passed under the bridge since your college days. You are a grown man now. Won't be long before you are taking over for Pat. A good thing, too. As a minority stockholder I've told him time and again to loosen his reins a little. I think he will now. Fine thing . . . following in your father's footsteps. What brings you over to the college? Feeling nostalgic?" It crossed Doctor Tangle's mind that this might not be the wise thing to have said.

Yale explained that he had met Mat Chilling in India. They had been very close. He had come over to the college to obtain Mat's address.

This time Doctor Tangle's look of sadness was genuine. "Mat is dead. Yale! A terribly shocking accident. While Mat and I had parted ways over this love nonsense of his, nevertheless I always respected him. A brilliant mind. Such futility life has at times. Mat came home last November. . . ."

Stunned . . . with a feeling of loss so deep that it was like a body blow, Yale wanted to shout, "For God's sake, how? What happened?" It was incredible. Impossible. It was as if Doctor Tangle were telling him that God was dead! But Yale said nothing. He listened, tears in his eyes, while Doctor Tangle told him how Mat was killed in an automobile accident. His car had skidded, plunged over an embankment, and Mat's neck had been broken.

"Too bad. . . . too bad." Doctor Tangle's face reassumed its ministerial cast. "But we all have to go. At least Mat didn't suffer."

Yale escaped Doctor Tangle and in the Alumni office he found the complete story. Mat had been returning to his home in Swampscott from Evans Academy, a boys' school up north on the Newburyport Turnpike. His car had skidded somehow, crashed over an embankment and turned over. Death was immediate. Fortunately, no one had been with him. He was survived by his widow, Cynthia Chilling, née Carnell, Class of 1939. There were no children.

He called Mat's Swampscott address and found that the house had been sold. The woman who answered the phone told him that she believed Mrs. Chilling was living in South Boston . . . she was working at Jordan Marsh. Yes, she had a forwarding address. Yale wrote it down with a trembling hand.

It was snowing lightly when Yale arrived in Boston. As he drove by the buildings of Harvard Business School, he remembered Sam Higgins and Agatha Latham. Either one of them might be able to give him some advice on how to dispose of the rupees. Was Agatha still alive? Evidently, or Pat or Liz would have mentioned it. As for Sam, he probably was well ensconced in his father's investment business. He would have to contact one or the other of them soon.

The address that the woman had given him took him to one of South Boston's alphabet streets. A depressing area of houses built without style and without grace just after the Civil War. They had been erected too late to benefit from the clean lines of the Colonial period but not too early to suffer from the gingerbread and gimcrack construction of the turn of the century.

Plowing through drifts, he walked into the entrance of a house indistinguishable from rows of its neighbors. He tried to ignore the pervasive smell of boiled spare ribs and the penetrating odor of animal fats that had seeped into the woodwork over the years.

Why had Cynthia moved into such a poor place? Hadn't Mat left any money? He wondered why Mat hadn't gone back into the ministry instead of seeking a teaching job. If Mat had lived would he have tried to start his tent show again? It was too bad, because Yale had begun to feel that Mat Chilling was really himself, Yale Marratt . . . only properly focused; with the goals of his life clearly in front of him. There was no purpose . . no teleological meaning in a universe that could permit the snuffing out of a life like Mat's. Yale knew that Mat would have disagreed with him -- that if there were purpose in the world . . . it might be meaningful for men but it was of no interest or concern to the Ultimate.

Peering around in the dimly lighted hall, Yale found Cynthia's name on a mailbox . . . third floor. Yale climbed the stairs apprehensively. Would Cynthia be home? What would she say? At last, he would be able to find out what had happened in 1939. That was six long years ago and the boy, Yale Marratt, had long since vanished into memory; buried beneath an accumulation of time that so far had added up to nothing. Was it worth knowing, now? Was there any reason, really, why Cynthia had left him beyond the simple fact that she didn't love him?

A few seconds after his knock, the door opened. Cynthia, a startled expression on her face, greeted him.

"Yale Marratt! I can't believe it," she gasped.

Yale experienced the same surge of relief and happiness he had known when Cynthia used to come tripping down the dormitory stairs at Midhaven College.

"Come in! Come in!" she said happily. "And excuse the mess!"

He followed her into the room, noting that she was neatly dressed in a black skirt, and a pale green sweater that buttoned over her full breasts. He glanced around. It was a one-room apartment with a brass bedstead in one corner and a dresser. On the opposite wall there was a hot plate and a stained white sink. There was one chair near a small window that looked out over back yards full of trash and endless clotheslines. Cynthia sat on the bed and stared at him. "Oh, Yale, I can't believe it is you. You look so tanned . . . just like Mat when he first came back. You really have become quite handsome. Do you know that?"

Yale blushed. He sat in the chair and fidgeted uneasily. His eye caught the entrance to a small bathroom. A clothesline stretched across it was hung with stockings and underwear.

"I heard about Mat just yesterday, Cindar. I'm awfully sorry.

She nodded. "It was a shock, Yale. Some days I can't believe the reality of it. I expect I'll go to our house in Swampscott and he will be there like he was, full of plans to help people, bursting with enthusiasm for new projects like thai one in Miami." She paused and stared at Yale, a hopeless expression on her face, her eyes moist with tears. She made a strong effort and recovered herself. "It's nice to see you, Yale. I guess you are about the only friend I have left in the world. Daddy died three years ago. After that Aunt Adar seemed to just wither away. The blow of having Michael killed in France and Lennie away in Germany with the Occupation . . . the empty house . . . the farm not producing . . . I stayed with her while Mat was in India. She died a few months before he came home."

Cynthia sighed. "It's a crazy world, isn't it, Yale?" She looked more closely at his face. "You haven't changed much. You've got a shorter haircut. You look like a Harvard man." She grinned a little when he blushed. "But you're still Yale Marratt!"

Yale tried not to stare at her uplifted breasts, and the slight curve of her stomach beneath her skirt. There was a saying he had heard in the Army: "good tits . . . no hips . . . good hips . . . no tits" -- but Cynthia belied the saying. Who was the famous painter who had looked for a model with a "pear-shaped ass"? Cynthia had it, plus full excellent breasts all molded by her skirt and sweater.

She caught his glance. "Am I showing already?" She tried to make her voice light and humorous.

Yale looked puzzled.

"I'm pregnant, Yale. I thought maybe you noticed."

Yale thought, Good God! -- No! Cynthia couldn't be pregnant! What an ironic twist of fate. Pregnant! Mat dead? She was kidding . . . playing for sympathy. "You don't look very pregnant to me," he said hollowly.

He could see her stiffen a little with anger. "You never were one for social amenities, were you, Yale?"

"Look who is talking," Yale said angrily. "I can't remember you gracefully saying good-bye to me. There must have been some nicer 'social' way of kissing me off. I don't remember any amenities at all."

Cynthia sat down on the bed; tears in her eyes. "Yale, let's not shout at each other. I am sorry . . . sorry to the very core of my being. It was rotten, terrible . . . but it had to be done," she whispered.

"I didn't come here to make you cry," Yale said, feeling his stomach twist. I'm a sap, he thought, she can still make me feel badly for her with just a facial expression. "I'm still a little stunned. I don't mean because you are going to have a kid, although that's really bad luck . . . but at Mat being dead." He paused, "Oh, hell, Cindar. You're pregnant. Mat got the prize. I should hate the bastard . . . be glad he is dead." Yale saw Cynthia wince. " . . . but I don't . . . in fact, for several months in India we were very close. When I think about him seriously it's with a great deal of admiration." Yale walked over to the bed. He looked at Cynthia. "I'm sorry for you, too mostly, I guess I'm sorry for myself."

He sat down beside her, and noticed that she was still wearing the ring he had given her.

"Yes, I'm still wearing it, Yale. Mat knew that you gave it to me." She smiled through her tears at his puzzled expression. "You must never blame Mat for what I did. He had nothing to do with it. He was a fine, good person. I'm glad I'm going to have his baby. . . ." She noticed the strange expression on Yale's face, and said sadly, "Don't you understand, Yale? Even though I loved you, we never could have been married. I'm Jewish . . . Jewish Jewish. Isn't that clear enough?" She hissed the words at him and then dropped back on the bed, sobbing.

Yale looked at her, bewildered. He was struck again with the classic beauty of her face, wide-spaced eyes, and high cheek bones descending in perfect curves to a well-formed chin. He felt a resurgence of desire for her that was overwhelming.

"God-almighty, Cindar. I must be stupid but I simply don't understand you. I loved you."

"You're lucky not to have been involved with me. Now -- you are married to a girl your father couldn't object to."

Yale stared at her, astonished by her statement. "What do you know about Anne?" he demanded. "Have you seen her?"

"I never met her, Yale. Mat told me that she is lovely." Cynthia looked at him solemnly. "He told me about your marriage."

"Did he tell you why Anne came back to the States so suddenly? Did he tell you where she is now?"

Cynthia's face showed her surprise. "She was pregnant, Yale. Mat thought you knew! Oh, God, don't tell me you didn't know! I'm sure Mat thought you were well aware of what happened."

Yale told her quickly that he hadn't seen Anne since the previous July. He told her how he had been searching for her . . . using a detective agency. Cynthia listened, amazed. "I can't understand it, Yale. I'm sure that she wrote Mat. I remember his reading her letter saying that you were excited and pleased with the idea of her having a baby. I think she was in Paris when Mat got the letter. She said that she was coming back to the States, to wait for you until the war was over."

"I had absolutely no idea that she was pregnant," Yale said, stunned. It suddenly occurred to him that if Anne had been pregnant in Paris she must have known it when they were in India. The baby must already be born! Somewhere his child was living. My God, he thought, why had Anne done this? Or maybe there was no child. Maybe she had come home and had an abortion. That must be it! She had hated the idea of being pregnant by him. That was the whole answer; the end of a love.

He told Cynthia his thoughts. She shook her head.

"It doesn't seem logical, Yale. Of course, I don't know. All I do know is that Mat was happy that you had found her. He was sure she was deeply in love with you."

Yale rubbed his hand against his face in a gesture of despair. "Oh, I've known two very logical women, haven't I, though? One leaves me because she's Jewish, and one because she's pregnant."

"I'm sorry, Yale." She sighed, thinking that whatever motivated Anne to leave Yale certainly couldn't have been as terrible as that awful day in Pat Marratt's office.

"Forget it. . . ." Yale said. "The problem is what are you going to do? Why are you living in a dump like this? Didn't Mat have any insurance? You better bring me up to date."

"It's not your worry, Yale. I'll get along all right."

"Look, stupid, I have money, I can help you."

Cynthia replied as if she hadn't heard Yale. She stared at the ceiling, seeing disjointed pictures of the past five years flickering on its yellowed surface.

"I didn't love Mat at first, Yale. He was older like a father . . . and good . . . a refuge." Yale leaned over her as she talked. . . . He watched her brown eyes, her full lips, her tear-stained cheeks, and he knew that his feeling for her hadn't changed.

" . . . but when he came back from India, I knew that I had missed him. In the few months we had left together we really discovered each other. Mat had changed . . . the fire-eating, Bible-thumping evangelist had disappeared. He was more human somehow . . . still out to change the world but on a quieter basis. The 'Seek-the-True-Love' days were over. He had written a book in India and was determined to find a publisher." Cynthia smiled. "I guess somehow I had finally made up my mind that Mat was really going to be my life. That's when we decided to have a baby.

"We bought a small development house in Swampscott. Mat had been promised a church of his own in a nearby town . . . in about a year . . . when the present minister retired. The money Mat had accumulated from the 'Seek-the-True-Love' venture, even the donated money which amounted to nearly ten thousand dollars and which Mat had tried to put into a special fund, was gobbled up by creditors.

"Neither of us was very practical. You see, Mat had borrowed most of the money for the tent. It was second hand but it cost a fabulous amount. Then we had to have a trailer. . . ." Cynthia shrugged. "Anyway, we were pretty much broke. Even the money Daddy left me vanished. Mat had gone to Evans Academy to apply for a teaching job the day he was killed. They called me from the Melrose Hospital. He was dead before I got there. It was a stupid accident. His car skidded, went over an embankment. His neck was broken. . . ."

"How much money have you got?" Yale asked. He tried to keep his voice matter-of-fact, not wishing Cynthia to know how much he wanted to brush the tears from her eyes.

"Yale, there was nothing until a month ago. That's why I sold the house. We had no equity in it. I got a job in Jordan's during the Christmas rush, and then I was laid off. Last month I got Mat's G.I. insurance money. I have a little over ten thousand dollars. So you see I'm all right."

Yale was silent -- wondering what the future would have in store for her. Ten thousand dollars wouldn't last long. A few years. She would have to work and support her child. Probably she would marry again. With Cynthia's face and body it shouldn't be difficult.

"I suppose now . . . I could marry you," Yale said bitterly. "It's obvious that Anne was just another dream I cooked up for myself. So there's nothing in the way. . . ."

"I'll never marry you, Yale." Cynthia's face was tight with repressed tears. "And I'll forgive the rotten way you have asked me."

Yale pulled her toward him. He held her, tense and reluctant in his arms. "I'm sorry, again, Cindar. I just can't help but feel that you have messed up our lives. I want to help you. I have to do that much for myself. But you've got to tell me what happened. What did I do?"

Nervously, she kissed his cheek. She jumped up quickly from the bed. "Yale, it's three o'clock. I'm starved. Take me out for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Will you?" It was apparent that she was trying to keep him from questioning her further.

They ate in a small restaurant near her room. He sat opposite her in a booth. They tried to pick up the threads of the past, clutching pathetically at memories. As they talked they carefully avoided the years they had been separated, and confined their discussion to Midhaven Colege. Unexpressed was a if-we-could-only-turn-back-the-clock feeling, but inexorably the memory would recur to Yale of the day before graduation. And Cynthia remembered her fatal meeting with Pat. It was settled . . . over. The fleeting idea of trying to recapture the love they had known was forever squelched. As a person grows older the endless possibilities of youth narrow to a series of "it might have beens."

Through the window they watched the snow whipping furiously along the cobbled streets. It was only four o'clock, but it was already dark. They had covered their Midhaven memories. The surface ones . . . not the deep feeling memories of young love and excitement and discovery . . . memories they dared not say aloud . . . so their words vanished, paralyzed by things too deep for tears, even.

"Are you going back tonight?" Cynthia asked, breaking the silence. She wondered what he was thinking. Could she say to him that it would be all right to stay? They had slept together . . . had intercourse together . . . many times. She felt a longing to have a man with her. Someone . . . tender . . . understanding . . . to break the loneliness of her dismal room. But it was crazy. She couldn't ask Yale and then repulse him again. She couldn't say I want your body close to me tonight, Yale. Not for passion but because I'm scared. I'm going to have a baby -- and I'm alone and frightened. If she said it -- even implied it -- it would be as if she asked him to marry her. She would have to explain what had happened. How could she explain? Too many years had passed. It was too late. How could she evoke for Yale her fright and fear of Pat so many years ago? Now it seemed silly. She should have told Yale that day. They would have overcome Pat's hatred. Somehow. Even if they hadn't . . . they had their love for each other. But what would it accomplish now? She was pregnant -- and not by Yale. Yale was married to someone else. The future held no possibilities for them.

Yale was deep in melancholy. Why had he come to Boston? If he hadn't come the memories of Cynthia would have fallen into perspective. But now it was so very clear. Anne hadn't wanted him, either. She had gotten rid of the baby. Why . . . God . . oh, why had he made the only two loves he had known his religion? Why couldn't he have accepted Cynthia and Anne as normal average women and not enmeshed himself with the Universe? Right now he had a set-up. Play it easy and he could have Cindar back in her room in bed in no time. Screw her good . . . dispassionately to see what it would be like, and then leave her in the morning. Tell her he would be in touch with her and then disappear entirely. Tell her anything, and then to hell with her. It's funny, he thought, I can think these thoughts but they are not me. Cindar -- get the hell out of my life, he thought, I'm confused enough.

He said, "I've got to get back. Come on." He held her arm and guided her along the snow-covered sidewalk. In the front hall that seemed to smell even more violently of unwashed baby diapers and stale cooking odors, he gave her a quick, awkward hug.

"I'll be back in a few days," he said. "I'll help you get another place. You can't live here. "

2

Yale glanced at the dashboard clock. It was ten-thirty. He should be almost at the entrance to the Marratt Estate. He must stop thinking about Cynthia and Anne and concentrate on the road. It was impossible to drive faster than twenty miles an hour. Ordinarily, he would have recognized every turn, but tonight the edges of the road had disappeared in a swirling plain of snow that extended as far as his headlights could penetrate.

Trees swung in the wind. Above the throb of the engine, he could hear the snap of breaking branches. This blizzard was going to set some new records. He hadn't seen another car in more than an hour. Obviously, most people had more sense than to be out on a night like this. The car skidded out of control for a split second before he got it back onto the road. He had a quick vision of himself in an overturned convertible with no one to find him until morning; dead or dying from exposure.

And Cynthia -- she would live, of course. Probably never realize that he was dead. Death in an automobile in Connecticut. He would simply be a statistic, among the many casualties that were bound to result from this storm. Cindar would think he had simply run out on a bad situation. Yale shrugged. The smartest thing to do was not to go back to Boston, anyway. Inevitably, he would create another mess.

He slowed the car to a crawl, fearful of missing the turnoff, and then realized that while he was thinking his gloomy thoughts he had actually passed it. He peered out the right-hand window and caught a glimpse of the fieldstone fence that encircled the entire Marratt land. He estimated that the road into the house was about a hundred yards back. He backed slowly, the car door open. The wind and snow blew against his face and neck. The snow was drifted several feet high in front of the gateposts but the gate itself had been swung back by the wind. The road into the house wasn't plowed and it was exactly a mile and six-tenths to the house. He'd freeze to death if he tried to walk it. Maybe he could plow the Ford through. He slammed his foot on the gas, swinging the car into the entrance. For about a hundred yards the car whipped and skidded, and then, suddenly, the dark outline of another car stalled across the road sprung up before his headlights.

Yale gripped the steering wheel as he crashed. For a moment he sat trembling, catching his breath. Who in hell had left a car like that?

He jumped out into snow up to his knees. Plodding toward the car he had hit, he noticed that it was a Cadillac convertible. He pulled the door open. The head and arms of a woman tumbled toward him, falling on the edge of the car's seat. Yale was so startled that it was seconds after he had grabbed the girl's head and shoved her body back into the car that he realized it was his sister, Barbara.

Pushing in beside her, he was overwhelmed with the odor of whiskey that permeated the interior. He leaned over her. She was breathing. Drunk, he thought. Jesus! Drunk! How do you like that?

"Bobby!" He shook her. "Bobby, wake up for God's sake. You scared a lung out of me. What in hell are you doing here? Why aren't you in Texas? Where's Tom?"

Barbara opened her eyes and looked at him. "Whaddya know," she muttered drunkenly. "My baby brother, Yale. Now I'm in luck."

"You damned fool," Yale cursed. "Sitting here in below zero weather. Drinking yourself cock-eyed. What the hell's the matter with you?"

"Got fed up with my darling husband," Barbara muttered. "Left him. Came home to Mother, after six stupid years. To hell with him! To hell with the kids!"

Yale pushed her into a sitting position. "Well, I've got news for you, chum . . . your darling mother and father are basking in the sun in Miami. The house is practically closed up. Whit Jones has gone into town while they're in Florida. Amy has gone to see her daughter in North Carolina. It's bachelor diggings for the next month." Yale pulled on the dash light. He looked closely at Barbara. She was wearing a mink jacket, with the collar flung high in back, providing a frame for her face. In the faint light from the dashboard her features were heavily shadowed, but Yale could notice a half smile on her lips.

"Okay, so I'll drive to Miami . . . I've driven from Dallas in four days. Get a plow, darling brother. Get me out of here!" She shivered, "Ye gods, I'm freezing. Used up all my gas running the heater. What time is it?"

Yale looked at his watch. "It's eleven-thirty."

"Christ, I've been here since eight o'clock. Good thing I had the bottle."

Yale picked it off the floor of the car. It was three-quarters gone. He took a swallow. "I don't suppose you have any overshoes?"

She held up her legs, showing silk stockings and high-heeled shoes.

Yale shook his head. "That's great. You're going to have a nice long walk, practically barefoot, in the snow."

"The devil I am." Barbara shriveled into her coat. "If I was going to walk I'd have done it hours ago. Anyhow, I'm too damned tight . . . couldn't put one foot in front of another."

"You can't stay here, you'll freeze to death."

"Who cares? I've heard it's an easy death. You just go to sleep like this." Barbara put her head against the seat and closed her eyes. Yale realized that when she had discovered her car was stuck in the snow she had probably started drinking, not caring what happened. Whatever was wrong between Tom and her must be a real mess, he thought. Was this what happened to all modern marriages? Too much money. Too much booze. Maybe he was just as well off.

Yale shook her and got no response.

"Come on, Bobby! Come to! You may feel like croaking but I'm not going to have you on my conscience." He slapped her face. It made a stinging sound.

She looked at him bitterly. "Just like my goddamned husband . . ."

Yale leaned across her and pushed the door open. He shoved her into the snow. She screamed, "Leave me alone. I want to die. Who do you think you are . . . God?"

Yale grabbed her arm and pushed her toward what looked like the center of the road.

"Okay! Okay! Stop pushing. I'll try to make it."

They lurched against the wind, the snow whipping and smacking against their faces. At first it felt clean and good, but in a few seconds it stung as it melted and froze on the skin. Yale half-led, half-dragged Barbara. It was impossible to talk. The wind was so cold it was difficult to breathe without gasping. Yale tried to gauge the depth of the snow on the road. For a few minutes they would walk on bare road. Then they would be confronted with a wide expanse of drifted snow, in some places waist high. Yale plowed ahead. He tried to trample some sort of path, waving his arms to keep his balance. He sank beyond his knees. His overcoat dragged across the top of the drifts.

Barbara tried to follow him. Stumbling, she nearly fell forward on her face. Finally, the only way she could walk was to hitch her dress around her hips, hooking it under a large gold belt she was wearing. But in a few minutes her legs were raw and freezing cold. They felt numb beneath her. Staggering, trying to keep up with Yale, she suddenly tripped and plunged face down into a drift.

"Yale," she moaned.

He turned back, caught her by the back of her coat, and pulled her to her feet. She tottered against him, and he nearly lost his balance. "Are you all right?" he yelled.

She tried to nod, and he heard her say, "Oh, Yale, I can't make it. I'm done in."

Yale leaned over her. "Come on, Bobby! You've got to make it." He saw her bare legs for the first time. Her dress was still gathered around her waist. Her stockings, wet and sleazy, supported by a garter belt, made her look both ridiculous and somehow very feminine and fragile.

Half pulling her to her feet, he slid his hand between her legs, and felt the wet hair of her mons, and then the curve of her buttocks. With a tremendous effort, he twisted her across his shoulder in a fireman carry.

"You can't carry me!" she screamed. "I'm too heavy!"

"Shut up." Yale groaned. "I'm doing it, aren't I? If we ever get back, you better dig out your red flannels. This isn't any weather to be walking around without panties."

For the next few minutes Barbara's weight, balanced as it was, felt light enough. Holding her calf to keep her from falling, Yale's hand slipped back again to the curve of her buttocks. "Your fanny feels nice and warm," he teased her. Her voice in a weak "Cut it out," seemed to come from some distance behind him.

The fury of the storm seemed to be increasing. The pines that Pat had planted years ago were the only clue to the turnings of the road. It had been years since he had walked the distance between Route 6 and the house. The turns, familiar in an automobile, seemed strange and intimidating on foot. As he struggled against the wind he tried to look into the biting onslaught of the snow to see if he could distinguish the outlines of the house. He prayed that it wasn't much further.

His foot struck bare road for a minute, and then he started to plow across what seemed to be an unending drift. Almost up to his waist, he plunged forward into the snow, Barbara half under him. For a minute he lay still, listening to the heavy sound of his own breathing. He wondered at Bobby's silence. He pushed himself to his feet, and looked down at her, half buried in the snow. He shook her and she sobbed: "Yale, I'm sick. I'm so sick."

He could see that she was retching. He grabbed her roughly. No matter how sick she was, she couldn't stay here. "Snap out of it!" he said sharply, in a voice that reminded him of his Army days. "You can be sick in the house."

Half carrying, half dragging, a sickness of exhaustion in his bowels, he finally got her to the porch.

Gasping for breath, he fumbled with his keys and swung the door open. He snapped the switch. The front hall light didn't go on. The wires must be down. Barbara collapsed on the floor with a sigh.

"Come on, stupid! You've got to get those wet clothes off."

Groping in the dark, he found the stair railing. He hoisted Barbara to her feet and carried her upstairs to her bedroom. Although Barbara hadn't lived in Midhaven for six years, Liz had left her room untouched. It was occasionally used as an additional guest room. He dropped Barbara on her bed.

The house was bitter cold. This was going to be a pretty mess. Snowed in . . with no lights and no heat. He fished cigarettes out of his pants. They were soaked through. He shook Barbara. She moaned. God, she had really tied one on. She was so drunk she didn't care whether she froze or not. He wrestled her out of her coat, undid the zipper on the back of her dress and pulled it over her head. In the blackness of the room it was almost impossible to see what he was doing. He remembered Liz had a candelabra in the living room. He fumbled his way downstairs, finally located it together with some matches. Barbara was still lying face down on her bed; naked except for her brassiere. She was shivering violently.

He searched in the bathroom and found a turkish towel. He quickly took off his own wet clothes and gave himself a quick rub-down. Still shivering, he took off Barbara's bra and massaged the towel vigorously over her body. He flopped her over and she groaned.

"Cut it out! Cut it out!" she kept repeating blearily. She opened her eyes and looked at him. She giggled. "You're naked! Look at that big thing sticking out of your belly."

She grabbed him and held him hard. "Stick it in me, Tommy. Come on! Come on! I want it. I haven't had it in such a long time."

Yale grinned. Barbara was so drunk, she thought he was her husband. He pulled away from her grasp. The thought crossed his mind that all he had to do was to lie down on her. She wanted it, didn't she? It had been almost eight months since he had loved a woman. He observed himself for a moment with interest. Obviously nature didn't differentiate even if the woman happened to be your sister.

He scooped the blankets out from under her. She fell back on the sheets.

"Push over, Bobby," he said, lying beside her. He pulled the sheets and blankets over them.

She snuggled against him. He blew out the candles, and thrashed his legs to warm the bed.

"I know who you are," Barbara whispered. "You're Yale!"

Yale slapped her on the calf. "Turn over, dearie," Yale said, amused. "This isn't for passion. This is just a practical way to keep from freezing to death."

She turned over and curved her buttocks into his stomach. She felt damp and cold, and yet, he thought, it was nice to have female flesh pressed against you.

Outside, the snow, half ice, splattered wildly against the window. The frames rattled and groaned as the wind struck against them in furious gusts. Barbara moaned several more times that she was sick, and then fell asleep.

Listening to the wind, Yale trembled. This was a day to top them all, he thought. Right now he could be lying in Cindar's bed in Boston. They would be as they were years before in New York. Cindar, hungry, demanding; kissing him persistently, and then shy . . . wondrous . . . embarrassed at the fury of her passion and her unknown self . . . she would snuggle against him the sharp ecstasy replaced by a warm need for him.

And while he made love to her, Barbara would have frozen to death. And he would have known that had he come home Barbara would be alive. Had she died, her death would forever have been his responsibility. Because that was the way it was, once you accepted responsibility. That was the way it was with Anne whom he had made pregnant. That was the way it was with Cindar who was pregnant and needed help, and probably loved him. Did it make so much difference that they had lost six years? Wouldn't it be an even deeper and more understanding marriage because they knew what it was to have lost each other?

Yes, somehow he would convince Cindar to marry him. As he fell asleep he wondered if, when married to Cindar, he would forever worry about Anne. Why had Anne thought so lightly of their love? Could it be that he would never be a complete person again? When would he grow old enough to be more blasé? Look at Barbara. Tom Eames obviously didn't give a damn that his wife had almost frozen to death . . . or nearly got screwed by her brother. . . .

3

While they slept the snow kept falling. A northeast wind blowing in from the Atlantic whipped it into huge drifts, and then in howling dissatisfaction picked up the drifts and deposited them in even greater piles somewhere else.

In Midhaven, weary men seated high in the cabs of trucks hastily rigged with plows, worked hopelessly against the storm. All through the night, as fast as the main roads were cleared they filled in again. Six people died. They were buried in drifts or, abandoning their cars, froze to death or had heart attacks trying to reach home.

Yale slept restlessly. He tossed and turned, unaccustomed to sleeping with a woman. He awoke to a cold grey room. His nose felt frozen. The electric clock on Barbara's dresser said nine-fifteen. That must have been the time last night that the power went off. What time was it now?

He looked at Barbara. Her hair was scattered on the pillow, one bare arm flung over her head. Her breasts were uncovered. She looked at him and smiled faintly. "I'm awful sick," she said. "I must have wakened you going to the bathroom. I've got the runs. Feel as if I'm burning up."

Yale felt her face and drew back alarmed. "For God's sake. Cover up, you fool! You've got a fever."

He jumped out of bed, found some clothes in his room, and located a thermometer in the master bathroom. When he came back Barbara was shivering violently. Her skin looked bluish. He shoved the thermometer between her trembling lips. A few minutes later he looked at it in dismay. It read 101. "Lady, you're a sick pup!" he muttered. "I'm going to call a doctor." He found a telephone book. "Do Pat and Liz still have old Starkey?"

"I'll be all right," Barbara whispered. "Just pooped from the trip back . . . don't need a doctor."

Yale found the telephone number. He picked up the phone. There was no dial tone. The lines must be down. Barbara was perspiring and moaning a little. What could he do for her? He searched the medicine cabinet in the master bathroom and found some aspirin. Better than nothing. She swallowed two, tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Yale. I guess I'd be dead if it wasn't for you. How did you ever get me to the house?"

Yale put his hand on her cheek with a friendly caress. He was frightened by the heat of her skin. "Look, Bobby, you've got to have a doctor! The phone isn't working. I'm going to see if I can get the plow hitched up to the farm truck and plow out the road. It will take some time." He pulled the phone over beside her bed. "I'll write down Starkey's number. Keep trying. They may get the lines fixed."

It was still snowing lightly when Yale went out the back door. He jumped through drifts to reach the garage. Whit had backed the truck in and the plow was attached, evidently prepared for a storm. The truck started easily. About fifty feet from the garage, he plowed into a drift nearly two feet high. The truck bucked, skidded. If Whit had been home he would have kept plowing every hour or so through the night. Now it was too late. The drifts were too high for the lightweight truck. Discouraged, he backed into the garage. There was only one way to reach the highway and that was on foot.

Nothing to do but try. Barbara must have a doctor. Dressed in a lumberman's jacket, high boots, and a woolen hat pulled over his head, he reached the highway in about an hour. Puffing and feeling slightly sick from the exertion, he was relieved to find one lane had been plowed. There was no traffic. He walked in the direction of Midhaven. He remembered a small grocery store and a cluster of houses about two miles away. As he walked he was impressed with the strange quiet of the morning. The snow had temporarily put a forest hush on the land. The only sound was his boots crunching the snow beneath him.

He finally reached the grocery store. It was damp inside and smelled of wet cardboard boxes. Three men stood around an old pot-bellied stove. In answer to his query one of them pointed to a phone on the wall. As he picked it up, one of them said, "It ain't working." The others laughed in great good humor at Yale's stupidity. Yale looked at them angrily.

"Can one of you drive me into Midhaven? I've got to get a doctor for my sister."

One of them, a man of about sixty, heavy-built, with a two-day growth of beard, introduced himself. "I'm Ralph Weeks. You're young Marratt, ain't you? I used to work for your pa."

Yale, embarrassed at confiding personal information and pleading for help, explained his problem.

"Well, young fellow, you're in luck. If your danged employment manager, Jim Sanford, hadn't given me the sack last week because I was too old to be liftin' crates, I wouldn't have gone out and gotten me a job plowing yesterday. Too old, how do you like that?" Weeks clapped Yale on the back, with a thunderous blow. Yale could feel the strength of the man.

"Might have a little rheumatism. Might need a few drinks to warm me up now and then, but by god Ralph Weeks ain't too old yet! Got a city plow down the street. I'll plow you right up to that no-good Starkey's front porch, and then plow you back home at city expense." Weeks laughed a belly-shaking laugh. Yale was impressed with the good-humored, country-bred warmth of the man.

Sitting in the cab, Yale watched with admiration the dexterous way that Weeks handled the big truck. "Twenty years ago I used to operate a steam shovel for a construction company." Weeks' breath curled in a cloud around his face. "Then, Martha, my old woman, inherited the Langley house. Damned big ark. Must have been built after the Revolutionary War. So I quit and started a truck farm. Good way to starve to death. Off and on I worked for Marratt. Me and Martha liked the old place, though. Then the kids grew up and went their way. Last year Martha died. I'm living there by myself, now."

Weeks reached behind him and produced a pint of liquor. "Have a shot, son! It's damned cold. Made this myself. Got a little still now that Martha is gone. Liquor and women, that's what makes life worth living, boy. Trouble is you get older. You keep thinkin' about a nice young female cuddled up with you and there ain't none available. Guess I'll sell the house and move into town. Don't know anyone like to buy an old ark, do you? They don't build houses like that today. It's got ten rooms and six fireplaces plus a barn and forty acres of glacial stone and woods."

Yale remembered the house. It was a Georgian colonial, sitting on the crest of a hill a few miles beyond the Marratt house. The house had seen better days. Pat used to complain that it looked like something out of Tobacco Road. Unpainted, weather-beaten, it seemed to have a personality of its own; benign and disinterested in the progress of the world that had passed it by.

Weeks interspersed his conversation with an occasional shot of whiskey, passing the bottle each time to Yale. It had the light flavor of corn liquor and went down easily, erupting in a glow that spread throughout his body. Yale was feeling slightly tipsy when they pulled up in front of Doctor Starkey's house. To get there, Weeks had plowed a fresh lane through the virgin snow.

"I'll finish the street while you rouse Starkey," Weeks said. "He must be home. We are the first plow in this section. I'm out of my territory but what the hell."

When he recognized Yale, Doctor Starkey wasted no time. "Might be pneumonia," he said. "Got something, pretty new . . . penicillin. Good chance to try it."

They plowed easily through the drifts on Pat's private road. Yale asked Weeks to come back later and plow out his car and Barbara's.

Yale watched Starkey as he examined Barbara. "You've got to stay right in that bed, young lady. This could develop into something if you're not careful." He gave Barbara an injection and left some medicine.

On the way downstairs Starkey remarked on how cold the house was. "Your sister has all the symptoms of pneumonia. I don't know how this penicillin will react. It should help . . . but she's going to need a nurse. I don't want her out of that bed." He looked at Yale seriously. "I'd try to get a hold of your father and mother."

Yale explained that he wasn't sure where they were staying in Florida, but he would try to contact them once the phone was working. Starkey asked him if he knew some woman that might come in. Yale shook his head.

"You can't get a nurse unless you personally know one," Starkey said gloomily. "There's been a real shortage around here since the war." He told Yale that he would come back around five o'clock, if he could get his car out.

"Keep her on that medicine. Change the bed, if she sweats too much. Feed her liquids."

From the upstairs window, Yale watched the truck disappear in the distance. He realized that he hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon.

Later, puttering around in the kitchen, Yale remembered Cynthia. He wondered if he could ask her to help him. If Barbara really had penumonia, he was going to need a woman. But it was unreasonable. He couldn't ask Cynthia to expose herself to pneumonia. Unless he could contact Pat and Liz, the best thing would be to get Barbara to a hospital.

For the rest of the long day he sat in Barbara's room, huddled in an overcoat. Barbara slept, breathing heavily. Every hour or so Yale tried to telephone but there was no response.

During the day the conviction had grown on him that he needed Cynthia. If she was willing, they would try to recapture the love and close compatibility they had once known. He would tell her about Barbara. Without directly asking her help, he would see if she would offer to come. Unless she had changed from the person he had known, he knew that he wouldn't have to ask her. Cynthia would come. Having her in the house, meeting a common problem, he would break through her reserve. He was convinced that if he could discover what had happened to her the day before their graduation, he could gradually rebuild their love. Cynthia's obsession with her Jewishness was completely silly. Yesterday, she had practically admitted that she loved him.

Sometime in the afternoon Yale got the telephone operator. Explaining to her that there was probably no telephone where Cynthia lived, he gave the operator her address. She agreed to telephone-canvass the street. In less than an hour she called back and Yale heard Cynthia's voice.

"Yale, are you all right?" she asked. Her voice sounded husky and warm. "I worried about you all night. It's been the worst storm on record."

Yale felt an agreeable shiver of happiness as he realized her concern. When he told her what had happened, purposely minimizing how sick Barbara was, Cynthia said softly, "Yale, I'll come if you want me to. . . ."

She arrived at the Midhaven railroad station at one o'clock in the morning. Yale met her in his Ford which Ralph Weeks had helped him extricate from the snow. The grille had been smashed, and one mudguard caved in from the crash with Barbara's car, but the car ran all right.

Cynthia had immediately taken over. She insisted that Yale looked worn out and made him go to bed. Yale left the bathroom doors open between his room and Barbara's. He didn't attempt to introduce Cynthia to Barbara. Barbara's temperature was still very high. She was moaning unintelligibly.

Yale called Starkey several times during the day. At four in the morning he arrived, looking irritated and wan. "I have had it today." He sighed. "I've been on the go all day. Two emergency operations, three heart attacks, a couple of cases of pneumonia. You need to be two men. Are you an R. N. Mrs. Chilling?"

Cynthia explained that she wasn't but that she could follow instructions. Starkey responded to her crisp manner. He told her in detail what to do for Barbara.

For the next two days Cynthia maintained an almost unceasing vigil. She made light meals, persuaded Barbara to eat, changed her sheets, and bathed her. When Yale tried to draw her into conversation she avoided him. "I came to help you with your sister, Yale," she said. "We can talk later. In case you don't know it, I don't think Barbara is fighting at all. She hopes she'll die. Something happened with her husband. Some other woman, I guess."

Monday night, Yale made Cynthia lie down in the guest room. "You're acting crazy," he told her, "as if you had a mission that must be accomplished. If you keep going this way you'll end up catching pneumonia yourself. I'm not helpless, you know. I can watch Barbara. What's eating you, anyway?"

"A long time ago I asked you never to bring me to this house again." Cynthia sighed. "Now, I have come of my own volition. Some day, you can tell your father that Jews aren't so bad."

When Doctor Starkey looked at Barbara on Wednesday, he smiled. "Chalk it up to penicillin and Mrs. Chilling. We caught it in time. She'll be on her feet in a few days."

After bringing a tray for Barbara, Cynthia made supper for herself and Yale in the kitchen. Yale sat at the table and watched her while she prepared the meal. A deep feeling of tenderness flowed through him. How was he going to talk with her . . . how make her confess what had happened to their love? An idea occurred to him. "I think we both need a drink," he said. "We'll help ourselves to some of Pat's liquor."

"Oh, I don't think I want a drink, Yale. It's been a long time since I've had anything except a glass of beer. Mat never drank."

Yale ignored her. He went behind Pat's bar just off the living room. Something powerful, he thought with a grin. Something that went down easily and worked like dynamite. Tonight, whether she knew it or not, Mrs. Chilling was going to get good and tight.

He came back to the kitchen with a pitcher full of Manhattans. Cynthia was putting a steak on his plate and hers. "You wouldn't refuse to have a Manhattan with me for old times' sake, would you?"

Cynthia smiled. Sipping the drink he had poured, she murmured, "It's very good. Just right. Not too strong."

Yale agreed. He had used one hundred proof bourbon with just enough vermouth and cherry juice to conceal the strength. They ate their steaks . . . at first in silence. "You're a good cook," Yale said. He watched for the effect of the liquor.

"Oh, any dope can cook a steak and brown a few potatoes."

Yale refilled her glass. "Remember the night we played strip-poker with Sonny Thompson and Bee Middleton?"

"That was awful!" Cynthia laughed. "Sonny was so darned eager. You can't be eager like that with a girl."

"They got married," Yale said. "Sonny was in the Navy. I guess he had to marry her to get it."

Cynthia giggled. She held a piece of steak aloft on her fork, and looked at it seriously. "Those days were fun."

"Did you think about us very much in the past few years?"

Cynthia looked at him. "You know I did, Yale. After all, we were quite involved once. The talk of the campus."

They had finished eating. "Cindar, would you play the piano for me?"

"Gosh, I don't know whether I can any more. I haven't been near a piano for five years."

Yale led her into the living room. He brought the pitcher of Manhattans and their glasses. He filled hers. As she sat down at the piano, she took another sip. "These are nice drinks. They warm you up. I'm glad the lights came back on. You don't know how dependent you are on the thousands of other people until you see how pitifully incapable you are without something like electricity." Cynthia finished her drink.

Three, Yale thought. He could feel the drinks making him a little giddy. Could Cindar drink another? He would have to be careful or he would get so high himself; he would lose control.

"What'll I play?"

"Anything you want to, Cindar."

"Need to practice a little first." She ran a few scales, and odd pieces that Yale recognized as intricate finger exercises.

"Feels good to play again. Okay, I'll see if I remember some of Chopin's nocturnes. Used to know 'em all." Cynthia smiled at him and the warm, searching melodies of Chopin filled the room. She played unerringly for fifteen minutes. Yale watched her, astonished both at her ability to play with such feeling after three drinks, and his own feeling of love for her. He wanted to put his arms around her and kiss her sweetly serious face.

When she stopped Yale filled her glass and led her over to a sofa. She sat down, holding her glass, looking at him with brown eyes that were liquid with tears.

"I talked with Barbara today. Her husband, Tom, met another woman. He told her he didn't love this woman, but he wanted to keep seeing her occasionally. Barbara is going to divorce him. She says she hates him. But when she says it you can see she still loves him. She would forgive him, I guess, except that he doesn't see anything wrong with it. He wants to keep right on having two women. All their friends do it." Cynthia shivered. "What's wrong with marriage today, Yale? People get married and everything is all right the first years -- the years when they are struggling together to make a living. Then, when things get easier, they start to play around. Mat and I met the problem over and over again when he was preaching."

"What did Mat think about it?" Yale asked.

"He had a one-track mind on the subject. The carryover of ancient taboos, working like any prohibition, making people so sex conscious that they rebelled and then were involved in a morass of desire versus duty." Cynthia sipped at her drink. "You know somethin'? I'm getting a little tight."

"Relax," Yale said. "You've been working hard. I feel kind of sorry for Bobby. I'd have thought she might be sophisticated enough to handle that situation."

Cynthia looked at him querulously. "You think it's a sign of sophistication to play around when you're married?"

Yale shook his head. "No. Not particularly. I mean Barbara had a lot of dates before she was married. She should know men pretty well."

"You mean that's the way men are. Are you like that now, Yale?" Cynthia whispered. "I guess you've probably had a lot of women."

Yale smiled. He picked up her hand and looked at her strong, unpolished nails. "I've 'had,' as you put it -- you, Anne, and two other girls whom I remember only because I felt kind of sorry afterwards."

"Sorry --?" Cynthia asked, feeling a little tinge of jealousy.

"Oh, I just mean that I like women as much as any man, but the few times I have tried intercourse with them without anything but sexual urge I haven't felt it was worth it. I like to wake up with a woman and be glad she's there. Still, I haven't been married to one woman as a day-in day-out proposition. Maybe if I had," Yale said, teasing her, "I'd try and knock off a stray piece, now and then. What about Mat? Did he ever play around?"

"I told you Mat was so dedicated to his ideas that at times I think he looked upon his love for me as an attempt to prove them in reality. He was too busy to be anything but monogamous." Cynthia stood up. "I should look in on Barbara. Oooh . . . Yale . . I feel so dizzy."

Yale grabbed her around her waist and pulled her back on the couch. "I love you, Cindar." He kissed her.

Slowly, she put her arms around him, and then wildly kissed his mouth, his cheeks, his eyes. "Yale, it can never be." She pulled away from him. "You can take me tonight, but only the way you'd take a whore."

Yale kissed her and pulled her gently across his lap into his arms. "You're drunk, my little sweetheart."

"Mmmm, Cynthia is very, very drunk," she murmured, and relaxed with a sigh. She closed her eyes while Yale caressed her legs. He brushed his hands under her dress to the edge of her buttocks. She didn't stop him. His hand caressed the roundness of her stomach, and nestled between her legs. "Oh, God, Yale," she sighed. "What a mess our life has been . . . If only your father could have understood."

"Could have understood what?" Yale whispered.

She didn't answer.

"Could have understood what, darling?"

"Could have understood that I always loved you so much. That being Jewish only meant that I could love you even more . . . with all the fierce love of Jews for what is theirs . . ."

"What did Pat say to you?" Yale demanded, looking at her, startled. That was it! Why hadn't he guessed? Pat had done some intensive meddling on his own, Yale thought bitterly.

Cynthia's voice was far-away when she spoke . . . "Oh, God . . . oh, God . . ." she shuddered, "I'll never forget the way he looked at me. . . ."

Slowly, Yale pieced the story together. Cynthia had passed almost into an alcoholic hypnosis. As he prodded her, repeating questions, patiently repeating again, she would answer as if she were in a trance and then relapse into drunken silence. Yale managed to reconstruct a vivid picture of the meeting in Pat's office. Finally, he could pry no more out of her. She collapsed, a dead weight in his arms.

What kind of a man was Pat? Yale wondered. Pat had deliberately forced Cynthia to break up with him. Pat had moved him and Cindar around just as unconcernedly as he would pawns in a game of chess; more calculating even because he had a shrewd understanding of motivations. He knew exactly how Cynthia would react. He knew that without Cynthia his son would be temporarily directionless and that he could steer him to Harvard. Given time he could engulf him with his own values. Yale could only feel a dull anger. Not hatred. For some reason he could no longer hate Pat. It was pitiful really, he thought, to build a life out of the fabric of your children's lives. For Pat, success without a son to emulate him, to build on the foundations he had started, was a hollow thing. For Pat the act of love was an act of possession whether it be his wife or his child.

Yale picked Cynthia up and carried her upstairs to his room. I never want to possess you, dearest, he thought. I simply want to share the fun and sorrow of living with a woman who cares for me. Strike domination out of the world! Strike down those who would master others for desire and profit! To this I will devote my life! He dropped Cynthia lightly on his bed. For the first time he had a glimmering sensation of purpose in his life, and Cynthia was a part of the tenuous dream.

As he undressed her, he smiled. The second time in a week. He was getting pretty adept at undressing women. When he had wrestled Cynthia out of her clothes and tumbled her under the covers he walked through the bathroom to see Barbara.

She was sitting up in bed, evidently feeling much better. She asked him where Cynthia was. "She is your Cynthia, isn't she?" Barbara accented the "your."

"If you mean is she the Cynthia I knew in college," Yale said, "the answer is yes. I just finished getting her very drunk . . . to find out why she did something crazy a few years ago."

"You mean why she broke up with you?"

Yale nodded grimly. "And you found out what Pat did?" Barbara asked.

"So you knew all about it."

"Not until it was too late. Pat told Liz. Liz told me. She was shocked, but then she thought it was for the best. Jews aren't popular in Midhaven society, you know." Barbara fidgeted with the cover of her quilt. "Don't you think you should leave well enough alone? She's pregnant, or don't you know?"

"My, my! You girls had a real talk-fest today, didn't you?" Yale said mockingly. "I know one thing . . . that you would enjoy castrating your husband. . . ." He shrugged. "So Pat will have a Jewish daughter-in-law, and a gay divorcee to entertain him in his old age." He started back to his room. "I'll leave the doors open. If you need me, yell. I'm sleeping with Mrs. Chilling, but don't listen for the springs to squeak, I never make love to drunken women."

Laughing, he ducked the pillow she threw at him. But he did make love to Cynthia. Quietly in the first grey hours of the morning, she turned into his arms and whispered, "I love you, Yale." He kissed the fullness of her breasts, and felt the firm roundness of her belly against I him. As he entered the warmth of her and felt the clutching of her vagina, he smiled happily. "You are going to be a very pretty mother, Cindar," he whispered. "We'll love this kid of Mat's, and then we'll have a brother for him . . . to keep him company."

4

Two weeks later, Cynthia and Yale were married. Even as she listened to the justice of the peace pronouncing the words that sealed the marriage Cynthia kept wondering whether it was the right thing to do. Barbara's reaction had not been enthusiastic.

"Yale's always wanted you," Barbara said. "If he can accept another man's kid without being jealous, it'll probably work out all right. Of course being Jewish in the Marratt family is not going to be any pink tea. If you can stand Pat and his inevitable reaction . . ." She paused and patted Cynthia on the shoulder. "What the hell . . . no marriage is a picnic. After a few years the romance goes. Then you spend your time wondering what some other woman has got that you haven't. Yale will be no different -- you wait and see."

Barbara stood up for them. She kissed Cynthia and wished her luck. After the ceremony they drove Barbara to New York. She had decided to join Pat and Liz at West Palm Beach. Barbara had called her husband and told him that she was going to get a divorce. "He said it was silly," Barbara told them; "that I should think it over. How do you like that?"

Driving back to Midhaven the next day, sitting close to Yale, Cynthia worried aloud. "Barbara's all mixed up, Yale. She knows that if she divorces Tom it won't accomplish anything. She still loves him. She'll end up marrying someone else. Their children will be separated from their parents and Barbara will still be carrying a torch for Tom. What do you think she should do?"

"I wasn't asked for my advice," Yale answered. He squeezed her hand. "But if I had been I would have told her to go back to him. It isn't as if Tom had pushed her out. The crowd she is in are all the same. They reach a certain age and then start to play the field. Some get mad at each other or think they have found the perfect love with someone else. They get divorced and the rat-race starts all over again."

Cynthia looked at him unbelievingly. "You mean that she should just accept another woman in her husband's life? I couldn't do that!"

"You have accepted another woman in my life," Yale said calmly.

"I know, and it frightens me. Supposing Anne really does love you? Supposing she didn't have an abortion? Supposing she had a baby and for some reason couldn't find you? Wouldn't that be terrible? Oh, God, Yale, I don't know . . . I don't know. Marrying like this, so quickly, was crazy. Our marriage has so many strikes against it already. You're going to have an awful problem with Pat. You can't help but feel funny that I've been married . . . that I'll have a baby that's not yours that you'll have to support me and Mat's baby."

Cynthia was crying. Yale stopped the car on the side of the road and kissed her wet eyes. "Look, Cindar, we've been over and over this for two weeks. First, I'm not going to work with Pat. I've told you already. I have some other plans. When Pat gets back I'll toss the ball in his lap. He can take it from there. If he wants us as part of his family, it will be on our terms. It will take some reeducation for him. If he doesn't . . . okay. I'm not bragging but there is one thing I am sure I can do thanks to Pat's prodding . . . and that is make money. I need a few weeks to work out some of the ideas I have. If I succeed, Pat will be drawn in by the only thing he respects -- money." Yale smiled at the wonder in Cynthia's eyes.

This was a Yale she had never known. She was both pleased at the new strength she had found in him, and a little frightened. She prayed for his sake that he wasn't just whistling in the dark.

"Just as soon as I'm sure," Yale continued, "I'll tell you the idea I have and how we will work it out together. But not now. What I want to have you understand, Cynthia, is that in the past few years I have grown up. Back in the Midhaven College days I never could have accepted that anyone else had ever touched you, let alone that you were pregnant. That was a war ago . . . plus the loss of you. Now, I know that a deep love between a man and a woman doesn't start in the genital organs. It starts and grows in a man's and a woman's brain -- in their sincere desire to overcome the demands of self . . . to break those barriers so that while there are two bodies, there is only one self. This is marriage. The baby in your womb is as much of a stranger to you as it is to me. That the baby is the result of Mat's seed and yours, and not mine and yours, is not important. You are the one, just as I am the one who could make this baby a genital thing -- devoid of anything else, and we're not going to do it because neither of us believes that the flesh between your legs or Mat's penis, or mine, is the vital factor in love. I'll love this baby, Cindar. Stop worrying so darned much! I don't think you are sullied because you have had intercourse with another man, nor would I if it happened, now after we are married. I don't want to own your body. I want to share life so deeply with you that if for some reason you did have intercourse with someone else, you'd still come back to me."

Cynthia kissed him, unable to repress her tears. Yale, she thought, you are so wonderfully, beautifully idealistic. I'll love you forever. "Come on, let's hurry," she said, "I love you so much, my brain and my breasts and the flesh between my legs . . . altogether want you."

A few days before they were married Yale had gone with Cynthia to see Ralph Weeks. He had remembered Weeks' remark that he wanted to sell his house. Yale told Cynthia that it was just an idea -- the house was probably such a wreck that it wasn't worth considering. Weeks had greeted them at the door. They followed him through the empty rooms. With the exception of the kitchen where Weeks slept on an old brass bed before a tremendous fireplace, the house was empty.

"After Martha died the antique dealers descended on me," Weeks said genially. "You see, Martha inherited this place and every stick of furniture that went with it."

"There must have been some very valuable antiques," Cynthia said. "I wish we had seen them."

Weeks smiled, "Oh, I'm no fool, young lady. Martha wised me up. After she died I moved everything she told me was real good into the barn. I sold the rest to one buyer for three thousand dollars. The stuff out in the barn is kind of a legacy. None of the collectors has seen it yet, but unless Martha was wrong it has enough value to keep me going for a few years."

As they examined the empty rooms both Cynthia and Yale were amazed at the construction of the house. All of the rooms had wide panelled floors built with dowels. Each of the six upstairs rooms had its own fireplace.

"No central heating," Weeks explained. "Had to use the fireplaces to keep warm. There's plenty of wood. More than twenty acres uncut."

"There are no bathrooms either," Cynthia said, looking sadly at Yale.

"Hell's bells, young lady, all the country folk ever used was a chamberpot. Keep it near the bed. Darned handy on a cold night. There's a two-holer out in back. Many a night I sat there with Martha when she was alive."

They followed Weeks back into the kitchen, smiling furtively at each other. A fire built of huge six-foot logs crackled quietly in the fireplace. Weeks proudly showed them his still. "Got a batch fermenting now. Try this." He poured them drinks in pewter mugs. "This last run is damned good. Too bad I can't sell it. Be a rich man in no time. Course, I keep a few friends around here supplied."

Sitting opposite each other, leaning on their elbows on a heavy pine table, Yale and Cynthia sipped their drinks. They grinned shyly at each other. Both of them wondered what the other thought of the house.

"It would be kind of fun," Cynthia said tentatively. "I'm a country girl. But this is an awfully big house."

"You'll have it filled with kids in no time," Weeks said, grinning at Cynthia. Cynthia blushed.

"I think the place has possibilities," Yale said carefully. "But it would take a lot of money to put it in shape. If you lived out here you'd need a handy man."

"I'm pretty handy," Weeks said. He poured himself another drink. "I'm a pretty fair carpenter. Tell you what. If you want to buy this place you can have me along with it. Real reasonable. After all I've got nowhere to go." He saw Yale look at Cynthia questioningly. "I could live out in the barn. Couple of good harness rooms out there. Won't be no trouble at all."

"How much do you want for the place," Yale asked, thinking that it was probably crazy to make a deal after one drink of Weeks' corn liquor.

"Look, I know you're Pat Marratt's son," Weeks said. He stared at Yale. "But I know your old man would tell you this place was a dump. He offered me four thousand for it. Hell, the land is worth that. I wouldn't sell it to him, but I kind of like you and your young lady. You seem different from your old man somehow. If you want it you can have it for four thousand. If you'll let me live in the barn, and give me a couple of meals a day, I'll work for you for nothing." Weeks sighed. "You see, I'm kind of lonely. Be nice to have some people around. I'll keep you in corn liquor, too!"

Yale and Cynthia had exploded with laughter. "I like this house," Cynthia said. "I'll bet it has ghosts. I like the idea of living in a house where men and women have had babies, and families have grown and died. A new house has no roots. Yale, can we afford to buy it? I'll work hard to make it nice."

As they drove through Midhaven to spend their first night in their old house, Cynthia smiled happily. "This is a nice honeymoon. Yale, I mean it. It will be a challenge making the Langley house into our home. I'm so happy you decided to buy it."

"I'm glad you like challenges," Yale said, "because it isn't going to be easy. Right at the moment I have about two hundred dollars. I'm going to have to figure out how we are going to pay Weeks." Cynthia told him she had enough money from Mat's insurance. Yale refused to touch it. "That's your security," he said. "In case I go broke."

He wondered what Cynthia's reaction would be to the plans that were formulating in his mind. If he told her that he was going to try to accumulate several million dollars very rapidly . . . if he told her the purpose he had in mind for the money . . . she might have felt that he was quixotically tilting at windmills.

Agreeing to buy the Langley house was the first step. For Cynthia it was a home; for him, now that he had Cynthia, it was to be a headquarters; a command post in a private war he planned to wage against bigotry and oppression. Cynthia should understand, he thought. She had lived with Mat. Mat and he were cut from the same mold. Cynthia had been persecuted because of her love for him. But Yale sensed that Cynthia would prefer a withdrawal into the womb of her married life rather than fight for ideals. Strangely enough, Anne would have understood the necessity driving him. In a way the two women he had loved reflected the twin parts of his personality. Anne the visionary, the dreamer. Cynthia, the practical one with her feet firmly planted in reality.

He turned into the road that led to the Langley house. "We're here, Cindar. Here's our challenge. I hope we can rise to it."

"Challenge Farm." Cynthia chuckled, "Shall we name it that?"

"Wonderful," Yale said. You have named it better than you know, Cindar, he thought.

Ralph Weeks was waiting at the door. He watched Yale carry Cynthia over the threshold, and smiled as Cynthia held Yale in a long kiss. "I've got a beef stew on the stove. The piano came and the refrigerator. They had the darndest time getting the piano through the door. That's the biggest piano I've ever seen."

"Piano?" Cynthia asked excitedly, her mouth half open in surprise. "Piano?"

"It's a wedding present." Yale grinned. They followed Weeks into the living room. There was nothing else in the room except a grand piano. "I guess this room is as good as any. I can't get used to this house with all the old-fashioned parlors and sitting rooms. We'll make this room a music room. What do you think?"

"Yale Marratt," Cynthia wailed. "A piano! Are you crazy when we haven't even got a bed or a stick of furniture and we are broke?"

Yale was bubbling with happiness. "But we've got a piano -- so what the hell! I have a rule for living. If all you can afford is the choice between a luxury and a necessity then buy the luxury. We can always sleep on the floor but now we'll have music to delight our souls."

"My God," Cynthia said. "You are crazy!"

Yale banged out a two-fingered version of the wedding march. "You bet I am. Crazy like a fox. This is your wedding present, but I'm going to get the enjoyment every time you play for me."

"Don't worry," Weeks said to Cynthia. "You've got a bed with a feather mattress and a canopy. It's Martha's and my wedding present to you. I dug it out of the stuff in the barn. The sheets and quilt are new. I bought them Saturday. It's upstairs." Cynthia started up the stairs.

"Wait a while," Weeks said. "You can see it later. There's a fire going in the kitchen. Come on, let's eat and then you can go to bed. When Martha and I got married we spent the first week in bed." He bellowed with laughter and put his arm around Cynthia. "Martha had two of our kids on that feather mattress. I helped deliver them. Both kids as healthy as you could wish. That mattress will be good luck for you."

As they ate the stew Weeks had prepared, washing it down with corn liquor, Cynthia said, "I like my wedding present very much, Yale. But it is impractical."

"May we never experience another practical day as long as we live," Yale said. Feeling the liquor, he grinned widely at Cynthia and Ralph.

"That's my sentiments, boy," Weeks said, his face flushed. "But you'll never accomplish them with a woman. Women are made to keep men like you and me with their nose to the grindstone. There ain't no solution, you've got to have 'em."

He poured them another glass of liquor from a stone jug. "Never hurt you," he told them in answer to their protests. "Drink your liquor straight. Stay away from that fancy sody water, ruins your stomach." Weeks got up and fished in his overall pocket. "There was a fellow here lookin' for you today. Said his name was Harrigan. I told him you'd be in tonight. He said he couldn't wait. Said he had spent half the day tracing you here. Left this here letter for you." Weeks handed him a crumpled envelope.

Yale opened it. There were two sheets of paper. One was an invoice. "For completion of investigation in the case of Anne Wilson Marratt," Yale read, "$435.00. Due within ten days." Astonished, he looked at the other sheet. It was a report. "Subject: Anne Wilson Marratt, traced to 438 Terrace Road, Altmont, Pennsylvania. Mrs. Marratt, subject of investigation, is living in the home of Mr. & Mrs. John A. Terrence. Interview with Mrs. Terrence revealed that Mrs. Marratt is the mother of a four-month-old son named Yale Richard Marratt. The father was presumed dead by Mrs. Terrence, although no direct statement to this effect was ever made by Mrs. Marratt. Mr. Terrence teaches mathematics at the local high school. Mrs. Marratt has been accepted as a tenth grade English teacher for the fall term. In her talk with Mrs. Marratt interviewer posed as a representative from the school committee. Mrs. Marratt told her that her husband was killed in the Pacific. That it had been a wartime marriage. When asked if she had been in contact with her husband's relatives, Mrs. Marratt seemed startled. Subject stated that Mrs. Terrence was her father's sister. Stated that she preferred to live with her relatives, than with her husband's. Following our instructions no information was given as to true reason of investigation." The report was signed, Joseph Harrigan.

Yale had read the paper at a glance. He folded it and put it in his pocket.

"Yale, what's the matter?" Cynthia asked. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"Nothing," Yale murmured, "nothing. A letter from a fellow I knew in the Army. Surprised to hear from him, that's all."

Listening to Cynthia's delight with the canopied bed, watching her test the feather mattress and squeal with joy, Yale smiled. When he had read the letter he had tried to conceal his complete bewilderment. Why had Anne done this? She had been pregnant. She had even cared enough to name the baby after him. She was using his name. But still she had made no effort to contact him. What had he done to her? God what a predicament! He, Yale Marratt, had two wives!

Cynthia was standing beside him in her slip. "Hey, come on, let's get in bed. Even with that fireplace going it's too cold to walk around."

Yale lifted the slip over her head. She wasn't wearing panties. He unhooked her brassiere, and tumbled into the bed on top of her. She held her arms around him tightly. "Oh, that's much warmer," she sighed, "but your clothes are too rough."

Sunk deep in the mattress, they loved while the wood in the bedroom fireplace crackled and the firelight made grotesque shadows on the walls and ceiling.

Cynthia's face was snuggled into his chest when he said, "Cindar -- the letter I got . . . they've located Anne. She did have a baby. She's living in Philadelphia."

He could feel Cynthia's body become tense. She pulled out of his embrace. She leaned on her elbow and looked at him quietly.

"Well," she said finally, "I guess this is the shortest marriage on record. We can get it annulled tomorrow. You don't mind if I sleep in this bed tonight, do you?" She moved to the far side of the bed away from him. "There's no place else to sleep at Challenge Farm." He could hear her stifling her sobs in the pillow.

Yale pulled her back to him. He kissed her tear-stained cheeks. "Look, Cindar, I love you. Do you understand that?"

"You don't have to say that. She has your baby. You have to love her. What have I got? Another man's child in my belly! Yale, why didn't you just leave me alone? I'd have made a life for myself. O God, I should have known better. Of course, Anne would turn up. I really knew it in my heart. You can't recapture the past. There have been too many years between. Can't you see that? You're not the same, Yale. I know that. I'm not the same person you knew, either. For a few weeks it seemed possible, but I should have known better. If it weren't Anne, it would be your father. Pat would never be happy or just stand by and let you go your way." Cynthia turned away, refusing to look at him. "Your father will approve of Anne."

"Listen," Yale said, angrily, "my life, so far, has been conditioned by people making tragedies where there is no tragedy. If you had come to me and told me what Pat had said to you, I would have told him to go to hell. I would have married you. We would have found a way somehow. I doubt very much if, faced with our marriage, he would have attempted any old-fashioned vengeance on your father. It would have gained him nothing except further alienation of me. Cindar, did you ever stop to think of how most people live life with a suicidal complex, a masochistic drive to hurt themselves? That's what I mean by making tragedies where there is no tragedy. Look at my father. He could make a tragedy out of my love for you simply because you are Jewish. He multiplies tragedy by trying to make me something I'm not. My sister is making tragedy where none need exist. Anne has a tragic complex evidently; or else she would have tried to find me. Everywhere you turn people have twisted their lives out of perspective over some human failing. Some person or persons fail to measure up to some idiotic idea another person has of himself, and boom you have the seeds of self destruction. Look at the world around you. What is the basis of all the hatred but a deluded idea of the importance of 'self'? Look at the murders in the morning papers, the divorces, the man-made scandals. What does it all amount to but a form of ego-mania? A feeling that the I is so damned important that it must justify itself at all cost. Do you know, I'll wager ninety-five percent of the novels written or the plays produced each year would have no basis for existence if it weren't for making tragedies where no tragedy should ever exist. There is only one tragedy in the world, and that is this terrible delusion with the importance of self."

Cynthia had stopped crying. She listened to him in silent wonder. "What has this to do with us?" she asked, thinking Yale hasn't really changed. He could still run wild with words.

"It means simply, I love you! I love Anne. Your solution for that situation is for you or Anne to withdraw in lonely resignation, wishing the winner good luck in the best jolly-old-cricket tradition -- while the unseen audience wipes away the tears; because of course that is the only thing to do. That's the way they want the world to end," Yale said, bitterly, "not with a bang . . . but with a whimper. Man must love the idea of whimpering idiots; there are so many of them!"

"But you prefer to have the world end with a bang!"

"Let's say rather our world can begin with a bang," Yale said. "Here's our situation. Let's assume that for x reason, which I will discover, that Anne has decided that our Hindu marriage didn't mean much anyway. Her tragedy will be to raise a son without his father. Maybe she would have luck and marry someone else -- or just as likely, knowing that she lost her first husband, she won't marry again. Instead, she will try to live out her life without marrying; lonely and frustrated. If I stay with Anne and we have our marriage annulled that will leave you, loving me, but raising Mat's child . . . lonely and frustrated."

"Or I could meet someone else and marry and be happy," Cynthia said sadly.

"I suppose you could," Yale said. "On the other hand, why do you have to take a chance? You love me, don't you?"

Cynthia nodded slowly. "Of course I love you. I guess I can't remember when I didn't love you. But you can't leave Anne either if she loves you. She has your son."

"You really mean I can't love you and Anne, at the same time?"

"You can't love two women!" Cynthia said. Her eyes were large with tears.

Yale grinned. He kissed her salty lips. "If I could love two women, it would solve all our problems, wouldn't it?"

"Oh, I see," Cynthia said sarcastically. "The great Yale Marratt. The man with two wives! What a great idea -- for you! Two women at your beck and call. You didn't happen to become a Hindu when you were in India, did you?"

"Cindar, don't pin labels on me. If I had married you six years ago, we would have lived a monogamous life."

"Or by now, you would have had some other woman on the side, like your brother-in-law whom you think so highly of."

Yale looked at her sadly. "You haven't understood anything I've said, have you? You like the idea of making a tragedy out of our love."

Cynthia grabbed him by the hair. She rolled on top of him.

"Sure, sure, I understand, my friend. But two women can't live under one roof -- not in these United States! You know why, my sweet idealist?" she asked, biting his ear. "Because there isn't room on top of one man for two women!"

5

The first few days for Anne and Cynthia were tip-toe days.

Yale went to Philadelphia the next morning and returned a day later with Anne. Although Cynthia had promised to stay until Yale returned, several times in the long day and night she was tempted to pack her few clothes and leave. Lying alone in the feather bed listening to the night sounds of the old house and the strange quality of time captured, she felt profoundly sad. She wondered what fate had brought her into Yale's life; why, ever since the days at Midhaven College she had become so compulsively involved with him. And now this wild idea. She knew that he had to go to Anne but it was folly for her to stay here and wait. He would try to persuade Anne to come back. Anne would probably refuse, and Yale would be torn between his duty to her and his love for Anne. But if Anne did come back what kind of a woman would she be to agree to such a crazy plan?

"All I want you both to do, Cindar," Yale pleaded, "if I can persuade Anne, is to stay here together in this house for two months." He explained that he would stay in New York. "I've figured it out this way. If the idea is crazy, the first place it will break down will be between you and Anne. If you simply can't adjust to each other, or decide you have no desire to live together with me well . . ." Yale had looked so dejected that Cynthia agreed to wait until he came back.

He promised that no matter what happened he would be back the following day. Lying alone in bed, Cynthia wondered if she were jealous. If he had found Anne, was he right this minute making love to her? She tried to force out of her mind a vivid picture of Yale naked in bed with Anne; stroking her body . . . touching her intimately just as he had touched her last night. Oh God, she thought dejectedly, what kind of a marriage could it ever be sharing the man you loved? It was impossible . . . impossible!

The next day crept by. When three o'clock came she decided that the only thing to do was to leave. She could go back to Boston. She was packing her suitcase when she heard Yale yelling, "Cindar, Cindar, where are you?"

Coming slowly down the stairs, Cynthia was stunned when she saw the tall, graceful girl standing near Yale. This is Anne, she thought, as she shook hands awkwardly. She has sparkling blue-black eyes. She is beautiful.

Anne looked at her, smiling. "You are even more lovely than Yale said you were," she said quietly. "I've seen you in a madonna painting by Bellini. Gosh, the competition frightens me." Anne took off her coat. She looked around the empty room for a place to put it down. Giving up, she dropped it carelessly in a corner. "Yale has told me so much about you that I feel I know you already. Of course, I knew Mat. It was a terrible shock. I liked him very much, Cynthia." Anne paused. She changed the subject. "What a house this is! It looks as if George Washington must have really slept here. Yale wants you and me to live here together for two months. I think it's a crazy idea. Two women can't get along. Yale doesn't know women! I haven't burned my bridges behind me. I can go back to Philadelphia. Ye gods, Yale -- excuse me, Cindar . . . we left the baby in the car." Anne rushed out the door. In a minute she came back with the baby in a laundry basket. The baby opened its eyes, looked at them and started to cry angrily. Anne produced a bottle. "It's still warm; we heated it at Howard Johnson's."

"He looks like you, Yale," Cynthia said, trying to hold back her tears, feeling awkward and useless. Yale grinned at them, embarrassed. He kept his overcoat on.

"Will you stay and give it a try, Cindar?" His voice held the overtones of the unspoken words: Cindar, please, Cindar. "I know maybe it seems crazy," he said. "You both agree: two women can't live under one roof, but . . ."

"Or share one husband," Anne interrupted. She grinned at Cynthia.

Yale blushed. "Well, I'm not an old-time Mormon, or a Hindu, as Cindar seems to think. The sex aspects don't seem impossible to me. The important thing is whether you and Anne could adjust temperamentally to each other. Strangely, I think you are both very much alike. I read somewhere that a man tends to love the same type of woman over and over again."

"If he gets the chance," Cynthia said. She was beginning to find the situation amusing.

"Touché, Yale!" Anne said, laughing at him. "Your trouble is that your knowledge is all out of books. Cynthia and I will give you something really practical to think about. After a few weeks together you probably won't want either of us."

Because there was no choice, Anne and Cynthia slept in Martha Weeks' feather-bed. Before he left, Yale located Ralph Weeks in the barn. He introduced him to Anne. Weeks made no comment, but later, when Yale was gone he walked into the kitchen with an old-fashioned rocker crib. He handed it to Anne. "This is for the kid. You can't keep him in a laundry basket, Mrs. Marratt." Both Anne and Cynthia looked at him astonished.

Weeks chuckled happily. "Don't be alarmed: I know you're both Mrs. Marratt. When that fellow Harrigan was here I just asked him what he was doing for Yale. He said that he was looking for Yale Marratt's wife. Since I knew Yale had just took himself a wife, I figured doggone if the lad ain't got himself two wenches." He continued, his unshaved face creased in a wide grin. "But it won't pass beyond me. Damned if I don't think it's the best thing to happen at Langley Farm since Ezekiel Langley built it. Dad-bust-it, it sure would have set the old geezer's eyes a-poppin'." They watched astonished as Weeks poured them a drink of corn liquor. He clicked glasses with them. "Here's to two of the prettiest wenches I ever saw. That young Marratt has good taste."

Undressing later by a bulb that dangled from an open socket in the center of the bedroom ceiling, Anne and Cynthia turned away from each other. They hastily pulled nightgowns over themselves. "What do you think of Weeks?" Cynthia asked her.

"Isn't he a character?" Anne said. "Boy, I tell you that old man still feels his oats. Yale says he has agreed to work for nothing, if we feed him. We'll have to work him to death to keep him out of our hair."

Cynthia grinned. She knew that she was beginning to like Anne. She was attracted by her easy lack of concern. "If Weeks mentions this anywhere around Midhaven, Yale will have no further worry. The top will blow off."

"He won't," Anne promised. "We'll take him apart tomorrow and put him back together right on that score. I've got to pee-pee. Don't tell me you have to walk out back to that awful contraption."

Laughing, Cynthia pointed at a chamberpot in the corner. "Don't watch me!" Anne warned, squatting over it. "I'll never go if you do."

They were in bed about an hour when the baby awoke crying. Cynthia knew that both of them had been lying awake, trying not to move or to disturb each other. Somehow words wouldn't come. Silently, they had considered each other. It wasn't a question of liking each other. Anne felt that Cynthia was quiet . . . charming. Cynthia had found Anne gay . . . unaffected. They both knew that somehow in the coming days they would have to bare their innermost feelings to each other about every facet of their life and their love for Yale. If it was going to work it had to be, in a real sense, a marriage for Cynthia and Anne. A marriage in many. ways so intimate, so against normal human impulses of jealousy and fear, that it was frightening to contemplate.

"You know," Anne whispered, "I stopped nursing him a week ago. The little devil has a tooth. I still can't get used to this bottle business."

Cynthia followed her into the kitchen. Huddled in coats worn over their nightgowns, they waited, shivering, for the water to boil on the coal stove.

"I'm not much help, but I suppose I might as well learn," Cynthia said, trying to fill the silence of the kitchen.

"Oh, there's nothing to it," Anne said, "just getting used to routine. When is yours due?" Cynthia told her that it would be sometime in June.

While Anne impatiently tested the water, murmuring that this was really primitive, Cynthia hummed a tuneless song.

"How come the piano, and no other furniture?" Anne asked.

"That's Yale's idea," Cynthia said nervously. "It was a wedding present." When she said it she realized that Anne had probably received no wedding present in India. Cynthia was embarrassed.

"Good heavens!" Anne said, choking with laughter, "if that isn't typically Yale Marratt to buy a piano when there's nothing but a hundred-year-old stove in the house. You know, I suspect that he hasn't any real reason for spending two months in New York. He was so darned embarrassed with the idea of two wives that he just lit out."

"And he's hoping that if he leaves us alone," Cynthia agreed, "we'll solve the problem for him of how we could all live together." She wanted to ask Anne if she thought it could be solved, but she was afraid. It seemed impossible to her. Even the problem of money would plague them. Yale admitted he had none. He certainly couldn't ask Pat's help. Pat wouldn't hire a man with two wives . . . and one Jewish. It was so silly as to be almost ridiculous.

Feeling her way along the dark corridor and stairway, Anne held the warm bottle in her hand. "We've got to get to work tomorrow and make this place livable. You must be awfully easygoing to let Yale talk you into buying a place like this."

"You're living here, too!" Cynthia said sarcastically. How could Anne know how much Langley Farm meant to her already? "Yale is a convincing talker."

"I know it," Anne said, giggling as they fumbled for the light cord. "I'm just as simple as you are. Yale was smart. He found two simple women. If he had got mixed up with some of the sophisticated dames I've known, he'd have been told off . . . but good. Wasn't he funny? He wouldn't even take off his overcoat. He was so anxious to get to New York. Like a bad kid who has created a real mess and can't wait to beat it. I could have hugged him."

Cynthia smiled. "I could have too." She sighed. "And that's the problem . . . What do we do when we both want to hug him at the same time? We will be afraid because one of us might feel that the other doesn't feel the same way, and the one hugging him would make the other jealous. Oh, gosh, Anne, it could be awfully complicated."

"If we felt that way," Anne said thoughtfully, "Yale would get less attention from two women than one." She put the baby on the bed, and gave him his bottle. "We might as well start by being frank. I can't sleep with this nightgown on. I haven't worn any night clothes to bed since I was ten."

She pulled her nightgown over her head, wondering if Cynthia would follow suit. Blushing a little, Cynthia took her nightgown off. "I never wore one until Mat and I were married. Funny . . . unconventional as Mat was in some ways, he always wore pajamas. I think he was embarrassed because he was so thin."

"Yale used to go around nude in India," Anne said, shivering a little as she snuggled under the bedclothes. "Said he got the idea from a woman named Sarah Cohen. I remember I was jealous when he said it. I wanted to ask him who Sarah Cohen was but I was afraid she might turn out to be an old girl friend." She looked at Cynthia's body with interest. "You have lovely breasts."

Cynthia smiled. "Yale has good taste. You have the kind of shape men ogle at."

Anne repositioned the bottle in the baby's mouth. "It's funny," she said, "that it is only among humans that the shape of the female body is the source of sexual stimulation. Female birds and female animals are usually very drab. The male human body really has possibilities of being very much more beautiful than the female body."

"You mean if it was developed like those muscle-man pictures?"

"Ugh. No thanks," Anne said, getting out of bed. She put the baby in the crib. "I just couldn't see snuggling with a man built like that. I just mean a clean, male, youthful body."

"Like Yale's?" Cynthia asked, a tinge of jealousy in her voice.

Anne looked at her seriously. "Yes, like Yale's. Cynthia, do you think it would be possible for either of us to share Yale's love? Or would we just spend all our time trying to prove to him that one of us was better or loved him more than the other?" She pulled the light cord and the room was dark.

For a long time Cynthia didn't answer. Then she said, "Jealousy is a funny thing. Just a minute ago you mentioned that Yale used to go around nude in India. Even before you finished I felt a second of jealousy that you must know Yale better than I. I could see a picture of Yale naked, and you looking at him . . . as he came to you, excited. I was jealous. Then you mentioned Sarah Cohen and the jealousy vanished. Sarah is a lovely plump housewife with three children. Maybe more, now." Cynthia chuckled. "She would mother Yale to death but never be interested in him sexually."

"But if I hadn't mentioned Sarah Cohen," Anne said, "you would have just been jealous without the idea to compensate that you knew something about Yale that I didn't."

Cynthia knew Anne was right. "I guess so, Anne. You know, the only way you and I could prevent being jealous of each other and having the jealousy become cancerous, would be to talk it out with each other each time it happened as unemotionally as possible. We would have to recognize when we were motivated by jealousy and admit it. A pretty tall order! And the discussion would have to be between us and not for Yale's ears in most cases."

What am I saying, Cynthia wondered? Am I giving tacit agreement to the idea of all of us living together? She had to admit that she enjoyed Anne's perceptive mind and uninhibited friendliness. But no! It was impossible. Not in the United States. People didn't do such things.

"I'd agree to that, Cynthia," Anne said, "but no matter how you slice it we would have to be pretty remarkable women."

Anne wanted to say just how do you develop a ménage à trois, on a sexual basis, so the lady in bed alone on a particular night doesn't get jealous. How could she say to Cynthia or Cynthia say to her, "I was jealous last night when you were sleeping . . . hell, why use the euphemism, she thought . . . having intercourse with Yale. She said aloud, "Oh, boy, Yale doesn't know what he is letting himself in for."

Cynthia held her breath and whispered, "I was jealous of you last night. I couldn't help thinking of you and Yale together."

Anne squeezed her hand. "Yale spent the night at a motel. He picked me up this morning. I told him I wouldn't sleep with him again until we had all come to a decision.

"Oh, gosh. . . ." Cynthia said. She suddenly realized that she felt genuinely sorry. How could she tell Anne? Yale should have stayed with Anne, she thought. Why should I have been jealous? It was suddenly apparent to Cynthia that being jealous of some unknown girl named Anne was possible. It was more difficult to be jealous of someone you really knew and, she thought, liked.

"You know," Anne said, "I've been wondering why you haven't asked me why I never tried to find Yale? Why I never wrote him?"

"You've explained to Yale, already. I guessed that eventually either you or Yale would tell me."

Anne was silent. Cynthia listened to her slow breathing. Finally, she said quietly, "I guess I don't really know my-self. You knew I was married before I knew Yale?"

In the darkness, tears in the corner of her eyes, Anne told her about Ricky. How they had grown up together. How she had always planned to marry him. Then the few wonderful months of married life they had before he went into the Army.

"He was a very gentle person, Cynthia. His drives were different from most men. He would have been happy in a life of discovery and learning. One day he would have made a great teacher. You know the kind of teacher like William Lyon Phelps. The kind of person that would have had all the kids taking his courses just so they could enjoy the wonderful breadth of the man's thinking."

Anne paused. Her voice trailed off, "If he had lived. . . ." She was silent again and Cynthia could feel her loneliness. "Well," she continued, "I guess I thought life was over. No man could measure up to Ricky. Funny, if there's some power over the lives of humans, I guess it wanted to prove me wrong. I met Yale. You know something, Cynthia, if I hadn't known Mat Chilling, I wouldn't have come here today . . . no matter what Yale said. You see, I figured that if you married Mat and loved him . . . and loved Yale and married him, then somehow or other we were sisters in our choice of men."

Anne told her about Mat and their final conversation in India and how she had kissed Mat. "Your first love, Yale, was a dreamer; you married Mat, a militant dreamer. I was married to Ricky, an impractical dreamer. We both married Yale. Of course you may not feel that our Hindu marriage amounts to much. . . ." Anne's voice was sad.

"Some people feel being married by a justice of the peace doesn't amount to much," Cynthia said, feeling strangely happy, enjoying the discussion with Anne. "Who is this man we married, now?"

"Yale has changed, hasn't be?" Anne said, startled. "He was always gentle. But in just a year he has become so darned positive. Almost reckless. In India he didn't seem to know where he was going. I'm not sure what he's planning, but he gives me a feeling of dead certainty . . . as if nothing is going to stop him." She sighed. "Without his admitting it in so many words, I'm convinced that he is egotistic enough to think that we will both want him and stay with him."

"I agree. But you haven't told me why you didn't write Yale in China, or try to locate him when you got home."

Anne leaned on her elbow, looking at the shadow that was Cynthia's face. "For nearly five months last year, I saw Yale almost every day. We lived together as secretly as you can on an Army base. Yale's Indian bearer, Chatterji, built us a basha, a bamboo house, in his village. We were married by a Hindu priest named Sundari. I don't think the ceremony was so important to Yale. He just felt that it gave me something to cling to. Something to make it less like an Army shack-up affair. But gradually I came to feel that somehow in me he was trying to find you, Cynthia."

Anne stopped talking. She tried to recall the days in India with Yale. "It wasn't as if he ever told me much about you. Just once. One entire evening, while we sat drinking hot orange soda and gin, he told me about your college days in detail. I felt that night when he took me in his arms that he thought he was with you. Nothing obvious, just a feeling. After that every once in a while I would have the same feeling. Then I found I was pregnant." Anne told her about the wedding and Colonel Trafford. "O, God, Cynthia, I don't know what happened. I just went to pieces. Yale was gone. I didn't know where. Then Colonel Trafford had me transferred. I knew in the bright light of day that Yale loved me, but at night I'd get crazy ideas. Maybe Yale thought I was on the make. I asked him about you once and he said of course he loved you. He implied that he would always love you. It made me feel funny somehow. I didn't want to bind him to me just because I was pregnant. Then I wondered whether he had really grown up. He seemed pursued by a demon. I knew he had to prove something to his father. Still has to prove it, I guess. Do you know Pat, Cynthia?"

Again Anne shied away from revealing to Cynthia that she was sure that Yale loved Cynthia more than he would ever love her. In India, she had come to believe that Yale had given his love completely once, and the shadow of Cynthia would remain forever between them. It never occurred to Anne that Yale felt he was, in a sense, an inadequate substitute for her husband, Ricky.

"I know Pat," Cynthia told her. "I think you are right that Yale is trying to prove something to him. Whatever he proves, he won't do it in a way that will make Pat happy. All his life Pat has tried to own Yale. Some day he will have to realize the impossibility of it. They really are two sides of the same coin. It frightens me, Anne. I think Pat would destroy himself to make Yale heel to his ideas."

Cynthia told her about the day Pat had ordered her to come to his office. Anne listened with a feeling of horror, deep sympathy for Cynthia flooding through her. Vividly she realized Cynthia's fears and her courage, and beneath it all Cynthia's love for Yale.

"You must know, Anne, I'm Jewish. Oh, I'm not an orthodox person, but I do have a love for our traditions. No Jew can ever escape . . . ever really wants to escape his heritage. You know, Anne . . . lying here with you in bed, I can't help but wonder how you feel. So many people in the world have such a deep hatred of the Jews. It's strange . . . but if the three of us managed to live together successfully, and we were very happy among ourselves . . . nevertheless some day . . . someone like Pat would find that we were living together, defying the mores and morals of our society. Then, you can be sure . . . the fact that I am Jewish would inevitably be excoriated. In some subtle way people would be told that only the Jews would dare to set up a new pattern of marriage. That the Jews were trying to destroy a monogamous society. Honestly, Anne, people would even try to prove you were Jewish!"

Anne shook her head angrily. "Cindar, may I call you by Yale's name . . . ? I would never have married Ricky or Yale if I could hate a person because of his religion. If we stay together, and I'm beginning to hope we do, then when Yale Richard is thirteen, we'll have a Bar Mitzvah for him! By that time, because I'm curious . . . because I think you have the same god-given curiosity as I we will have blended the Judaist and Christian traditions so thoroughly no one will be able to tell in this family who is Christian, who is Jew -- or Hindu or Mohammedan for that matter."

Cynthia laughed. "You know something? I think we're talking right through the night. Look, the sky is getting lighter."

"It's good to talk. Words are so incomplete. We will have to use trillions of them in our lives to stay close to each other and convey our real feelings. I want to tell you about yesterday."

Anne explained that when she had left the Red Cross, she had visited with her father's sister. "She's a very jolly person. She and her husband have a little suburban house. No children. John, her husband, teaches math at the high school. Of course, she saw at once that I was pregnant. I told her that my husband was missing. You don't have to tell Hazel much. She immediately started to talk about war widows and how dreadful it was to be alone. It was a welcome nest she offered. I had the baby at the local hospital. They have been wonderful. John found an opening at the high school in the English department this fall. I have a certificate to teach English, or sociology . . . So I have spent the days studying. Up until yesterday it seemed the best way. I felt I would never marry again. I wanted too much from a husband, a Yale or a Ricky combined. Yesterday, I went shopping for Hazel. When I got back Yale was in the living room bouncing the baby on his knees. Hazel was beside herself with joy. I nearly sank to the floor. I was trembling so much that I had to excuse myself and run to the bathroom

"I know how you felt," Cynthia interrupted; "like the impossible suddenly became possible, and it was so frightening you couldn't believe it."

Anne nodded. "He said he wanted to talk to me alone. Hazel followed us out to his car as happy as a cupid. We drove to a little roadhouse, and we talked and drank manhattans."

"Yale's favorite drink for silent tongues," Cynthia murmured sleepily.

"Honestly, Cindar, we talked steadily from two to five o'clock. By that time we had to eat in order to sober up. We stayed in that booth until seven-thirty. When he told me about you I wished him luck. He had nothing to worry about. Our marriage wasn't a Christian marriage. It didn't mean a thing in the United States. I would bring the baby up. He needn't worry himself. He kept begging me to meet you. Finally, somewhere in the afternoon I agreed. Maybe it was the fifth manhattan. Maybe he would have persuaded me anyway. He had some fantastic arguments. He felt that a marriage such as the three of us would be attempting would be equivalent to the world . . . a microcosm. He quoted Pascal to me . . . you remember, Cynthia, where Pascal in Les Pens&eactue;es discusses the infinitely great and the infinitely small . . . Yale quoted it all to me word for word in French, and then ended with toute notre dignité consiste donc en la pensée .

"In our little world we would discover the ultimate of how people could live together harmoniously. The conflicts we would naturally have would have a wider pattern of meaning for man as a whole.

"Cindar, Yale is a super salesman. He is so darned sincere when he talks to you, so convinced that you must feel the way he does, that you are caught before you know it. Anyway, I told him I'd have to think it over. I made him take me back to the Terrences'. In the morning he returned. I asked Hazel if she would help me by not asking any questions, that I might want to come back. Poor Hazel, she was bewildered. You could see the questions leaping out of her eyes. I had found my husband. Why would I ever want to come back? . . . Cindar, are you still awake?"

"Mmm, but I am sleepy," Cynthia said. She touched Anne's shoulder. "Don't go back, I like you, Anne.

When Cynthia awoke the room was filled with sunshine. Anne was standing over the bed, already dressed. "Gee, I hated to wake you, Cindar. I had to get up with the baby. Come on, sleepy-head, our married life has begun. The house is bustling with men from the telephone company. They are stringing a line in from the highway. One must be a local superintendent. He told me that Yale was the most insistent person he had ever encountered in his life." Anne grinned. "A telephone and an extension phone must be installed today. Yale must have given them a bad time. The man thinks it's a matter of life and death or something. Yale told them that he was negotiating an important financial deal and he must be in constant contact with his home while in New York. Come on, we've got to decide where to put the phones."

Cynthia dressed hurriedly. "What are these men going to think, when they see two of us?" she asked nervously.

"Stop fretting," Anne laughed. "We aren't going to introduce ourselves!"

6

Yale arrived in New York Tuesday night and took a room at the Hotel New Yorker. Before going to bed he located Sam Higgins by telephone. Sam lived on Long Island. While Yale talked with him he could hear the sounds of a party. "The place is jumping, Yale," Sam said, "My wife is throwing one of her cocktail parties. Why don't you come out?"

Yale refused. He made an appointment to see Sam in the morning. Yale had a quick picture of the way Sam probably lived. A wealthy suburban home, probably brick, flanked with large lawns and decorated with a pretty but somewhat calculating wife. He knew Sam had married into a wealthy family. Coupled with his father's wealth, it would mean a marriage without denial. Sam had been married the summer after graduation from Harvard Business School and somehow had managed to stay out of the Army. He had now experienced five years of uninterrupted connubial arrangements. If he knew Sam and the world he travelled in, a minor boredom had set in. At this moment, Sam was probably holding a Scotch with one hand and the fanny of somebody else's wife with the other. His wife would accept this as natural so long as someone else's husband was available to pat her fanny with a suggestive gleam in his eyes and the interest to back it up.

Once, Yale reflected, he would have been shocked by the casual sexual contacts of the middle-to-wealthy class. He had witnessed plenty of them in his own home and at the Midhaven Country Club. He didn't doubt that Pat had wandered into more than one escapade on his many business trips, and he guessed that Liz had stumbled into at least one affair. with Frank Middleton. For all he knew Liz might still be quite involved with Middleton.

But now instead of being shocked he was only sadly amused. At Harvard, and even more in the army years, he had come to wonder what essential element was missing in the average marriage. He discussed it once with Mat Chilling in India. He remembered Mat's surprise when he insisted that whether Mat knew it or not the ideas embodied in "Seek the True Love" pointed to a more flexible marriage system. He told Mat that, logically, an abandonment of the taboos that society had used to regulate monogamous marriage would be a freer exchange of marriage partners on the basis of established custom. He quoted Bertrand Russell's views to Mat.

"I think," he remembered telling Mat, "that modern suburban marriage is a deadly form of poison. A man and woman have to be practically vegetables to expect happiness as they live out their narrow lives in what amounts to little more than solitary confinement. Years ago people lived in bigger homes, surrounded by grandparents and aunts and uncles. Marriage was based on a community of larger interests. Today, two people marry and by the time they are middle-aged they live a life circumscribed by the walls of a small house and the only slightly larger world of the man who paces wearily back and forth to a dull, uncreative job. Over it all hangs the religious threat and man-made taboos on sex. It's a life you wouldn't prescribe for the already insane.

Mat had smiled. "Maybe you both overstate the particular problem and understate the wider problem, Yale. I feel the problems that bother you are simply the byproduct of a larger problem; the vast increase in the populations of the world, and the frightening slowness of educating this new mass. Established theological religions, or, even worse, state and nationalistic religions, capture these groping minds at an early age and dogmatize the masses. The problem varies from country to country depending on the extent of industrialism. Here in India the religious domination will give way to a state domination. Nevertheless, the sexual and teleological life of the individual Hindu or Moslem has an affinity with the plight of the American suburban marriage that worries you. I see the basic affinity to be the emotional and intellectual immaturity of millions upon millions of people. The leaders some day will find that a kind of Gresham's law has occurred among the populations of the world. The governing heads of the world will come, by their very predominance, from these masses. At a time when the world will need men that are educated with a wide cultural-historical perspective, we will have leaders whose very narrowness of outlook will presage a return to tribal, non-individualistic living."

Yale often thought about the long discussions with Mat. Lying on his hotel bed, glad that had he refused to go out to Sam's house and spend the evening drinking, he remembered Cynthia's mentioning that Mat had written a book. He must get hold of the manuscript. He wondered what Mat's reaction would be to his multiple marriage. Would he have approved? Probably not . . . so far as Cynthia was concerned. Probably not in any event. Mat would have attributed it to the same immaturity he inveighed against. Or could Mat really disapprove? Wasn't he actually living out the thesis Mat had implied in his "Seek the True Love" ideas? By refusing to accede to social taboos, Cynthia, Anne, and he could prove the essential humanity of man. The accepted solution . . . the solution that society would condone . . . would be for him to divorce either Anne or Cynthia. Perhaps, he thought, it was the accepted solution because it was the easier one. It was simpler in the last analysis for man to create unhappiness than to control his emotions in a search for happiness. Divorce, war, murder, bigotry, and hatred of all kinds were the easiest solutions for the immature. They simply required quick emotional response, no weighing of alternatives. Yale fell asleep, fervently hoping that Anne and Cynthia wouldn't want to take the simple way out.

Carrying his travelling bag filled with rupees, Yale was in Sam Higgins' office at nine-thirty. The automatic elevator opened into an outer office presided over by an efficient looking receptionist. Sitting behind an expensive mahogany desk, she looked up at Yale, puzzled when he asked for Sam Higgins. "Which Mr. Higgins do you wish to see, Senior or Junior?"

Yale explained that he had an appointment with the young Mr. Higgins. The girl flipped a switch on her intercom. Yale heard Sam's voice. "Send him in.

Following the receptionist's directions, Yale pushed open the plate glass doors neatly lettered in gold with the wording "Samuel Higgins, Inc., Investments." Threading his way through the desks in the outer offices, Yale noticed the bustling activity. He estimated that Higgins must employ several hundred people. The place looked prosperous.

When Yale walked into Sam's private office, Sam was talking on the telephone. He waved joyfully at Yale and indicated a chair near his desk. He was the same Sam, Yale thought, in a slightly beefier version. The deep red tan that Sam had acquired, probably on a Florida vacation, couldn't hide the evidences of over indulgence in food and alcohol.

"Jesus, fella, you're looking good! What have you been doing since H.B.S.?" Sam asked. He hung up the phone and grabbed Yale's hand. Yale wondered if Sam's patronizing way of referring to him as "fella" had started in New York. Sam had the self-assured geniality of the rising young executive. His manner irritated Yale a little, partially because Yale knew that he was too intense ever to develop such suavity. He supposed that Sam's mannerisms proclaimed his belonging to the brotherhood of successful men who by their pre-eminence could afford this off-hand manner with lesser men. Midhaven had its similar coterie; men like Jim Latham and Bert Walsh. Could it be an Ivy League trademark?

Yale brought Sam up to date. The army, India, China, and back home. He omitted any reference to Anne or Cynthia.

"You're lucky, fella," Sam said. "I wish I could have had a hiatus from business for a few years. I couldn't get in the service. Punctured ear drum. Of course, it had its compensations for a while. More stray stuff around than one man could handle. How were those Oriental babes?" Sam asked the old cliché about whether you had to do it sideways.

Yale humored him. For a month or two he was going to need Sam. He listened as he discussed women in general -- laughed as he recalled his own sexual escapades at Harvard.

"Dammit, Yale, those were the days. No problems except whether they would flunk you out. You didn't even have that one, did you? Boy, I never could figure you out. Well, I got myself married a couple of months after graduation. A beautiful woman, my wife. Clara." Sam sighed. "I don't know what it is, but after a few years of marriage you get a hankering for new territory. Did you see that office out there full of young nineteen- and twenty-year olds? They shake their pert little asses at you all day. It's enough to drive you off your rocker. Clara does it with half her mind. The other half is on some social function or dress fitting or whether she is gaining too much weight. Never thought it would happen but I've got a little dish uptown. An expensive arrangement but, fella, the bedwork has a fascinating variety. Amazing the difference when a girl does it for a living."

Yale finally brought Sam around to the purpose of his call. Sam watched Yale open his travelling bag. He examined the package of rupees that Yale tossed at him and whistled in surprise as he flicked them.

"Brand new money! What is it, stage stuff? Or did you rob a bank in India?"

Yale grinned. He told Sam briefly how he had speculated in foreign exchange. "The problem now is conversion. I couldn't do it in India. It was too ticklish. Army regulations governing finance offices are pretty strict. I couldn't convert in Midhaven. No bank there would handle it without a lot of commotion. The name Marratt is too well known. Actually, I wouldn't care to walk into any bank with the problem. There's a question of taxes. The transaction would be reported."

"Fella, you've changed from the Yale Marratt I knew," Sam said approvingly. "You always used to be such a moralistic bastard. Never thought you would soil your hands with a grimy business deal. Now, you are even considering gypping Uncle Sam of his share. Brother, you have changed!"

Yale shrugged. There was no need to argue ends and means with Sam. He had been over that sufficiently with himself. In the final analysis, no matter how you made money, it was at someone's expense. It would be a fine economic question to determine who had suffered by his fortunate speculations.

Sam picked up a phone and dialed a number. "How much is the rupee selling for today?" Yale heard him ask.

"Thirty-three and one third cents on the dollar," Yale said.

"Check," Sam said hanging up. "How many have you got?"

"One million," Yale said.

"Hmmm . . ." Sam sat behind his desk, twisting his ear, staring at Yale.

"That's three hundred and thirty-three thousand bucks. Nice going. How much did you start with?"

"About twenty thousand. My own money. I speculated at Harvard a little."

"I remember. You and that loony Agatha Latham. She is still at it. No one knows how many millions she's got." Sam looked at Yale carefully. Yale could almost hear the wheels turning as Sam figured where he could cut in. "You aren't going to convert it even, you know," Sam said.

"I suppose not. I want immediate dollars. No waiting."

"Would you settle for three hundred thousand?" Sam asked, unable to conceal the cupidity in his expression.

Yale didn't answer immediately. "Look," Sam said hurriedly, "it's no skin off my ass. Take it somewhere else if you want. We don't deal in foreign exchange, anyway."

"What's your deal?" Yale asked. No matter whom he dealt with someone would get a cut.

Sam smiled. It didn't pay to be too eager, he thought. "I figure I can make a fast twenty thousand bucks. The other ten thousand will have to be spread around. It won't be simple. I can't buy it personally. My personal dough is tied up. I'll have to handle it through the company. We have a correspondent in Bombay. It will take a week or longer."

"Okay," Yale said, "with a couple of conditions. I want two predated bank checks. One for two hundred and fifty thousand made out to Challenge, Inc. The other for fifty thousand made out to me. You can date them for ten days from today. That'll give you a chance to clear the stuff before I deposit. The other condition is that I want access to all your general files and a private cubbyhole to work in. I plan to do some investing and I'm a little rusty on current situations."

"On investments, fella, you've come to the right place." Sam beamed. "But if you'll pardon my asking . . . what the hell is Challenge, Inc.?"

"I'll pardon your natural inquisitiveness, dear Samuel!" Yale mocked. "All I can tell you is that it is a foundation which as yet doesn't legally exist. You are going to give me the name of your best company lawyer. When Challenge, Inc. becomes a legal entity I am going to work for it as its financial advisor. That's all I want to say about it now."

"A tax dodge, huh," Sam said. He punched his intercom. "Harry," he said into it, "Come in here." A serious, spectacled man in his late forties walked into the office. "Harry Hawkes, meet Yale Marratt. Harry is our controller and head accountant. Harry . . ." Sam said affably, "with your cooperation . . . and a few weeks' time . . . you are going to be a few thousand dollars richer. . . ."

Harry grasped the plan quickly. He examined the rupees. "They're not counterfeit, are they?"

Sam locked the door of his office. "Don't worry, Harry, we'll check that. Right now, you and I have got to count very accurately what looks like ten thousand, one hundred rupee notes. Then you've got to juggle our records a little to cover a couple of bank checks."

Yale waited until seven o'clock that night before he placed a call to Midhaven. Despite the convincing argument he had given the telephone company manager he was very doubtful whether they would have made any real effort to put the phones in today. He was surprised when the long distance operator gave him the number and then rang it for him.

Cynthia answered. Her voice was a cautious hello as if she were uncertain as to the efficacy of the new-fangled instrument.

"What's the matter?" Yale demanded. "You sound as if the F.B.I. might be after you."

"Oh, it's you, Yale," Cynthia breathed her relief into the phone. He heard her call Anne and then heard Anne's "Hi" as she picked up the extension.

"Your mother was here today!" Cynthia said. "Next thing, I figured your father would be on the telephone. I was scared to answer."

"What did you say to her?" Yale asked. He wondered why Liz had come back from Florida so soon.

"We didn't see her," Anne said. "We were in Midhaven shopping. Listen, you . . . I didn't realize how far out in the sticks we are. It took us an hour by bus. You're going to have to get us a car."

"That's right," Cynthia agreed. "I don't know why you need your car in New York, Yale. I'll bet it's in some garage right now. What about money? The two hundred dollars you gave me isn't going to last forever."

Yale heard Anne laughing. "Buying clothes for two women is going to keep you broke, darling. Cynthia and I have decided we're destitute."

"We're teasing you, Yale." Cynthia giggled. "Seriously, we could use the car."

"What about Liz?" Yale asked. "If you weren't there, how did you know she came out? I can't figure how she even knew where we were?"

"Barbara probably told her," Cynthia said. "Do you know what Ralph Weeks asked her? He asked her which Mrs. Marratt did she want? How do you like that?"

Yale groaned. "What did Liz say?"

"We don't know," Anne said. "But we've set Weeks straight. When we finished he felt so unhappy he had to have a drink, so we had a few with him. Now he's out in the barn plastered. Cindar and I are staggering. All I can tell you, Yale Marratt, is that you better keep your father away from here. If he shows up here we will take him apart. Won't we, Cindar?"

Yale heard Cindar say, "Yup." He could tell the way she said it that she was feeling pretty high. "Listen, you two. Leave Weeks' corn liquor alone! I'll call Pat now. Do you love me?"

"Which one of us?" Anne asked sweetly.

"Both of you."

"We'll think about it," Cynthia said. Yale heard her warm laughter. He hung up the phone, smiling. Obviously, he was going to be the target in every conversation with Anne and Cynthia. Two women against one man. They would end up victorious every time. At least they sounded happy.

He called the operator again and put a call through to Pat's house. It was seven-thirty. Pat would be just about through with dinner. Why had Pat and Liz come back from Florida so soon? It could be any one of three things -- himself, Barbara, or something wrong at the plant. Liz answered. She recognized his voice.

"Yale, where are you? You get right over here! Pat is furious with you. Why couldn't you have waited to get married until we got home? Sometimes, I really don't know what you young people are thinking of. You . . . bringing a strange woman in here . . . living with her right in this house while your father and I are away. Barbara getting a divorce. Both Pat and I have been worried to death where you are. Then, Pat finding out yesterday that you bought that awful Langley place. You come over here right now. Alone! You better not bring that girl until you've talked with Pat."

"Liz, catch your breath," Yale said. "I'm not in Midhaven. I'm in New York. I'm not about to come right over. I just called you to find out why you went over to the Langley house."

"I went over to talk with this Cynthia of yours. Barbara says she's pregnant by another man. If she had any sense of decency at all she would agree to an annullment. I know you are sympathetic, Yale. But that's no reason to marry the girl. Imagine . . . saddled with another man's son. Have you gone completely crazy? What do you think people will say here in Midhaven? And that filthy old man you have living there. Pat fired him years ago because he's such a lush. He was so drunk when I asked him where your wife was, he asked me which one. . . ."

That's a break, Yale thought. One thing at a time. Wait until the whole story leaks out, he thought. He heard the extension phone click. Pat's voice thundered on the line.

"For Christ's sake, Yale, I thought that after three years in the Army you would have acquired a little judgment! Get over here. Now! I want to talk with you!"

Yale tried to control the anger in his voice. "Listen, Pat. I'm calling you from New York, and the reason I am calling you is to tell you once and for all that you are through planning my life. I'm also telling you to leave my wife alone. You just about destroyed her once. If you ever try anything like that again it will be the sorriest day of your life!" Yale softened the harsh tone of his voice, and said: "The next time I come to your house, Pat, it will be because you and Liz have invited Cynthia and me together. When that happens I expect you'll behave yourself and regardless of your feelings will act like a gentleman."

He heard Pat's gasp of fury. "My young friend, no one talks to me like that! You can go straight to hell! Try earning your own money! Don't ever come near me unless you're ready to apologize." Liz tried to interrupt him. "Shut up, Liz! I mean it! I've put up with that ungrateful brat altogether too long."

Yale heard the phone being slammed down. Slowly, he returned his phone to the cradle. So that's that, he thought wearily. When he had placed the call he had hoped to talk with Pat quietly. To let him down gently when he told him that he wasn't going to work for the Marratt Corporation. Somehow Yale had hoped Pat could see his need to develop on his own. The same need that Pat must have had when he started the business. Why did some men hope for immortality through their sons?

Yale lay on the bed despondent. What was he trying to do, anyway, he wondered? If he persisted in what Pat would only label as "idealistic nonsense," then this was only the beginning of the clashes between them. You either travelled with the majority or you would be trampled by it. Yale wondered whether basically he was emotionally able to live a life based on challenging the fundamental concepts that men lived by. It would mean constant rebuff, plus an ability to overcome the dark depression that seized him when he was rebuffed. But there was no turning back. Something in him, extraneous to any fearful ideas he might entertain, or any rationalization he might evoke for stopping, compelled him to go on. He only hoped that Anne and Cynthia had, or could acquire, his own strong sense of mission. If they didn't no, why think about it . . . If you considered negatives you gave them reality. The fact that Anne and Cynthia were even considering living with him showed their lack of fear.

By Friday afternoon Yale had obtained the first draft on the charter for Challenge, Inc. He read it over in the director's room of Higgins Investments. He studied, carefully, the endless legal clauses. When Sam introduced him to one of the firm's lawyers, Saul Angle, Yale had laughed. "That's what I need, every single angle covered." Angle evidently had heard the pun before in many variations. "My family name was Anglemann. My father changed it," Angle said curtly. "I'm thinking of changing it back. If you don't like it get yourself another lawyer."

Later Sam apologized. "Saul's a Jew. But you said you wanted a sharp cookie. He's it."

He was very much it, Yale thought. In Angle's office, for the first time, Yale outlined the idea he had in mind. Saul listened without comment.

"I'm not making it clear, am I?" Yale asked. He took some papers out of his pocket. "Listen, any corporation has purposes. I've written the purposes down in the best legal language I know. Here they are: 'to foster, promote, carry on and conduct research into any and all the problems that cause man's inhumanity to man, and to receive, administer, and disburse funds for educational purposes in pursuit of this objective, for the public welfare' -- that should be clear to you."

"You mean because I'm Jewish?" Saul asked sarcastically.

"My wife is Jewish."

"That's your hard luck," Saul said coldly. "Okay, let's go. I'm a lawyer, not a moralist. It's your head to bang against the wall."

In the ensuing days, as they worked out the details of Challenge, Inc., Yale broke through Saul Angle's hard shell. He even captured moments of infrequent enthusiasm from him.

"You want this set up as a non-profit foundation, and you are turning over to it two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That much is all right," Saul said, "Then you want the stock control put in the hands of one Anne Wilson Marratt, and one Cynthia Carnell Marratt. Who are they?"

Yale looked at him seriously. Saul was going to be the first person he would have to tell. "Remember, you are my lawyer. This is in confidence. They are my wives."

"Your wives!" Saul expostulated. He threw his pencil down. "Now at the age of forty-six I've heard everything."

He listened while Yale explained. He shook his head in complete disbelief.

"You can stop worrying about the legal problem," Yale said. "By United States standards, I am only legally married to Cynthia."

"Look," Saul said. He decided not to worry Yale about the possibility that a court-of-law would consider his Hindu marriage valid. "I won't ask you any more questions. I'm scared to death of what I might find out next. Just promise to keep in touch with me. When this daydream of your explodes I'll hold my hat reverently in my hand and watch the souvenir hunters gathering pieces of the former Yale Marratt."

Reading the fifteen closely typewritten pages of the charter for Challenge, Inc. Yale chuckled. Saul had done a thorough job. While he had objected and pointed out to Yale that he would be at the mercy of two women . . . two wives who could get into bitter disagreement . . . for his livelihood, Yale pointed out to him that it either worked or it didn't. He explained to Saul that he was pursuing a fundamental psychology. Anne and Cynthia would be co-directors at Challenge, Inc. As co-directors they would receive a salary of at least $5000 each annually or a joint income not to exceed 10 percent of the gross earnings from investments and contributions.

"Anne and Cynthia will support me." Yale grinned. "You'll have to admit it's sound thinking."

"I've known of men with such sound thinking," Saul said gloomily, "who ended up in twenty-five-cent-a-night flophouses while their wives drove Cadillacs in Miami." He pointed out to Yale that since the foundation would have only $250,000 to start with, even if Yale managed to keep the money earning ten per cent return, by the time his co-directors were paid, there would be only $2500 left to accomplish the purpose of the corporation.

Yale decided not to tell Angle that his plans were eventually to create a working fund of at least twenty million dollars. He had already tested Saul's credulity too far. Anyway, if Saul had asked him how he proposed to get hold of so much money he would have had to admit that at the moment he didn't have the faintest idea. To Saul that certainly would have smacked of childish idealism, with a fairy story quality to boot. At times, Yale felt that his plans were unrealistic, but an indefinable sense of mission always overcame his fears. He was certain . . . positive of the bare outlines of what he was attempting to do; the minor problems would work themselves out as he went along.

Approvingly, he read over the details of the Membership Plan as Saul had worked them out. When he had originally discussed this as a part of the basic charter, Saul had looked at him in wonder.

"I really think you are slightly cracked, Yale. You expect to have members who contribute to the support of the Foundation's activities by paying ten dollars a year. Do you honestly expect to get many members? What will a member get out of it?"

"Ten dollars to save mankind." Yale had beamed. "How's that for a slogan, Saul? When you send me your bill, I'll deduct ten dollars and make you a charter member."

Relaxing in the back of a taxi, the charter of Challenge, Inc. in his brief case, Yale congratulated himself on a good week's work. All that was required now were the signatures of Anne and Cynthia. Saul could take care of the details of incorporation. Yale decided that as soon as he got back to the hotel, he would call Cynthia and Anne and persuade them to come to New York. They needed the car and he certainly didn't need it. They could drive back. They would have to bring the baby. He would have to decide whether to reserve one room or two rooms. Cynthia and Anne were sleeping together, but that wouldn't he possible when he was with them. How would they sleep?

Taking the elevator to his room, he noticed the operator looking at him queerly. He must have been muttering aloud. Having two wives, he reflected with a grin, was not a simple problem. He was already beginning to talk to himself.

When he unlocked the door to his room, he heard the shower running in the bathroom. He looked quickly at the number on the door, thinking he had somehow entered the wrong room. The number checked with the key. Then he saw women's clothing on the bed. Either Anne or Cynthia, or both, were here in New York.

Opening the bathroom door, he cautiously peeked behind the shower curtain. Anne facing the shower spigot, a bathing cap on her head, was soaping herself vigorously.

"Hey," he said, with a feeling of delight at the sight of her shapely buttocks and long slender legs.

She screamed, turned, and slipped in the tub. Yale put out his arms and caught her. He held her wet and soapy against his suit.

"You!" she said disgustedly. "You scared me out of my wits."

He let her go. "Stay there, I'll be back. I need a shower too." He stripped off his clothes, returning in time to catch her as she was getting out of the tub. "Oh, no you don't! Get back in, woman! You're taking a shower with me. You can wash my back."

Reluctantly, she stood in the tub while he turned the shower on again. "Come on. No messing around in the shower!" she said as he tried to hold her. "Give me the soap. I'll wash your back, and that's all!"

"Where's Cindar?" he asked, feeling Anne's fingers tickling his shoulder blades.

"I suppose you'd like to have her here, too. All of us taking a shower together." Anne pinched his buttocks.

"The idea has its charms," Yale admitted. "Where is she?"

"She's in Midhaven," Anne said. "We decided that it wasn't good sense to leave you in New York on a weekend. You might get some Mormon ideas and come home with a third woman. We'd tear her hair out and yours, too! Don't you forget it, Yale! You've got yourself in a spot where if you so much as look at another woman, I personally will cut your throat, and Cindar probably would hand me the knife."

Choking with laughter, Yale asked how they had decided which one would come to check on him.

"We tossed a coin," Anne said.

"And you won?"

"No, Cindar won."

Yale looked at her, puzzled. Water streamed over his face.

"Cindar insisted that I come. Her argument, and I couldn't shake her, was that she was with you last and I hadn't seen you for nearly a year. . . ." Anne got out of the tub. She started to dry herself. "I'm afraid that we are going to kill ourselves trying to be fair to each other. A you-first-Alphonse-arrangement that could end in a stalemate -- for you, chum!"

Yale took the towel from her. "Here, I'll dry you. You look very lovely, Anne." He kissed her breast.

"Be serious a minute," Anne said. She repressed a desire to pull his face hard against her breasts. "There's more to it than that. The plan is that next weekend Cindar will come. But I don't think she will."

"Why not?"

"If this works out, Yale, you are going to learn a great deal more about women than you know now. I think that Cynthia feels that being pregnant, she isn't desirable to you. All women get to feel that way, but most women don't have competition from a non-pregnant dame right under their own roof."

"She's silly," Yale said. "She's not showing too much, yet."

"Dope. Your words convict you. You better make up your mind now that even when she is a full nine months she gets complete affection from you. Anyway, you can't stay here that long. You're just trying to escape an impossible situation."

"Do you think it's impossible?" Yale asked seriously.

Anne walked into the bedroom. She picked up her clothes and then lay on the bed, naked. Yale followed her. "Suppose Cindar were here, now. You couldn't do what you are obviously ready to do." Anne laughed as Yale looked at himself. He blushed.

"Honestly, Yale," she said, "nothing is going to be accomplished until you come back. Cindar and I have been getting along beautifully. Her introspective nature coupled with my happy-go-lucky self is a nice balance. I think we will learn to accept each other. But if she became jealous, it would consume her. She's not like me. I'd tell you very quickly. Her love for you will he a complete surrender. I can love you a little more objectively. Not much more, mind you!" she said, returning his kiss. She restrained his hand from his gradually more ardent caresses. "Not yet," she murmured. "I want to talk. What are you going to do when you come home?"

"What do you mean?" Yale asked.

"Stop being obtuse. You know what I mean. Cynthia and I can solve the housekeeping arrangements. We have even decided that we could bring up the children communally, but neither of us sees how you can solve the problem of who sleeps with you and when . . . and where. You can't leave it to chance. A good Mormon, so I have read, serviced his harem on a strict calendar arrangement."

Yale was a little shocked. "You're pretty blunt."

"I'm just facing facts. Monogamy is a lot simpler."

"Look. I want to make love to you," Yale said, "but if you want me to solve a polygamous household right now . . . okay . . . I'll do it!" He lay back on the bed and was silent.

"I'm listening," Anne said. She tugged at the hairs on his chest. "Just remember that your harem consists of two modern women who won't be subjugated by a lord and master."

"I'm learning." Yale laughed. "First, we have to rebuild the upstairs of the house. I've been thinking about that. You and Cindar will each have your own bedroom. . . ."

Anne interrupted. "Supposing Cindar and I like the idea of sleeping together?" she demanded. "That feather bed is very comfortable."

"Oh, hell. I can't figure it out," Yale said, giving up.

"Well, Cindar and I have agreed that the only practical way is for us to have one big bedroom of our own. Your bedroom can be connected to it . . . When you want one of us to visit you . . ." Anne blushed at her evasion. She plunged on. "We will visit in your room. From that point it's up to you."

"Good Lord," Yale marvelled, "you and Cindar must have had some wonderful discussions. It would be worth a fortune to have heard them."

Anne smiled. "We've decided that the only way for this marriage to work is to conspire against you."

"Maybe it won't work," Yale said gloomily. He stared at the ceiling. "I realize that in asking you and Cynthia to try such unconventional living, the benefits are all for me. It's a selfish idea. It's only practical if you and Cindar find happiness in it. Somewhere in the next few years you may meet someone else . . . or Cindar may meet someone else. I will understand. Nevertheless, I do feel that if any marriage is to work it must set up some common goals. . . ." He jumped off the bed and searched in his brief case. He tossed the charter of Challenge, Inc. on Anne's stomach. "Read that and see what you think."

He watched Anne as she read, her head propped on her elbow, her breasts falling lightly against the pillow; the curve of her hip extending in a lovely arch that flowed away into her legs. He stroked her back and leaned over her shoulder. Finally, she finished. She looked at him with tears in her eyes.

"You're pretty clever, my friend, and I think you understand your wives pretty well. My guess is that Cindar will react the same way I do. Challenge, Inc. is about the craziest idea I've ever heard . . . ." Anne paused. Her smile was tender when she saw the disappointment in Yale's eyes. "It's just so crazy it might catch on. Oh, Yale, it's impractical as hell, just as is everything you do -- but I love it. I promise you I'll work to make it succeed." She pulled him into her arms and clasped him fiercely against her. He felt her arch beneath him.

"Not too soon, darling," she whispered. "I want it to last . . . and last. It's been so very, very long. . . ."

7

Within a month Sam Higgins was calling Yale a financial wizard. At first, as he had watched Yale, day after day, studying corporation reports and stock movements, he had laughed skeptically. "Fella, if you want to invest that three hundred grand, I can give you a couple of sure things. Stuff with good capital growth and a steady return. You don't have to waste time doing your own research. What do you think we've got all these people for?"

Yale told him that at the moment he wasn't looking for steady capital growth. "The money I have now is too small to work with," he said. "Your research department is looking for what everyone else in the street is looking for." Yale picked up the annual report of the Latham Shipyards. "Here's an outfit right in Midhaven that looks good to me. They skipped their quarterly dividend for the second time in a row. The stock is selling low -- fourteen dollars a share yesterday. I wonder what Agatha Latham thinks about that?" Yale decided that he would telephone Agatha and see how she was.

Sam shrugged. "Hell, now that the war is over, shipyards are a dime a dozen. What good are they? That stuff will go even lower."

Yale didn't elaborate his idea further with Sam. He had discovered that the total stock issue of Latham Shipyards was three hundred and fifty thousand shares. Alfred Latham held one hundred thousand shares, he knew that Agatha Latham had fifty thousand shares, the rest were scattered. He played with figures. He would need five or six million dollars to make any attempt to raid the company.

Sam was right, of course; the Latham Yards were in a mess. Alfred was listed as board-chairman; Jim Latham had been elected President. With the war contracts cancelled, the company was losing money. Yale had a feeling that with aggressive management the company could be made profitable. It needed a diversification program. Latham Shipyards owned considerable real estate in the city of Midhaven, and also oil leases good for several years on fields in Oklahoma. Who had okayed the investment in oil leases? As he had fiddled with the potentialities in the situation an even better idea occurred to him. What would happen, psychologically, if the price on Latham shares started to rise. If he had the money and could buy very carefully, spreading his purchases around the country, eventually the market would respond. He might entice into the market a good many short-sellers. It would be an excellent stock to sell short.

Yale felt a familiar tingle along his backbone. It always seemed to happen when he was pursuing an idea. A long, long chance . . . but with the small amount of Latham stock outstanding . . . if he could produce an artificial rise with his buying, and if the short-sellers could be lured in . . . he might achieve a corner on the stock. A lot would depend on Agatha Latham. He would have to convince her not to be greedy and to stay out of the market while he was maneuvering. With no stock to cover the short sales, he would have short-sellers boiled in their oil. The question was whether the lure was strong enough to attract the short-sellers. Commodore Vanderbilt had done it with the Harlem Railway in 1860. The shorts had settled with Vanderbilt for $179 a share. Today, with all the market regulations, it would have to be done very carefully.

Yale studied past market corners. It was a tricky business. At any rate, well out of his financial means at the moment. "What I am looking for right now," he told Sam, "is a special deal that will erupt fast. Something I can get in and get out of quickly."

"If you start playing for the jackpot," Sam warned him, "you'll lose your whole three hundred thousand. I've seen the speculators come and go. You might as well play the horses."

Yale went to lunch with Sam a few days later. As they drank martinis Yale told him a little about his ideas. "I studied religion, philosophy, and psychology in college, all basically because I am fascinated with man. You wonder what I am going to do with Challenge, Inc. I hope to make Challenge a secular religion for man." Sam was listening with interest. Too interested, for the moment, Yale decided. "Anyway, that's beside the point, Sam. I do think by studying carefully the human elements in any situation, you can reasonably well predict what will happen. This you'll say is market research, and that's true. But my method is not statistical. What I am referring to is the basic emotional elements. Damned few businessmen are concerned with them. They analyze most situations in an emotional vacuum, and then in actual practice -- say, in the introduction of a new product or the installation of a new production method -- they run smack into the emotional situation which throws their plans seven ways to Sunday."

Sam laughed. "Anyone who plays the market or the horses has some lovely rationalizations. Yours I have heard . . . even more elaborately, fella."

Yale smiled. "I was going over the figures on the Wilshire Trust building, yesterday. Real estate is going to regain its value in this city. They have five million dollars in four and a half debentures due in eight years. The debentures are selling at ten. Rumor has it that the owners have applied to convert the debentures to common stock."

"That's common knowledge, too," Sam said. "You expect the debentures will shoot up. But what in hell is the common stock going to be worth? I'll bet you they don't even get S. E. C. permission."

Yale toyed with his martini glass. He ran his finger around the edge. "I'm thinking, after studying the thing in detail, that the common stock would be worth a hell of a lot of money. The debentures in any case are worth more than ten dollars. New York real estate is going to boom again. You know, Sam, it occurred to me that the application for conversion was made with the pretty certain knowledge it might never be approved. This afternoon use the bank check I've given you as collateral. Pick up twenty thousand of those debentures for Challenge, Inc. You better buy some for yourself."

Sam didn't buy for himself. A week later he regretted it. He found Yale in the Higgins' directors' room, surrounded by piles of paper. Yale was making a series of calculations. "You know I hate to do this kind of work," he said to Sam. "Mine is not a mathematical mind, but Agatha Latham taught me how important it was."

"Have you seen what's happening on the Wilshire four and a half's?" Sam asked.

"They are going up," Yale said coolly.

"They are up to ninety. You better unload, fella; that kind of luck won't hold."

"I think they'll go to two hundred. You can still get in. You can sell me out when they reach one hundred sixty. I have in mind netting about three million."

Sam argued with him. He told Yale it was impossible. Trying to determine how Yale's mind worked, Sam asked him why he didn't plunge with his remaining fifty thousand dollars. Yale grinned. Sam's words raised a momentary recollection for him of Anne, naked, exhausted from making love, looking at the check in awe. "I never knew so much money existed," she had said, flinging the check in the air and kissing him again and again. "Now Cindar and I can buy a bathroom. No more sitting in an outhouse or peeing in a chamberpot. No more baths in an iron tub." Yale chuckled as he recalled how he had threatened to make love to her until she hollered "Uncle" unless she apologized for being upset in India with his pre-occupation for making money.

"Sam, that other fifty thousand bank check is in the coffers of the Midhaven National Bank supporting a mortgage on an old house I'm planning to remodel. But if I hadn't moved so fast on my domestic arrangements, I would have most certainly bought more of those debentures, only I would have bought them at ten. Still, they are a good buy at ninety. Sit down here, I'll show you."

Yale showed him several pages of figures. He pointed out to Sam the value of the property. "You better do a little grinding in the economic facts of life instead of worrying so much about your uptown sex life. Maybe the debentures won't go to two hundred. I'm gambling. So what? The plain facts are right here in this operating statement . . . plus the future of real estate in New York."

By the end of the month the debentures had risen to two hundred and ten. Following Yale's instructions, Sam sold him out when the market rose to one hundred and sixty. "You should have held on a little longer," Sam said. The paternalistic tone had vanished from his voice, replaced by open admiration for Yale's acumen.

"I've done exactly what I wanted to do," Yale said happily. "I ran three hundred thousand up to three million with enough extra to pay commissions to Higgins. Why play the gamble too hard? I think the market is a little out of line with the facts. The debentures will break any day, now. They should level at about one hundred."

A few days later the market on the debentures floundered. They fell to one hundred and fifteen. Sam proudly introduced Yale to his father. "This is the bird I've been telling you about. We roomed together at 'B' school."

"You made a nice killing," the elder Higgins, a slender grey-haired man in his sixties, said to Yale. "Was it a lucky accident or can you do it again?"

"I'll do it again," Yale said, smiling confidently. "Maybe not so easily next time. The secret is to study and wait. . . ."

"Wait for what?" the elder Higgins asked.

"A slight tingling sensation in my backbone," Yale said. They couldn't tell whether he meant it or not.

"You better give Sam some instructions. . . ." the elder Higgins said gruffly. "He's been tingling in the wrong places."

Despite insistent pleading during his nightly telephone calls to Midhaven, Yale had been unable to persuade Cynthia to come to New York. Until Cynthia would come, he knew that he couldn't ask Anne to make another weekend visit. Both of them had asked him pointedly on the telephone what he was afraid of. They told him, laughing at his obvious silence, that he couldn't ask for more. He had a home with two women in it.

"It's only a two-hour train ride. If you must work in New York, you can commute weekends," Anne said. "And you can come home and try heating water on a coal stove to take a bath."

Cynthia said, "Anne and I are just waiting to get you into this tin tub that Ralph dug up for us."

They told him that he was living in splendor while he forced them to live in the backwoods. With grim humor they described the pleasures of sitting in the outhouse on a cold March night.

Yale knew that they were forcing him to a showdown. If there was any possible way to live with two women he was going to have to prove it, not piecemeal in New York hotel rooms, but together in Midhaven. After his success with the Wilshire Trust debentures, he decided that he couldn't wait any longer. It was imperative that some decision be made. Either they would all stay together and make Challenge, Inc. a reality, or else Yale hated to contemplate . . . the "or else." Having Anne and Cynthia had seemed to fuse the divergent coils of his energy. For the first time in his life he was driven with ambition. The goal, tenuous as Challenge still was in his mind, seemed worthy of every effort. But not alone. Not without Anne and Cynthia.

Riding from New York on the six forty-five to Midhaven, he wondered why the female element, the demand for female acceptance, was so important to him. The current of his thinking didn't seem to function unless it was connected to the female pole. Some men might look upon it as a denial of their own masculinity. Many men, basically, resented women. He remembered once, in college, writing a thesis for a psychology course in which he analyzed the handling of female characters by twenty top male authors. Not one of these authors had been able to develop the male-female relationship without a strong element of sadism, and a basic revulsion toward the female.

Yale wondered if the male rejection of his fundamental affinity with the female was a natural reaction, or a learned reaction. First taught by the ancient medicine men in their taboo system, and calcified into an accepted pattern of behavior by the age-old brainwashing of religious theories.

When Yale got off the train he saw them waiting, far back on the platform. With a grin that belied his basic uneasiness he grabbed them both around the waist and gave them each a peck on the cheek. As he walked between them, listening to their happy chatter, he was glad that he had come. In the next few days, he reflected with amusement, he must find the solution to the problem of how one man and two women could adjust sexually to each other. The Mohammedan with his harem didn't have the same problem. He simply had uncomplaining slave vessels into which he could discharge his desires as he saw fit. Yale had two young, physically attractive, American girls whose entire lives up to this time had been conditioned to the sacredness of monogamous marriage. Both of them had been brought up in a society in which it was considered impossible for a man to love more than one woman, especially in a condition of marriage.

Both Anne and Cynthia seemed unusually happy. Their talk was filled with warm laughter. They told him that Ralph Weeks was minding Ricky. "Imagine a sixty-five-year-old baby sitter, smoking a cigar and rocking a crib!"

"Wait until you see the plans for remodeling the house," Anne said. "It's going to be a mansion. Bob Coleman is a wonderful architect."

"Handsome -- and single, too!" Cynthia said, enjoying the idea of teasing Yale a little. "You should have seen him the first few days when he was measuring the rooms; consulting first with me and then with Anne as to where we wanted bathrooms and trying to figure out the bedroom arrangements. You could see that he was quite bewildered. He was even more confused when Anne and I were discussing how we wanted one master bedroom with a huge bathroom and another bedroom with a smaller bathroom leading directly off it. Bob finally just about asked Anne what business it was of hers. Anne told him that we were very close. She said that she was my sister-in-law, Mrs. Anne Marratt, from Ohio."

"And you know what he said?" Anne asked, giggling. "He said he didn't realize that Yale had a brother. You should have seen our faces. We both looked at him with our mouths open. Cindar recovered first, and said, 'Oh, it's his father's brother's son.'"

"Ye gods, that would make you cousins." Yale laughed.

"We figured that out later," Cynthia said. "Anyway he has stopped asking us. But you'll see when he comes over. He is still plenty puzzled. He's coming out tomorrow or the next day to go over costs with you."

Yale asked what Coleman had guessed the remodeling would cost.

"He was cautious. Not less than forty thousand dollars. He said the house would be worth double that when he finished. Do you think it's too much, Yale?" Cynthia asked.

Anne said, "Cindar and I haven't been very practical, but if you don't think we should spend so much, we won't mind . . . just as long as we have at least one toilet that flushes water."

When they got to the car, Anne stood aside. She let Cynthia slide into the middle of the front seat. Yale got behind the wheel, wondering how they had figured out the seating arrangement.

"Don't worry about the money. As soon as the house is remodeled, I'm going to re-mortgage it to Challenge, Inc. That will free the money for another project I have in mind."

Yale drove to the "Hare and Hounds," a heavily patronized eating place decorated after an American's idea of an English country manor. Because the restaurant was new and specialized in expensive dinners, he knew that there was a chance that Pat and Liz would be there. Some day, they would have to see him with Cynthia and Anne. If it happened tonight so much the better.

"I'll buy you both a lobster. While we're eating I'll tell you what has developed with Challenge."

Cynthia and Anne sat opposite him in a candle-lighted booth. Yale admired the clean lines of their faces, and the soft glow in their eyes. Anne light complexioned, with her natural blonde hair piled carelessly on her head, and Cynthia with dark black hair flowing to the top of her shoulders. As the hostess guided them past other tables to their booth, Yale caught the stares and half-envious glances of other diners. In their strikingly contrasting beauty Anne and Cynthia seemed to complement each other. Even the maternity dress that Cynthia was wearing didn't dampen male interest. Men felt the natural beauty of both the girls with a sharp impact. Beauty that said without words: "We are happy, proud women who love our man with a fierce passion."

Over manhattans, Yale told them of his success with the Wilshire Trust debentures. Their faces showed amazement.

"You mean in just two weeks, you have made three million dollars?" Cynthia asked, disbelief in her voice.

"Well, not quite. I started with three hundred thousand dollars on the rupee conversion." Yale explained his maneuver, enjoying their swift comprehension.

"Weren't you nervous that you might have guessed wrong?" Anne asked. "I'd have been so terrified that the market would drop, I'd have sold everything after the debentures had gone up just a little."

Yale grinned. He played with the silverware. "I was cautious, I held back fifty thousand in case anything went wrong. It's funny . . . knowing that you and Cynthia were in Midhaven, caring . . ." Yale blushed. "May I say loving me . . . ?"

Cynthia looked at Anne. They smiled sheepishly at each other. "Well, anyway," Yale continued unabashed, "I seemed to have a sixth sense born of love. It's as if something is guiding me to create Challenge as a focus for our love and marriage. I hope you realize it -- you gals are working for a non-profit corporation. I'm simply your treasurer and financial advisor. Very soon now you are going to have to go to work and support me. What's the matter, Cindar? You look so worried."

"Sometimes, I can't believe that you are the same Yale Marratt I knew in college."

"You mean I have changed for the worse?"

"Oh, honey, no! Even Anne admits that you are somehow 'different.' We both agreed that what you want to do is typically quixotic, and typically you. Only now you seem to know so much, somehow . . . financial things that bewilder us both. . . ." She paused. "I'm not clear, am I? But years ago you were more of a dreamer. I never thought . . . well, I guess I was afraid of your wild ideas, then. Now, I get positively frightened when you talk so coolly of making three million dollars; and then this Challenge idea . . . Oh, Yale . . ."

"Maybe you are both my Sancho Panzas. A much more realistic idea when you think of it than that of Don Quixote followed by a fat man. A twentieth century Don Quixote with two beautiful women to try to keep him out of trouble."

"In trouble, you mean." Anne smiled. "Even Don Quixote had more sense than to believe that the rest of the male population would be gratified if he had two wives. I sometimes think that Cindar and I have a tiger by the tail."

"You can let go of this tiger without having it bite you," Yale said. "I don't blame either of you for being bewildered. The main thing is that I never would have gone this far, if I hadn't felt that basically the three of us all have the same outlook on life. It would certainly be impossible, for example, if any of us was so dollar-conditioned that our goal in life was to enjoy a superiority based on possessions. I don't believe either of you care for that kind of life."

"We insist on having a tub with running water, though." Anne grinned.

"And a flush toilet," Cynthia said. "Just wait. You are going to go sit in that outhouse with us, just for penance. You'll see how demanding two wives can be. Don't think we are going to wear just jeans and sweaters all the time either. . . ."

The waitress brought their lobsters, taking longer than necessary to arrange the side dishes.

"She's wondering what I've got to attract two such lovely dames." Yale laughed. Then, very seriously he told them how very much he hoped their marriage would work. "It would be kind of foolish for me to pray to a monogamous Christian or Jewish god. I don't particularly believe in destiny, but I feel that Challenge, Inc., will be a kind of central point in our marriage. By living together, gracefully, and caring deeply for each other, we will proclaim in our marriage and in our living the essential dignity of man. If man can't solve his own tiny problems -- problems that are within his control -- how can he cope with the larger ones? Sure . . . Challenge may not make much of a dent or change the course of the world, but if the three of us admit the goal is worthwhile; if we believe in the essential wonder of man and manage to awaken a few men to their possibilities, then we will have accomplished something."

Yale spoke so earnestly that he was unable to restrain the tears. He could see the warm approval on their faces and the extent of their love, but he was impelled to continue.

"What would you have me do? I have to know one thing for dead certain -- that you are with me. The way I have set this thing up, we may not be personally wealthy. If the basic fund grows -- and hold your breath -- I hope to build it up to at least twenty million dollars, then you will receive as managers thirty or forty thousand dollars a year." He noticed the surprise on their faces. "What do you want me to do? Forget it? Three million dollars is a lot of money. Even if I dissolve the foundation and pay the taxes, we can still spend our lives in complete luxury -- we can own fancy foreign cars, swimming pools, chase around to swanky clubs, see the best shows . . . you both can have . . ."

"Yale, come up for air," Anne interrupted. She dug in the claw of her lobster. "Neither Cindar nor I want that kind of life. I don't know about Cindar, but thirty or forty thousand dollars a year sounds fabulous in itself. I grew up in a family where a man who made five or six thousand a year was considered well off."

Cynthia murmured her assent. Her face suddenly had a startled look. Yale turned and followed her glance. Dr. Amos Tangle was approaching their booth with a broad smile on his face. His almost completely bald head and imposing height drew the attention of the other diners like a magnet.

"It's Yale Marratt," he boomed, thrusting out his hand. Yale half arose and shook hands awkwardly. "Sit down, sit down, Yale. I've been meaning to call your father. I understand he came back from Florida sooner than expected. Is everything all right?"

Yale told him that he hadn't seen Pat. Doctor Tangle was looking at Anne and Cynthia. "I've seen you before young lady. Don't tell me!" He bent over the booth. "You're Cynthia Carnell," he said triumphantly. "I knew it! How's that for memory? You married Mat Chilling." Doctor Tangle looked sad. Evidently he remembered that Mat was dead. "I was sorry to hear about Mat. A brilliant man. Erratic, but no doubt about it a man with a mind."

"You're not quite up to date," Yale interjected coolly. "She's Cynthia Marratt, now. My wife."

Doctor Tangle made no attempt to conceal his surprise. Yale could see in his quick flicker of astonishment the question . . . what did Patrick Marratt think of this? A Jew in the family . . . despite everything Pat had done to discourage Yale.

"Well, congratulations are in order. Very nice . . ." Dr. Tangle seemed at a loss for words. As if to change the subject he paused and smiled at Anne who had been following the conversation with a twinkle in her eyes. "This is a lovely young lady, Yale." He stared at Anne. "I'm still not too old to appreciate female beauty. Introduce me."

"I'll introduce myself," Anne said, smiling prettily. "I believe you must be none other than the prexy of Midhaven College. Yale and Mat mentioned your name several times when we were in India."

"Really?" Doctor Tangle beamed, showing his interest.

"Yes. You remember, Yale," Anne went on, "we were discussing religion. Either you or Mat mentioned that Doctor Tangle was like so many other religious leaders, strong, upright, conscientious, able to inspire their congregations. . . ." Anne accented each word, leading the smiling and appreciative Doctor Tangle. Then she sprung the trap. ". . . but so puffed up, pompous and inflated with their own belief in their spirtuality that they hadn't had a sincerely religious thought in years."

It took Doctor Tangle a couple of seconds to shift the gears of his thinking from being flattered to this outright attack. Before he had accomplished it, Anne said, "I'm awfully pleased to know you. I'm Yale's other wife, Anne Marratt."

Yale, who was sipping his drink, started to laugh. He swallowed wrong and began to choke, helpless with his laughter. Even Cynthia who was at first horrified had to smile. Doctor Tangle's face turned a scarlet red. He stalked away muttering something about the vulgarity of today's youngsters.

"Anne, do you know what you've done!" Cynthia asked, shocked. "You've insulted one of the leaders of Midhaven society. Wait until he spreads this around."

"I don't give a damn," Anne said. "He's a pompous old ass, with his snide references to Mat. . . . Just the way he said, 'Well, that's very nice, Cynthia,' with that slippery accent on 'nice' that meant instead, 'Sister, you've had it.' He needs someone to deflate him."

Yale was delighted. Driving home, he kept reviewing the conversation, "I'm Yale's other wife . . . wonderful. The way you led him on . . ."

"Don't worry, Cindar," Anne said, breaking into Cynthia's silence. "He was so flustered he didn't even hear me say that about being Yale's other wife."

Cynthia sighed. "It isn't that I'm afraid of what we are doing. It's just that I don't think we'll get away with it."

Yale refused to be concerned. "Just what can Doctor Tangle or anyone do to us, honey? Unless either you or Anne decide that I am an evil bigamist, I fail to see how it can concern society or any particular individual. In fact it should be an article in the Challenge Creed that any action of man is acceptable so long as it does not result in harm to another human being."

Cynthia felt argumentative. She wanted to contend that Pat Marratt's idea of what "harmed" Pat might be something quite different from Yale's ideas. To Pat, a son living flagrantly with two wives might be "harmful." But it was no time to argue. They were on the long driveway to the farm. Cynthia's thoughts went forward to the coming night. She decided that the problem immediately ahead shouldn't be approached while they were arguing a philosophic point.

Ralph Weeks greeted them in the kitchen. He staggered a little when he got out of the rocking chair he had placed near the hearth of the huge fireplace. They couldn't tell whether his face was flushed from the heat of the fire or from whiskey. The odor of liquor that enveloped him was like a warm autumn smell of rotting apples.

His welcome was effusive. "Yale, it's good to have you back. House as big as this with two wenches, needs a master." He watched Anne and Yale checking the baby. "Youngster's fine, Mrs. Anne. Woke up about an hour ago and slopped up that milk faster than old Weeks could drink a glass of whiskey. Speaking of drinking, I want you to taste a recipe that goes with this house." Weeks pointed to a huge old tankard that was sitting near the edge of the fire. "Tonight in honor of your homecoming we will have my special rum flip."

They watched in awe as Weeks poured from one tankard to another a quart of boiling ale with a mixture that he claimed combined three eggs, sugar, nutmeg, and black rum. He poured the mixtures back and forth until they were creamy.

"Do we dare drink this?" Yale asked, looking warily at the mixture.

"Ain't finished yet," Weeks said, pushing him away. He took a glowing iron from the fireplace and plunged it into the tankard. It flared like a devil's brew. Grinning, he poured them each a glass.

"It's wonderful," Cynthia said, delighted. She felt the warmth spread to her toes. She finished hers first. "Pour me another."

In a few minutes they were all talking excitedly.

"First project for Challenge should be to bottle this stuff." Anne kicked off her shoes and started to dance to some imaginary music.

"First project for tonight is to take a bath," Cynthia said, slumping on an old brass bed that Weeks had put in the kitchen for them.

"You got yourself two of the cleanest women I've ever seen, Weeks said. He shook his head and started to put on an old mackinaw.

"Where are you going?" Yale demanded.

"Well," Weeks yawned. He looked like a subdued Falstaff. "That one," he pointed to Anne, "is a fresh one. She told me that she and that one . . ." he pointed to Cynthia, "was always to be addressed as Mrs. Anne or Mrs. Cynthia and I wasn't to get any ideas that I had any oats left to sow. She said that when they took a bath I could be a Peeping Tom, but I'd better do it so they didn't suspect." Weeks grinned. "Oh, she's a fresh one, I'll tell you. I might mention," he bowed toward Anne, "that I'm plenty old enough to be your father. Fact is I've got a daughter a good ten years older than you are. However, since there's no disputing with one woman, let alone two, I'm leavin'. I'll be out in the barn if you want me."

"Boy, you tamed him." Yale laughed when Weeks had gone.

"He's an old goat," Anne said. "If I hadn't clamped down on him, he'd be goosing Cindar and me every time we turned our backs on him. He told me I probably needed my bare bottom tanned."

Cynthia started to pump water at the old sink, "You should have heard how he rolled the word 'bare' around on his tongue. He was actually feeling Anne's bottom when he said it. Come on, Yale, you carry this water and put it on the stove. We have to heat gallons of it. If we don't start soon we will be all night."

Following Cynthia's and Anne's instructions, Yale pumped water into pails and big tin cans. He placed them on top of the old iron stove which was glowing red and gave off a stifling heat.

Anne dragged a large tin tub near the fireplace. Yale looked at it admiringly. "Just think, the bare bottoms of some of the founders of Connecticut probably sat in this tub."

"Pour in three pails of cold water," Cynthia commanded. "Then you add the boiling water when you're ready. You better get undressed."

"Not me," Yale protested. "I took a shower in the hotel, just before I left."

"Good," Anne said, "that means that you're the cleanest. You can go first. We'll use your water."

It took an hour to bring the water on the stove to a boil. By that time they had finished a pitcher full of Weeks' rum flips. Sitting naked in the tub, feeling wonderfully tipsy, with Anne and Cynthia kneeling alongside the tub, occasionally grabbing at him through the soapy water, Yale sang: "I'm the greatest man in Siam. Yes, I am." Every time he repeated, "Yes, I am," Anne and Cynthia chorused, "Oh, no, you ain't."

As he sang Yale wondered should they he more serious? Over and above their hilarity was the inevitable moral question: was this right or wrong? Could it degenerate into an orgy? Could they hold onto the essential wonder and dignity of their love for each other?

He got out of the tub. "Come on, it's your turn."

Embarrassed to undress in front of Yale, Anne deferred to Cynthia.

Yale dropped his towel. He stood on the hearth, feeling the heat from the fireplace on his back. He demanded that they look at him.

"Look, we are adults, I've seen you both naked. You've both seen me. Now I'm going to see you naked together. Is that bad?"

He watched them as they slowly took off their clothes. Under her dress, Anne was wearing a brassiere and a garter belt. Cynthia simply wore a bra and anklet stockings. From the hearth Yale examined them appreciatively. Blushing, Anne unhooked her garters. She took off her stockings. Cynthia undid her bra.

"Oh, I'm so horrible looking," Cynthia said disgustedly. She touched her belly timidly. "Honestly, Yale, undressing this way makes me feel cheap and shoddy, somehow. I look so ugly . . . when a woman looks like this she shouldn't be seen naked." She turned away from Yale's frankly curious stare. "Please stop looking at me like that. You make me feel ashamed."

Yale took her by the shoulders. He guided her to the rocking chair at the edge of the hearth. He touched her swollen belly gently. "Is it kicking?" Cynthia shook her head. She tried to hold back the tears in her eyes.

Anne had poured more hot water in the tub. She tested it with her toes. In contrast to Cynthia with her blooming body, Anne was lithe and boyish. Sitting in the tub, her face glowing from the firelight, she started to sing her own version of the "Yum-Yum, Peep-bo and Pitti-Sing's Song."

"Two little maids from school are we. Pert as schoolgirls well can be. Filled to brim with girlish glee."

"Come on, Cindar, you can sing this too."

Catching desperately at Anne's gaiety, Cynthia sang, "Two little maids from school! Everything is a source of fun."

They both stared at Yale, enjoying his sudden embarrassment.

Together they sang: "Two little maids who all unwary. Come from a ladies' seminary. Freed from its genius tutelary." Then, enjoying the innuendo in the song, they sang it again. They stopped in a gale of laughter.

Yale was delighted. Both Anne and Cindar seemed to have discovered a way of recovering themselves when they approached the brink of possible tears or misunderstanding. If all three of them could develop this ability, they would achieve a greater maturity and understanding than any of them had known before. Wasn't this a part of the challenge? For each individual to learn to reach out with his mind to the minds around him; to learn to convey, even with the weakness of words, true emotions and feelings.

"You know, Cindar, you look very lovely to me." Yale sat down on the hearth, feeling the stones cool and hard against his buttocks. "I mean it, honey. You're the first woman I've ever seen pregnant." He grinned. "I mean who wasn't wearing clothes."

"The female animal isn't very beautiful when it's carrying its litter," Cynthia said. She felt very naked and ugly. "Most psychologists think that a man and woman should be very careful about revealing themselves naked to each other. It destroys the mystery and illusion."

"It hasn't been destroyed for Yale, yet," Anne laughed as she soaped herself. "Stand up, Yale. I dare you!"

Blushing, Yale stood up. Both of the girls laughed at his rampant condition. "Wash my back," Anne said, "that will clear your mind."

Soaping Anne's back, Yale continued the discussion. "You know I disagree completely with the idea that nudity is something to be ashamed of . . . or that the half-nude is more sexually stimulating to a man. The whole false premise starts with our educational and religious systems. It seems to me that if men and women were taught to really see the human body, and to appreciate the vast wonder of it -- whatever condition it might be in -- in sickness or in health or in performing its functions -- that the amazing, inexhaustible beauty of the human body would always be exciting. I look at Cindar with her swollen belly and I am delighted. She is a woman. As a man I am awed by her fertility. I am proud of the transformation of her face and her breasts, firm and proud, ready for the milk that will come. Did you ever see Picasso's painting The Embrace? It's a gentle thing: a naked pregnant woman with her arms around her man's shoulders. Her face buried in his shoulders. You don't see reproductions of it very often -- most people think it's repulsive or dirty or something -- but to me it's the consummation of the idea that Rodin tried to embody in his statue 'The Kiss.' . . ."

"And you, Anne," Yale laughed as he cupped her breasts and gave her neck a fleeting kiss, "are soapy and delightful . . . with an impish grin. . . ." Barefoot, Yale paced the hearth, oblivious to the warmth and affection that shone on both Anne's and Cynthia's faces. "I can't seem to corner the thought, but I believe that if each man and woman were indoctrinated from childhood into an atmosphere of human idealism -- to appreciate the essential wonder of each other . . . the miracle of man and woman eating, sleeping, copulating, thinking -- even the miracle of defecating and urinating -- eventually hatred and fear would disappear. . . ." Yale stopped. He suddenly realized that he was declaiming like an orator. He had been waving his hands to emphasize his feelings.

"Hear! Hear!" Cynthia cried, clapping her hands delightedly. "Yale Marratt's Utopia . . . and he's his own press agent!"

Anne got out of the tub. She ran close to the huge fire, and started to dry herself vigorously with a towel. "You know it's kind of chilly in here despite the fire. After all, it's only March. Too early for a nudist convention." She shivered. "Okay, since neither of you seems to wish to face facts, I'll be the blunt one. I'm going to bed upstairs. Yale, you sleep down here with Cynthia."

Cynthia shook her head worriedly.

Anne said, "Look, you know we've discussed it, Cindar . . . there's only one other solution. Yale could sleep alone. That would be silly. I was with him last. It's your turn, Cindar . . . and . . ." Anne said, with mock fierceness, "you better be nice to him, because I love him, too."

Anne picked up her clothes. "I'm going upstairs to bed. Yale, you can carry Ricky up." She looked at the clock. "Good God, it's two o'clock, he'll be awake by five." Grinning at Cynthia, she picked up a flashlight. "You've got three hours before I'll be poking around down here -- warming a bottle."

Yale followed, on her heels, carrying the baby who was snuggled in his crib blankets. Stepping into the corridor was like stepping into a freezer. The damp cold air chilled their naked bodies.

"I feel like a nude Eskimo," Yale muttered. Ahead of him he could hear Anne's teeth chattering as she probed the darkness with her flashlight. He was suddenly aware of her swaying behind as she mounted the stairs ahead of him. He leaned forward and bit her lightly. She yelled.

"Couldn't help it." Yale chuckled. "Your fanny was so tantalizing I just had to."

Yale held the flashlight while Anne tucked the baby into his rocker crib. Before Anne could get in bed he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She snuggled against him for a moment, thinking: Yale, this is crazy, I want you, too! I won't share you! But she didn't say it. Instead she smacked him lightly on his buttocks in a farewell gesture. "Okay, lover, your other woman is waiting. You are going to have to be a demon lover to keep us both satisfied."

As he left the bedroom, he heard her whisper, "I love you, darling. Good night." Poking his way slowly down the stairs, shivering a little, he wondered how long it would take Bob Coleman to get the place rebuilt.

He had forgotten to look at the plans. They must be in the kitchen. He decided to look at them with Cynthia. As he opened the kitchen door he realized that the rapid-fire thoughts he was thinking were simply a cover-up for his real feelings. He tasted the salt from Anne's tears that had brushed off on his own cheek when he kissed her. She had been crying silently in the dark . . . wanting him . . . trying to be generous . . . against every natural female impulse. He felt strangely torn . . . wanting to be with Anne and wanting to be with Cindar.

Cynthia was in the tin tub. She grinned at him. "If I am always going to be last, I'm going to make sure that you and Anne keep good and clean."

Yale poked the fire. He threw another huge log on it. The heat was so intense on the hearth, he drew away quickly. He liked the sounds of the sputtering fire, and the quiet intimacy of the shadows flickering on the ceiling and walls. A kerosene lamp glowed dully on the kitchen table. The stinging odors of kerosene mixed with the heady odor of a batch of liquor that Weeks was fermenting in a corner of the room.

Yale sat on the bed. It responded with a noisy squeak to his weight. He watched Cynthia dry herself, enjoying the movement of her breasts. They arched as she dried her back, and then hung in ripe fullness as she bent over to dry her legs. When she finished Yale pushed her gently back on the bed. Taking the towel from her, he dried between her legs. Smiling at her embarrassment, he bent over and kissed her on the lower curve of her belly. He felt the baby shift in her womb. He looked at her with amazement. "It moved! I felt it."

She nodded. "I wish it were ours," she said quietly.

Yale lay down next to her. He pulled the covers over them. "Honey, it is ours. This child is ours." She kissed him on his face with hundreds of little kisses. She told him of her love for him and the loneliness and fears of the past weeks.

Her fingers reached for him and guided him. Gently, he pressed against her, liking the fullness of her stomach. She gasped, held him hard, and they were joined.

As one -- they talked. She told him about the days with Anne, and the joy of planning the house. "It is going to be a lovely house, Yale. We told Bob Coleman to bring it up to date, but not to lose its early New England charm." Yale liked the way that she included Anne in her thinking. Her conversation was studded with "Anne and I wanted this" or "We thought this would be best."

He mentioned it. "You and Anne seem to be getting along all right. No conflict, no jealousies."

Cynthia wiggled against him. "Only jealousies over you," she breathed in his ear. "Right now I'll bet she is feeling very sad and neglected."

Yale looked at her, surprised. "How do you know?"

"Because, my hungry love-bug friend, she loves you, too. No woman in her right mind would share her man with another woman."

"But she is doing it and so will you."

"Oh, God, Yale, stop talking for a minute!" Cynthia grasped him with an abandoned passion. For a long time they were lost in the ecstasy of each other's desire. Then they lay quiet, breathing heavily. Cynthia kissed him tenderly.

"To love you like that, darling," she said, "I have had to learn to love Anne, too. No, dopey. Not like a lesbian -- but with a real affection that people say is not possible between women." She was silent. "People are wrong. That's a false idea. Actually two women really in love with the same men are sharing the ultimate physical intimacy. If they make an effort they can share the even deeper emotional intimacy. I have come to care for Anne very much, Yale. I think she feels the same way about me."

They lay together enjoying the temporary surfeit of their love and their return to individuality.

She let her fingers trickle over his belly, tugging lightly at his hairs. "No man is an island. Yet we are, all -- each of us -- wrapped in our covering of flesh, blood, muscles, nerves," she said. "I can only try to be you or Anne, and you can only try to be me or Anne . . . the trying . . . that is the important thing, isn't it? The thing that most people neglect?" She took his hand. "Come on. The bed upstairs is big enough for the three of us. This first night I can't sleep here alone with you because I am too able to be Anne, alone up there."

Anne grumbled when they got into the bed with her. "Who does Yale Marratt think he is?" she demanded sleepily. "Even sultans don't have it this good . . . sleeping between two women."

Her voice was gruff but Yale knew she was pleased. "We couldn't go to sleep without you," he said.

As he drifted into sleep, aware of each of them; Anne on his right, Cynthia on his left, their legs crossing his, he prayed that their strange marriage would be a happy one.

8

Summer came to Midhaven, as it often did in New England, without preliminaries. After days of rain and cold, and spring dampness that extended into late June, suddenly the sun burned through the clouds. The easterly wind shifted to the south. The temperature shot up to ninety and stayed there.

Sitting on the veranda of the Midhaven Country Club with Liz, sipping a planter's punch, Barbara Marratt watched her father tee up for his first drive. He was with a foursome made up of club members Alfred and Jim Latham . . . and Paul Downing, to whom Barbara had just been introduced.

Downing, a handsome man in his fifties, heavily tanned, with an intent appraising stare, had examined her carefully. Barbara guessed that Pat or Liz had probably mentioned to him that her divorce from Tom Eames would be finalized this week.

Pat's swing was hard and graceful. His ball soared out on the fairway. Paul Downing followed Pat, and his drive was even more expert. They saw Pat congratulate Downing. A few minutes later the four men walked toward the first hole.

"I'm bored," Barbara said. "I'm sick of hanging around a country club slopping up hooch. Are you going to stay here all afternoon?"

Liz looked at her. "Bobby, you asked for this. You had another life . . . you had found friends. Why did you throw it all away? I've watched you for a month, now . . . coming in at all hours, so drunk half the time it's shameful . . . staying in bed all day because you don't know what to do with yourself. Pat and I are pretty worried. I still can't understand why you would insist on going through with the divorce."

"You wouldn't care if Pat were fucking hell out of your best girl friend, and then told you it was nothing to get alarmed about?"

Liz looked at her, shocked. "Barbara, I wish you wouldn't use such language. It's cheap and vulgar. As for your father, I imagine that he hasn't been entirely faithful."

"But you didn't know about it, did you?" Barbara asked sourly. "You see, there's a considerable difference."

Liz tried to change the subject. "Why don't you play bridge with us this afternoon? You were pretty good once. When Pat comes back we're having dinner on Paul's schooner. It's quite nice. A seventy-footer with a crew of six.

"And at least as many bedrooms," Barbara said sarcastically. "He's between wives. Evidently, I look as if I need to be serviced."

"You mean he propositioned you?" Liz demanded. She didn't know what to say or how to handle Barbara either as a daughter or as a divorcée.

"Of course not. Not yet. I just met him, but he was asking me just the same . . . in a very cool self-contained way. If I go with you tonight, I'll get the details later. So crap on that. I've met his kind by the dozens in Texas. Down there they are in oil or cattle. What does he do?"

"He's president of Downing, Wiswell and Curtin. It's an investment house. We met him in Florida. He's trying to convince Pat to sell stock in the Marratt Corporation. Pat would be listed on the stock exchange. He is really a very brilliant man. He's supposed to have a tremendous art collection."

"I'll bet! . . . etchings and everything."

Liz ignored her. "He told Pat a very strange thing about Yale. I think it kept Pat awake most of the night."

Barbara perked up. Interested, she lighted a cigarette. "No! What's my kid brother done now? Got himself a third wife?" Barbara had been home the night Doctor Tangle described to Pat and Liz the shocking treatment he had received from a young woman who, Doctor Tangle claimed, had introduced herself as Yale's "other wife." Pat and Liz had tried to treat the incident as just the kind of perverted joke that a friend of Yale's would indulge in.

"He's already married to that Jewish bitch," Pat had said. He dismissed the subject. "Barbara witnessed his marriage at the home of a justice of the peace who lives in Midhaven."

But in the following months strange rumors began to emanate from the old Langley place. There really were two women living in the old Georgian farmhouse with Yale Marratt. Two women who were occasionally seen together shopping in Midhaven. One blonde . . . the other one brunette and pregnant. All during the spring the rumors multiplied. A big construction project was going on. The Langley place was being remodelled. A huge swimming pooi was being built. The barn had been converted into what seemed to be "business offices."

"I don't know what your son is up to," John Brockmann, president of the Midhaven National Bank, said to Pat. "But there's no doubt about it he's really pumping money into that Langley place. Have you seen the plans? Bob Coleman went over them with me. Yale has a loan with us backed by a cashier's check as collateral. It equals the amount of our loan. I think he expects we will take the place as collateral against some other venture when he finishes. From the looks of it, I'd say we might do just that."

Brockmann kept talking, enthusiastically. He assumed that Pat was aware of what Yale was doing. He asked Pat about the two exciting looking girls who seemed to be making all the decisions on the new construction and the interiors. "I suppose the pregnant one is your daughter-in-law, Pat? But who is the blonde? Quite a dish. Saw her yesterday out at that new supermarket. Yale was with her. They had a bright-eyed little baby with them."

Pat ignored Brockmann. "He's a damned old biddy," Pat told Liz later. "He was watching with his sharp bird-eyes to see if I was going to let slip some juicy gossip."

Liz looked hurriedly around to see if anyone had heard Barbara. "Bobby, I'm telling you right now to stop the wise-cracking about Yale. No one is exactly sure what is going on. I should hope he would have enough sense left to know that he couldn't get away with bigamy." Liz shuddered. "I just don't believe it. What on earth would a man want with two women? It's just a filthy lie someone has started." She paused and looked vaguely in the direction that Pat had taken across the fairways. "Oh, dear. I wish Pat wasn't so pig-headed. When Yale called from New York that night, he told Pat that he would come to the house the day we invited them both. It would be so simple. What difference does it really make if the girl is Jewish?"

Liz had told Pat that he might as well give in and make the first overtures. But Pat had refused to consider the idea. She knew Pat was deeply bothered. All the plans that he had for the Marratt Corporation involved Yale . . . needed the participation of a younger man. Watching Pat from day to day -- seeing him daily, as he involuntarily looked out their bedroom window across the several miles of woodlands that separated his land from the Langley place, Liz knew that he was constantly thinking about Yale. Time and again he had wondered aloud where Yale had got the money to put into the Langley house. It was as if Yale had frustrated him in the one area where he was certain that Yale would flounder. Liz knew that Pat expected, eventually, Yale would have to come to him . . . looking for assistance. Maybe he even expected Yale to be repentant. When he talked with Brockmann and discovered that somehow Yale had acquired at least fifty thousand dollars, it irritated Pat. It seemed so out of character for Yale to earn that kind of money that it bordered on fantasy.

"Okay, Liz. I'll be good. I won't go around telling our friends that we have a Mormon in the family." Barbara grinned. "What has the fantastic Yale Marratt done now?"

Liz took a sip of her drink. She looked at her watch. "I've got to be going. The girls must be inside already. You can kibitz if you want, or we'll play something else." She got up, and looked at Barbara and shrugged. "I guess you might as well know your brother, according to Paul Downing, is a millionaire. It seems last March he invested in some securities. Something called convertible debentures. I don't really understand about it too well but if Paul is right Yale struck it lucky. He guessed against the whole market, and made around three million dollars."

Barbara whistled. "That should make Pat proud! If Daddy doesn't watch out, Yale will be richer than he is."

Liz shook her head. "That's bad enough but there's more to it than that. Paul isn't quite sure how it's going to work out, but he was telling Pat that Yale has been up to some very slippery business with Latham Shipyard stock. It seems that the Lathams have been having their difficulties since the war ended. There have been war contract cancellations. The stock has been selling pretty low for the past year. Last week an announcement was made in the Midhaven Herald that a non-profit foundation called Challenge Incorporated claims to have acquired control of Latham Shipyards. I don't understand really . . . but there's something in the market called 'short-selling.' A lot of speculators have been selling Latham stock short. It means that they thought the stock was going down, but now the stock has gone up from fifteen dollars to almost eighty dollars a share. This foundation claims that it has a majority of the stock. Alfred Latham has a lot and so does Agatha Latham. None of them will sell to the speculators. I don't understand how . . . but Paul Downing was caught in the deal. It seems he sold forty thousand shares short at twenty-five dollars a share. Then the stock went up. Now he has to deliver the stock and pay eighty dollars a share for it. Only there isn't any stock to buy. Anyway, that's the reason that Paul is here playing golf with Pat and the Lathams."

Barbara looked bewildered. "I don't get it."

Liz smiled. "Well, neither do I really . . . but believe it or not, darling, Paul has found out that your baby brother, Yale, is the financial brain behind this thing called Challenge Incorporated."

Barbara started to laugh. "Oh, God -- that's wonderful. I don't suppose that Paul Downing is aware that Pat and Yale aren't speaking."

"Both Pat and I have told you that the family problems of the Marratts are not for publication," Liz warned her. "Not even the Lathams know. Since your own messy divorce has created quite a fuss in Midhaven, I'll thank you to keep this to yourself. Come on and play bridge with us."

Barbara shook her head. She promised Liz to be home early. Being divorced and coming home to live had put her right back where she started, she reflected. She had to get away. There was nothing for her in Midhaven. In the fall, she thought, I'll either go to Europe or take an apartment in New York. The settlement had cost Tom Eames a quarter of a million dollars and forty thousand dollars a year until she remarried. She could do anything she wished. With a bitter frustrated feeling she realized that there was nothing she wanted to do . . . except to be loved and wanted for herself. She had had such an unrelenting desire in the past weeks to be with a man that she frightened herself. She wanted sexual release, yes -- but she wanted more. She wanted love and companionship, too. That was the only way she could release her deep sexuality.

She thought of Paul Downing and grimaced. Ugh -- no -- no matter what . . . she wouldn't do "it" . . . just for the sake of a man's "thing" between her legs ... no matter how badly off she was. "I'd freeze up anyway," she told herself half aloud. She looked around to see if anyone had heard her. She realized that Liz had gone inside the club. Barbara decided she wasn't going to hang around any longer.

She slid behind the wheel of her new Cadillac convertible -- one of the first that had come off the production lines since the war's end, and drove, aimlessly, listening to the music on the car radio and enjoying the wind in her hair. Speeding along Route 6, she caught a glimpse of a closed iron gate set between two large granite blocks. She brought the car to a screeching stop. It was the entrance to the old Langley farm. On one of the gateposts, the legend "Challenge Farm" had been neatly lettered in black paint.

She backed up to get a better look. She hadn't seen Yale since the day he married Cynthia. In the past few months there had been no particular reason to talk with him. There was no denying they were both in the doghouse at home, but her own problems had seemed more weighty than Yale's. Besides, she guessed that Yale did not, from what he had said when she was so ill, particularly approve of her divorce. Now, she was intrigued. It would while away the dreadful afternoon to pry on Yale. Later when she went to dinner with Downing and her family, she could report factually on what was going on.

Ye gods, two wives . . . what an existence . . . if it were true. As she backed her car in front of the gate she felt perspiration trickle uncomfortably down her back. At least she hoped Yale would offer her a drink.

The gate was locked. A sign on the post said, "Ring bell." She rang it. While she waited she tried to look up the tree-lined asphalt driveway. She could see nothing hut trees. No house was in sight. She wondered why the gate was locked, and how far in the road it was to the house. She pushed the bell button several more times but still there was no response. She was about to give up when a jeep thundered down the driveway and stopped with a metallic rasp of its brakes.

The man that got out startled her. He was barrel chested, stripped to the waist, and heavily tanned. With a full head of grey hair and a pointed goatee, he looked like a handsome middle-aged character actor. "Well, howdy, Barbara," he said, smiling broadly. Barbara didn't recognize him. "Don't know me, do you? Don't blame you much. We ain't never been introduced formally. If we had, don't suppose you would know me anyhow . . . what with my new beard. Mrs. Cynthia said if I wouldn't shave, then I'd have to grow one. Kind of becoming, don't you think?" Weeks waggled his chin. He introduced himself.

"If the local drama group sees you, they'll ask you to play Falstaff," Barbara said, unimpressed, "Are you going to let me in? I suppose my brother is around."

Weeks nodded. He reached into an iron box behind the gate and withdrew a telephone. "Got to clear you with the boss. It's the house rules."

"What in hell has Yale got in there? A gambling casino?"

Weeks was on the telephone. "It's your sister, Yale. Yeah, I understand. No, she's alone. Okay, I'll bring her to the house first." Weeks hung up the phone. "It's okay," he said to Barbara. "You're to go to the house first."

He made her park her car inside the gate. She sat beside him in the jeep.

"What's this funny business all about?" Barbara demanded. "Why do I have to leave my car here? What do you mean that I have to go to the house first?" She got a whiff of Weeks' breath. "You've been drinking."

"I'm damned if I know about your car," Weeks said. He ignored her remark about his drinking. "I guess as a new guest at Challenge Farms, Yale wanted to check you out before you started prowling around by yourself. Anyway, you can ask him."

Weeks made a sharp turn. Barbara had a surprised vision of a cool, white Georgian house with tall columns reaching to its roof. Leaded glass windows edged with black shutters looked across the rolling lawn. It was only a momentary picture, because her shocked gaze stopped on Yale who was walking toward her from the broad front porch that flanked the house. Her mind kept telling her that she was seeing things. No! Yale couldn't be naked! Not stark-naked! But it was true. It was Yale and he was tanned even darker than Weeks.

Yale walked up to her, grinning. He held out his hand and took her limp one. "Well, Bobby, at last a part of my family has remembered that we live in the same world. It's good to see you."

Barbara looked away disgustedly. "Well, it's not good to see you . . . without a damned thing on. What the hell are you doing . . . practicing up for a nudist convention? What's all this funny business, anyway? Why do you have to meet me at the house first?"

Yale smiled indulgently. He pointed to a small parking area near the side of the house. There were five cars parked in it. "I have guests, Bobby. We are all up at the pool. You see, every fourth Sunday afternoon we have open house at Challenge Farms."

Reluctantly Barbara looked at him. She tried to ignore his nudity. She couldn't believe he was serious. There was too much of a tone of sly laughter in his inflection. "I suppose all your guests are nude, too," she said with sarcasm.

"As a matter of fact, not quite," Yale said. "Let's see -- there's Peoples McGroaty. You know him. He's editor of the Midhaven Herald . He has a sweat shirt on, I believe, but no pants. I think he was getting a sunburn. There's Sam Higgins and his wife, Clara. Sam hasn't got a damned thing on, but Clara will need another drink before she gets undressed. Clara is wearing a bathing suit. Harry Cohen and his wife, Sarah . . . I don't believe you know them, either. Well, they simply believe being naked is more comfortable on a hot day. Let's see, there is also Bob Coleman . . . my architect. He's about your age. He's naked. So is Anne. Cindar got a sunburn on her legs yesterday so she's wearing a skirt . . . but no top. Oh, yes, there's Agatha Latham. She's living here with us for a while . . . she enjoys the conversation, but she says that since she was eighty last spring, it is too late for her to do everything she wants to do. . . ."

"You don't mean to say that Alfred Latham's great aunt is here? Not Aunt Agatha," Barbara said, aghast. Then she laughed, "Oh, brother, that's rich! How much stock does she own in the Latham Shipyards?"

"I see by your new concern with finance," Yale said lightly, "that you have something you may want to tell me. The only reason that I'm greeting you here is that I wanted to prepare you. Actually, you see, my guests appreciate the privacy. We're not running a nudist camp here . . . this is the Abbey of Thélème. You know 'fais ce que voudrais.' However, since many people would believe that because we are casual about clothes we are equally casual about sex, we have to be careful whom we invite." Yale grinned, "'However I will vouch for you."

"From what I hear about your marital life I would assume that you were quite casual about sex . . ." Barbara said, ". . . and 'doing what you wish' in that area, too."

"As a matter of fact, I am," Yale said equably. "If you would like to come out to the pool, you can show your good intentions by shedding your clothes. You can leave them upstairs. I'll wait for you. But hurry. You've interrupted a fascinating discussion about the new book that Challenge Incorporated has just published."

"Do you think I'm crazy? I'm not walking around naked in front of a lot of people," Barbara said. "Not this chicken!"

"Okay, you can go home." Yale started for the jeep Weeks had left. "I'll drive you back to the gate."

Barbara's mouth sagged as she realized that Yale meant what he said.

"All right, I'll do it," she said, thinking that if this was the only way to find out what was going on . . . well, what the hell. Wait until Liz heard about this!

Yale told her to undress in the large bedroom, second door on the right at the top of the stairs. He was sitting on the carpeted stairway, waiting for her when she finally returned. He watched her coming slowly down the stairs. Barbara blushed. "You look pretty good for a gal of thirty-two," he said, enjoying her embarrassment.

Barefoot, they walked over the soft grass and along a narrow pathway through the woods in the back of the house. Ahead of them Barbara could hear the sound of voices. "Listen, I'm pretty broadminded," she said nervously, "but this gives me the cold shakes."

Yale looked at her sympathetically. "It's only for the first time . . . after that if you ever come again you can wear your clothes or not as you wish. The idea is that by arriving nude you will create a tacit bond of fellowship, and give assurance that you'll keep your mouth shut. None of us are militant nudists. We have simply discovered that sometimes being nude is very comfortable -- especially on a day as hot as this."

They walked into a huge clearing girded by pines that cast inviting shadows over a tremendous swimming pool. Barbara guessed it was nearly a hundred feet long. At one end there were cabanas. Near them, on a patio, a number of people were sitting in beach chairs, talking excitedly. As they walked closer, Barbara realized that they were talking in different groups. Several different subjects were being discussed.

"Cindar! Anne!" Yale shouted. "Come help me introduce my sister."

Barbara recognized Cynthia coming toward her wearing a skirt but nothing else. Cynthia's breasts swayed as she walked. Abreast of her . . . about equal in height was a blonde girl who was completely naked. She was as darkly tanned as Yale.

"It's nice that you have come, Bobby," Cynthia said, smiling at her. Barbara, forgetting that she, too, was naked, tried not to look at Cynthia's breasts. They seemed to stare at her; proud with their weight of milk.

"I'm Anne," the blonde girl introduced herself. She smiled easily at Barbara. "I suppose Yale gave you the business on how you simply had to undress. He just does that to make himself comfortable. You should have told him you had your period. Clara Higgins did. You should have seen Yale blush."

Anne and Cynthia led her toward the others. "Come on, we'll introduce you."

Barbara was led from one group to another. She met Sam Higgins and his wife. Sam, sprawled in a beach chair, his fat stomach protruding, looking white and indecent to Barbara, leered at her. He said, "There's no doubt about you being a beauty, but where in hell did you get a brother like Yale Marratt? Jesus, I've been around plenty, but I've never spent an afternoon like this. My brains are fagged." Sam took a swallow of a drink he was holding.

"Yale and Peoples McGroaty have been discussing the philosophy of Challenge. They are trying to get Sam as a director of the foundation," Cynthia explained. "This is Barbara Marratt, Clara. Clara is Sam's wife."

Clara, a rather hard-looking, silver-dyed-blonde, greeted Barbara suavely. "Hi -- get Weeks to make you a drink and sit down."

Barbara noted that Clara was wearing a Bikini type bathing suit, it occurred to Barbara that Clara looked far sexier than Anne or Cynthia, though it was obvious she had no better figure.

"That's a good looking rear end." A voice behind Barbara startled her. "Introduce me."

Barbara turned, blushing.

A man in his late fifties, wearing old-fashioned steel-rimmed spectacles, stared at her, amused.

"You're Pat Marratt's daughter." He put out his hand. "Glad to know you, I'm Harold McGroaty."

Barbara realized that he was the famous Peoples McGroaty who was editor and owner of the Midhaven Herald .

"After you've met the others come back here," Peoples said. "We've got a most interesting discussion going. Yale is trying to convince us that his multiple marriage is simply a by-product of a philosophy of life that believes that human beings can be the masters of their own destinies."

Anne, who had gone over to an impromptu bar that had been set up near one of the cabanas, returned. She handed Barbara a drink. "Here's a vodka and tonic. Give you something to do with your hands. When Bob Coleman, who isn't married, looks wolfishly at you, just take a swallow and stare very coolly back at him. Come on. Bob is worth meeting." Anne introduced Coleman as the wizard architect.

Coleman, nude and tanned, stood up. He grinned at Barbara. "Lady, do you take after your brother? If so, I want to know you better."

Anne was right, Barbara thought, Coleman was a six-footer, and handsome. She took a swallow of her drink.

Coleman was obviously studying her with interest.

"Which do you like best, my breasts or my legs?" Barbara asked. She tried to return his stare just as coolly. She hoped she wasn't blushing.

"Touché -- stabbed to the quick." Coleman chuckled. "Yale says you get used to it, but so help me if I design the most beautiful edifice in the world, it wouldn't compare to the wonder of your shoulders, and the grace of your clavicle . . . not to mention the proud curve of your breasts . . . any female's breasts, human or animal, are among the graceful wonders of the world."

Yale walked up beside them. "He's quoting from Mat Chilling! He's not original. Don't let him fool you."

"But damn it! I believe it," Coleman said. He handed Barbara a book from a pile of similar ones on the table. It had a brilliant orange cover. Barbara read the title. It was lettered in black: Spoken in My Manner .

"Who is Mat Chilling?" she asked.

"One of the wise men . . ." Yale said, shrugging. "This book is the manifesto of Challenge. In a sense, Mat Chilling is the real father of Challenge, Incorporated."

Both Cynthia and Anne joined them. Cynthia shook her head, denying Yale's statement. "I'll tell you something, Barbara. Yale is pleased to credit this book to Mat Chilling -- but make no mistake, Mat left it in pretty crude shape. Actually, Yale and Anne and I spent nearly three months rewriting it, while we tried to keep warm in front of the kitchen fireplace . . . at the same time Bob Coleman and at least fifty men were tearing the house down around us and rebuilding it."

"All three of you are nuts!" Coleman said. "I'll prove it to you, Barbara." He called Weeks from behind the bar. "Who wrote this book, Weeks?"

Ralph stroked his beard. He smiled broadly. "I did. My picture is on the cover."

"That's not your picture, Ralph." Anne laughed. "That's a background vignette of Socrates."

"Yale said it was a picture of me. He told me that without me the hook wouldn't have been written," Weeks said affably. "Anyway, how could the three of you have written it? So far as I could figure, you've spent the last three months in bed."

"You're a damned old Peeping Tom," Anne said calmly. Cynthia blushed.

A short, dark man joined them and introduced himself. "I'm Harry Cohen," he said. Barbara had an impression of flashing white teeth, an aquiline nose, and very spirited brown eyes. She realized suddenly that he was naked, but was surprised to notice that her reaction of shame and dismay was fading.

"That's my plump wife, Sarah, sitting over there talking to Auntie Agatha. We've been discussing the labor situation in Midhaven." Harry asked Barbara if she could identify the title of the book, Spoken in My Manner . Barbara shook her head. "To tell you the truth," she said, "I don't know anything about the book . . . or anything else about my brother's mad doings." She tried to remember where she had heard Cohen's name, and then remembered, startled, that he was the union organizer with whom Pat had had so much trouble.

Coleman took her arm. "Come on for a swim. Let me bring you up to date on this fabulous brother of yours."

As she followed Coleman toward the pool, Barbara noticed that the others had gravitated around Aunt Agatha. The whole party and the strange bits of conversation she had heard so far were crazy . . . only partly intelligible. It reminded her of something. As she dove in the pool, delighting in the wonderful coolness of the water embracing her naked body, she remembered. She emerged from the water exploding with laughter. Coleman, swimming ahead of her, asked what was so funny.

"I've been trying to recall what this afternoon reminds me of. It just came to me . . . it's a re-creation of the Mad Tea Party in Alice in Wonderland . My brother is the Mad Hatter. . . ."

Coleman swung easily onto the edge of the pool. He offered her a hand. She sat beside him, and they dangled their feet in the water in silence.

"Is he really married to both of them?" Barbara asked.

"What's marriage?" Coleman countered. "Was it a marriage when some minister spoke some accepted words and pronounced you and that Texan man and wife?"

"I see you read the scandal sheets." Barbara's voice was bitter.

"Don't get upset. There's a rule of Challenge that if you ask a serious question, you get a serious answer."

"Look, what in hell is Challenge?" Barbara demanded.

Coleman grinned. "Damned if I can answer you. It's a way of life, I guess. Some of the clue is in the title of that book. It's Yale's title. A quotation from Plato's dialogue, Apology . 'I would rather die,' Socrates said, 'having spoken in my manner, than speak in your manner and live.'"

Barbara looked at Coleman, a puzzled expression on her face.

Coleman shrugged. "Yale would say to you, I think, that marriage is an act of faith between a man and a woman. The measure of the faith is made by the participants. No outside source, neither religious nor State, can insure a marriage or make it valid. Yale has made his act of faith with two women. He fascinates me. In him you can see . . . on a different plane, of course ... Lenin, the doer the man of action discovering the thinker, Marx. Then excitedly the doer translates the ideas of the thinker into a way of life. Mat Chilling parallels Marx with his book, of course. And, while your brother is a thinker, he is the revolutionist, too . . . the man of action."

"I still can't believe that two women could get along. They must have moments when they are ready to tear each other's hair out."

"I've known them for three months," Coleman said. "Of course I don't see them all the time, but I've never seen them angry. They are, all three of them, argumentative. Give them a chance, they will discuss and disagree all night long, but whenever one of them brings an argument to a point of dealing with personalities, one or the other of them will twist it into its humorous aspects. I mentioned it to Anne once. She said, 'There is only one thing of ultimate importance in the world, and that is the magnitude of our understanding, and love for each other as mortal, fallible human beings.'" Coleman was silent, thinking his own thoughts.

"Sounds like some of those sweetness-and-light religions that appeal to old ladies," Barbara said sarcastically. "God's in his heaven, all's well with the world -- and my brother is some twentieth-century Candide. According to his theories, and the placid little harem he has accumulated, I suppose he would accept that a man like my ex-husband was just a nice little fallible mortal . . . only problem: Tom is a little stray-pussy happy, that's all. . . ."

Coleman smiled. "According to Mat Chilling, if you really loved him you wouldn't resent that. What you might resent was that as a person he did not love you."

"You mean so long as he professed to love me, he could love anyone else he might he attracted to?"

"Not professed, but actually did love you."

"Balls. Would Yale accept it, if Anne went to bed with you? Would he be all sweetness and light? I doubt it. Yet, what right has Yale to have two women?"

Coleman shrugged. "You'll have to read Chilling's book. Actually you equate loving a person with having sexual intercourse with him. Anne loves me. I love her and Cindar. While I might be agreeable to enticing them into the sack, if I could, believe it or not they want to reserve that intimacy for Yale. But I care for them . . ." He grinned. "Just as I care for you. You are a very pretty woman."

Barbara got up. She realized again that she was nude. She noticed that Coleman was surveying her body very carefully. She blushed and walked away, thinking how silly she must look.

He didn't follow her. Barbara wondered what Coleman was thinking. Probably awful things. Then reluctantly she admitted that even while they were talking so calmly she had a quick picture of herself being held by him in a close sexual embrace.

Barbara approached the rest of the group. Agatha Latham was sitting in a wicker chair with a back so high that it gave its occupant a regal appearance. The rest were sprawled on straw mats, beach chairs, or cushions in a semi-circle listening to her, as if she were holding court, and this motley, half-naked group sitting at her feet were her serfs. As Barbara sat down next to Yale, Agatha eyed her imperiously, but she kept on talking in a surprisingly strong voice.

"I've had plenty of time to read Mat Chilling's book and think about it," Agatha said, "and I have seen your advertising plans. I just want to say, Yale Marratt, that I'm enjoying what you are doing. But I'm an old lady and my long life has convinced me that if you expect to change the world you won't do it by appealing to the better instincts of man. Your ideas are too Utopian. You have too high a faith in the goodness of individual men and man in general. Most men would rather grovel in the mud. The leaders to whom they give their utmost are the leaders with a high-sounding idea rooted in sadism. Look at what Hitler did with Nietzsche's idea of a superman. He created an Aryan world with a superiority complex. It became more fun to make lampshades out of Jews, than to accept a stranger as your brother. . . ."

Sam Higgins burst out laughing. "That's what I've been telling Yale. He thinks he's a twentieth-century jet-propelled Jesus Christ. When this campaign breaks, there are going to be groups all over the country ready to nail him to any handy cross. Ye gods, a million dollars to promote a book . . . and such a book . . . something is bound to explode, and my guess is unpleasantly. . . ."

"And wait until Cynthia and Anne really have a falling out," Clara interrupted. "This namby-pamby niceness of two women adoring one man, willing to share him, is a bit thick to me!" She got up and walked over to the bar to make herself another drink. "Sam may not be the best in the world but I wouldn't share him. Only a slutty woman would share her man."

Barbara gasped at the remark. Cynthia said nothing but the expression on her face showed distaste. Sam tried to pass it off. "Clara didn't mean that, kids. She just gets too blunt when she's drinking."

Anne got up. She followed Clara to the bar. "You think we're kind of sappy, don't you?" she asked her softly. "The kind of adjustment that you would expect Cindar or me to make, is for one of us to leave Yale. That's the brave modern solution. The trouble with most females is . . . they are little bitches like you who think the thing between their legs is an indescribable treasure. . . ." With incredible swiftness Anne snatched at Clara's bra with one hand and with the other whipped off the panties of Clara's Bikini bathing suit. "Now, baby," Anne laughed, "you look a little less like my idea of a slut."

Screaming, Clara attacked Anne. She tried to claw her. Everyone started yelling at once. Yale moved with precision. In a second, he reached Clara . . . swept her into his arms, and ran with her to the pool. When she realized what was going to happen to her, Clara stopped screaming and yelled, "Sam! Stop him! Stop him! He's going to drown me!" She pounded at Yale's chest. "You rotten bastard, let me down."

At the edge of the pool, Yale smiled, and said to her softly: "You are acting disgracefully, Clara. This will cool you off a little." He tossed her in. She went under, swearing obscenely, and then came up sputtering.

Sam patted Yale on the back. "She'd like it better if I tried to punch your nose," he said, "but damned if I don't think she deserved it."

9

Later, when Yale followed Cynthia and Anne upstairs to their bedroom to get dressed for an evening cook-out on the back patio, Cynthia admitted that her silence and preoccupation was due to the fact that she was worried.

"I don't care about Clara. She had it coming to her," Cynthia said as she lifted her baby from her crib, "but I still don't think that you two can act that way and get away with it. You were both lucky that it didn't end in a free-for-all."

Entranced, as he always was when he watched Cindar nurse Adar, Yale said nothing. Talking softly, Cynthia placed her nipple in the baby's mouth. In a second Adar was sucking happily and kneading Cynthia's breast with her tiny fingers.

Anne lay on their huge canopied bed with Ricky noisily gurgling into his bottle beside her.

"You worry too much, Cindar," Anne said. "Aunt Agatha was positively delighted. She told me that she was acquainted with several Belmont ladies who could benefit from a similar dunking. I think she's planning to ask you if she could invite them down here for a few weeks to stay with her," Anne grinned. She changed the subject. "You know, Yale. when I see you watch Cindar nursing and see the glazed look of awe that comes into your eyes, I get jealous. I wish I hadn't stopped nursing Ricky so soon."

Yale jumped up. He grabbed Ricky, who had finished his bottle, and to Ricky's delight swung him around in the air. Finally, Yale plunked Ricky in his crib, and made several crazy faces while he murmured silly baby conversation at him. Then, before Anne could jump away from him, Yale grabbed her . . . rolled her over, and cracked her smartly on her bare fanny. "That's what happens to jealous women," he said, laughing. He started to tickle her until she was gasping for breath. She begged him to stop. Cynthia watched them, smiling.

Yale lay on the bed beside Anne. He grinned at Cynthia. "Don't look so smug," he said. "You're next. Just as soon as you finish with Adar. Do you know what Cindar told me last night?" he asked Anne. "She said that she couldn't help but be a little jealous of you. After all you have given me a son, and she has brought nothing to our house except a baby girl who belongs to some other man." Yale chuckled. "I'm going to start following you two around. You must be listening to those soap operas on the radio. Where else could you pick up such hearts-and-flowers dialogue?"

Cynthia had finished nursing Adar. She put her back in her crib. Then she pattered swiftly across the room and landed with a thud on Yale's chest. She bit his shoulder. He yelled with pain.

"There. I told you not to tell Anne," Cynthia said. Crouching back on his stomach, she plucked a few hairs out of his chest. "The trouble with this marriage is that no one has any secrets!"

"That's the only thing that makes it possible! And you know it. No secrets . . ." Yale said. He tried to grab her around the neck and pull her forward, on top of him, but she ducked out of his grasp.

Whenever Cynthia or Anne raised any question about their living together Yale started the formula which they all repeated with mock seriousness.

"Are you happy, Cindar?"

Cynthia smiled. "You're the best thing on the horizon so far!"

"Are you happy, Anne?"

Anne giggled. "I haven't received any other offers yet."

"Are you happy, Yale?" they chorused.

"It could be worse." He groaned. "I could have three women!"

They both grabbed him and looked at him ferociously. "You better not try it, chum!"

The three of them lay on the bed, listening to the put-put sounds of a power lawn mower. While everyone was resting or getting dressed for the cookout, Ralph Weeks was evidently mowing the west lawn. Silently, they watched the early evening shadows gather in the corners of the room. Yale liked the twilight part of the day. He luxuriated in the warmth and femininity that Anne and Cynthia had created in their huge bedroom. The light French provincial furniture, he thought, blended surprisingly well with Martha Weeks' canopied bed. Yale knew that Cynthia and Anne were reluctant to get dressed and face the evening trying to entertain a sullen Clara.

After her dunking Clara had come out of the pool sobbing and furious. She had grabbed her robe, and had run back to the house. Sam had followed her. Their departure put an uncomfortable edge on the afternoon.

Sarah and Harry Cohen decided that since it was nearly four o'clock they had better leave. With the impending strike at the Marratt plant Harry admitted that he had a lot of loose ends to tie together.

"I wanted to talk with you a little more about it," Harry said quietly to Yale when he was sure that Barbara couldn't hear him. "But when your sister came in I thought we better get off the subject. Your father may or may not know. Chances are he has a pretty good idea . . . but there's no sense of tipping him off if he doesn't." Harry had smiled. "I'm sorry about things piling up on you like this . . . but there's no way I can stop now."

Yale told him that there was no relationship between the publication of the book and the strike.

"Well, you know your father . . ." Harry said. "Barbara will tell him that I was here . . . obviously, a friend . . . and then he'll read the book or see the publicity on it and zowie . . ." As he left Harry told him he hoped that Clara wouldn't create a mess.

"Anne and Cynthia will just have to disregard what she said." Harry shrugged. "You're going to find out, Yale, that people won't let you live your life without interference. I have no opinions on your marriage, but I think you are sitting on a bomb, and lighting matches too close to the fuse."

Barbara and Bob Coleman left a few minutes later. When she was dressed again and bidding good-bye, Barbara said to Yale, "You think you're quite a man with the women, don't you, chum? If you want some sisterly advice . . . if I were you I'd confine myself to the more pliable type. You'll never get to first base with Clara."

Yale knew that Barbara probably would report her experiences to Pat and Liz in detail. He guessed that she was probably pleased with the fiasco that Clara had created.

Peoples McGroaty asked Yale how long Sam and Clara were staying. Yale told him they would be with them at least until Wednesday. Peoples shook his head. He told Yale that Clara was trouble. "Wouldn't it be better if she and Sam stayed in town at a hotel, or one of the new motels on the New York road?"

Yale disagreed. "Clara is all right, Peoples. She's like most people in the world who live strictly by their emotions. Running a newspaper . . . you should know . . . it's much easier to hate what you don't understand than to make the mental effort to understand." Yale smiled. "Don't worry, we'll straighten her out."

Peoples told Barbara, while Yale listened, that Yale worried him. "His idealism frightens me. It would be a bit sticky and unbelievable if it weren't so intense. He reminds me a lot of Mat Chilling except that Mat was passive by comparison. Yale has such a terrible sense of mission. He holds up a bright mirror and we are bewildered to look into it and see our own cowardice."

Yale rubbed his toes against Cynthia's, and then against Anne's ankles. "Are we all ashamed to see Clara again?" he asked them. He stared into the shadowed canopy of the bed.

Cynthia answered first. "I'm not ashamed, Yale, and I don't think Anne is. Whether it is wrong or right, morally, for us to live together, doesn't bother me. I'm convinced that for us it is the best solution. What does frighten me is that you seem so determined to make us a public spectacle. If our lives were very private, we might get away with it. This way I think we are heading for trouble."

Yale disagreed. "Not a public spectacle, Cindar . . . but not hiding and living in fear either."

"Well, anyway, neither you nor Anne makes any attempt at concealment. I think you are both too brash. I feel the way you both do, but I don't believe in advertising our love. You are too trusting of people's reactions. Even the people you have invited here Sundays have different ideas than we have. I talked with Barbara before she went home. She had fun . . . but she was shocked . . . being naked . . . what she calls our bigamy . . . just wait until she reads Spoken in My Manner . . ." Cynthia whistled. "And just wait until your father reads it and gets Barbara's report.

"Cindar is right," Anne said. She leaned on her elbow so that she could look at both of them. "In the next few months Challenge may be poking into a hornets' nest. When you start questioning the customs that people live by . . . when you laugh at the 'sacred cows' . . . you are stirring up an emotional brew that can explode all over the place." She paused and looked at Yale and Cynthia fondly. "I'm not afraid, and I don't really think that you are, Cindar. During the spring when we were rewriting Mat's book, you were as wild and passionate with your theories as any bearded Bolshevik. Now that some of your ideas are going to show up in print I'm afraid you won't be able to deny them."

Cynthia grinned. "I guess I'm a sneaky radical . . . before our marriage I just thought my ideas, or said them in a low voice to Mat when he didn't seem to be listening seriously." Cynthia was on her elbow talking across Yale's face directly to Anne. Yale ran his fingers across their dangling breasts. They both jumped.

"You cut that out!" Anne warned him. "Or you'll end up in the trouble that Cynthia and I have been promising you! She lay on her stomach. "What is really bothering me, Yale, is Harry Cohen. It's very bad timing. Does he really have to call the strike at the Marratt plant Wednesday?"

"It's too late, now. This is the first time that Harry has managed to get an affirmative strike vote from the employees." Yale reviewed the labor problems at Marratt Corporation for them. "He's been trying to organize Marratt for nearly eight years. Pat and he have played checkers with the employees in the plant. Pat has his stooges. Harry has his. They usually each have a pretty good idea what the other is up to. Finally, during the war, Harry won the elections with a clear majority. They had hired so many new people to replace those who were drafted that the old loyalties disappeared. It's been the same all over the country. . . .

"But Harry hasn't gained much. Pat has been able to ignore his demands because he has been careful to keep the company in a position where he would have a good chance of breaking the strike, and maybe the union as well. Pat has tried to have sufficient inventories to last six to eight months. He has a Strike Day program to get the stuff to his distributors and brokers that is practically impregnable. In the past it meant that Cohen would be tackling a long strike. His headquarters would never okay that.

"Right now, Harry thinks the time is ripe. The demand has been so great that the plant is working practically around the clock. Inventories are way down. On the other hand, three or four thousand people have been laid off at the Latham Shipyards in the past year. The city has plenty of unemployed. Pat might try to employ a whole new crew. He'd warn those who didn't come back that they would be out of a job permanently. This could be Pat's golden opportunity to break the union. But Harry can't stop now. It's a gamble. The existence of the union depends on Harry getting better wages for them. He's in between the devil, Pat . . . and the deep blue sea . . . no union at all. Still, if it became an extended strike, Pat could lose millions of dollars."

Anne sighed. "Doesn't it bother you, Yale, that you know what is going to happen, and you haven't told Pat?"

"It's not a question of loyalties. Harry is my friend, but he didn't have to tell me his plans. He naturally assumes that I won't tell Pat. Oh, I know . . . you want to say that blood is thicker than water. But that's a cliché that really doesn't mean anything. Each situation contains its own challenge, if we are to prove the value of what Challenge is trying to do we must sit above the fray, and offer judgment based on the soundest principles we can devise."

"I wish I didn't have such an imagination," Anne said. "I can see your father bewildered, contemplating the ruins around him, betrayed by his son. . . ." Anne's eyes were open wide and liquid with the sincerity of her emotion. "For Challenge, to Pat, will be a betrayal . . . he must have loved you, Yale . . . he must have had high hopes for you. . . ."

"That was the trouble . . . high hopes. . . ." It's all right to hope generally for someone, but when you try to impose your specific wishes, desires, ambitions on another person . . . it doesn't always work out, It smacks of despotism." Yale ran his fingers lightly along the separation in Anne's buttocks, and slowly up her back. She shivered pleasantly.

"You've tried to impose your high hopes on us," Cynthia said, grinning at him. "The truth is if you would admit it . . . that you are pretty much a despot yourself."

Yale chuckled. "There never was a despot who could tyrannize two women!" He touched his fingers on the curve of Cynthia's stomach almost perceptibly.

"He's asking for trouble, Anne."

"I think you're right, Cindar."

"What's going on between you two?" Yale demanded. "What are all these innuendoes?" He sat up on the bed and looked at them curiously. Then, as they both touched him, he realized what they meant.

He blushed. "Oh, no . . . you don't!"

When Yale, Anne, and Cynthia walked onto the back patio, Weeks looked sarcastically at his watch. He turned back to the outdoor fireplace and continued to flip the sizzling hamburgers and hot dogs. "I told you to just have patience," Weeks said grimly to Sam Higgins. "You've got to get accustomed to the three of them. Eventually, they get hungry. . . . I know one thing: they're going to have to hire a cook pretty quick. I'm getting a phobia against making my own meals."

"Ooooh you!" Cynthia said. She pushed Weeks away from the grill.

"You're an old buzzard," Anne protested hotly to Weeks. "This is the first time in a month you've come close to making a meal . . . even breakfast."

"What in hell have the three of you been doing?" Sam demanded suspiciously. "I've showered, shaved, shampooed . . ." Sam skipped the first "s" that belonged to the alliteration, but Cynthia and Anne had evidently heard it from Yale. They laughed. "I've been sitting down here an hour with Agatha," Sam continued. "Jesus, I can't figure out how you manage it . . . think of it . . . two women. . . ." Sam watched Yale preparing drinks at the portable bar for Anne, Cynthia, and himself. "Come on, Yale tell Agatha and me . . . what's the secret?" He grinned craftily. "You can start by telling us what the three of you have been doing for the last two and a half hours!"

Yale heard Aunt Agatha chuckle. He winked at her, and then said to Sam, "Did you ever play chess?"

Sam admitted that he had.

"Well, we've developed a new game. It's not in any of the books. You have to be somewhat of a genius to win at it. It's played singlehanded against two players who are in conspiracy against you."

Cynthia, who was helping Anne load hot dogs and hamburgers into their buns, started to choke with laughter. Anne grinned and patted her solicitously on her back.

Yale smirked at them. "Well, the trouble with this game is that you suddenly find you're up against two queens who can put your king in check with the greatest of ease . . . your opponents have a thorough grasp of the play . . . they know that the king can only make one move at a time. . . ." Yale handed Sam, who was looking very puzzled, a hot dog. "Here, without regard to its phallic qualities, put some of Pat Marratt's piccalilli on it." He chuckled. "See, the Marratts add spice to your life literally and figuratively."

"Where's Clara?" Cynthia asked. As she spoke, Clara, wearing a print skirt with a detachable halter, came out on the patio. "Speak of the devil," Clara said, trying to appear lighthearted, "I was in your library, Yale. God . . . it's fantastic! How many books have you?"

"About eight thousand, I guess. Contributions from several different sources. Mat Chilling's books are all there . . . over four thousand of them. Cynthia had collected four or five hundred of her own. Anne remembered her husband Ricky's books. We had them trucked in from Ohio . . . more than a thousand. I must have had a couple of thousand. Bob Coleman thought we had gone crazy . . . first private library he ever designed. It's a mess . . . a lot of duplicates. Anne and Cynthia are going to straighten it out one of these days. . . ."

"That's what he thinks," Anne said. She handed Clara a drink. "He has so many projects for us we both would have to live two lifetimes to accomplish them."

Clara took the drink dubiously. "After this afternoon, I don't know whether I should drink any more." She looked at them all, and said bravely, "I was a bitch. I'm really sorry." Clara sat down on a wicker porch chair and she started to cry.

"Come, come!" Aunt Agatha said coolly. "You're a big girl now, Clara!"

Clara shook her head. "No, I'm not," she said bitterly. "I'm a little scared kid. I just don't understand any of this stuff that you think is so adult." She sighed and patted her skirt. I feel better now that we all have clothes on. At least, I'm not embarrassed to look at everyone."

"Why don't you forget it, Clara?" Sam asked. "Just calm down."

"I'm calm, Sam. Calm enough to know that what Yale is doing is no worse than what you are doing."

Sam looked at her, surprised. He anticipated what she was going to say. "Let's not expose any dirty linen here, Clara."

"You're the one who made our lives filthy," Clara said, bitterly. "I'll never forget the day that I saw the two of you . . . you and that cheap tramp who was your secretary . . . sitting in the cocktail lounge of the Savoy-Plaza . . . the both of you looking gooey-eyed at each other. I wanted to vomit!"

Sam looked helplessly at Yale, Cynthia, and Anne who were sitting in a semi-circle around a redwood table, eating while they listened to Clara. Cynthia looked sympathetic, but Anne's face had an amused smile.

Aunt Agatha, who had been reading the financial section of the Sunday Times , put the paper down and eyed Clara speculatively. Finally she shrugged and said to Yale, "Well, there's the other side of the coin." She laughed and took the drink that Weeks handed to her, confirming that it was a Scotch on the rocks. "On one side, modern bigamy . . . marriage with occasional solo flights with someone else, and on the other side, down-to-earth bigamy à la Brigham Young. Take your pick." She sipped her Scotch appreciatively. "If you were nearer my age, Ralph, I'd ask you to marry me. These young people should be taught that there's more to marriage than sex."

Ralph wagged his head. "I'm only eleven years younger than you are, Agatha, but I'd never marry you for companionship, if that's what you mean!" He stroked his goatee. "You look pretty chipper to me . . . even if you are eighty . . . if you'd agree to some old-fashioned cuddling I might change my mind."

Agatha snorted, but everyone could see that she was delighted.

Sam was relieved at the dexterous way Agatha had changed the conversation. Clara was wiping her eyes. She had evidently decided not to discuss her marital problems further.

"I've been here all day, Yale," Sam said. "You've got to bring me up to date. Have you heard from Paul Downing? We've got to make up our minds fast on what to do with the 'short-sellers.' The quicker we clean this up . . . the better."

"Wait a second, Sam," Yale said. "I want to ask Clara a question." Yale turned to her. "Do you love Sam, Clara?"

"Yale! Let well enough alone!" Cynthia said nervously.

"It's all right, Cynthia," Clara said. She looked at Yale sardonically. "Yale is just using the Challenge technique on me. I'm not dumb, you know, Yale. I graduated from Wellesley." Clara looked at Sam silently before she answered. "We haven't slept together since April. . . ." We just live together. I'm not so modern as some of my friends."

"Supposing you had never seen Sam with this other woman, Clara?" Yale asked. "Your life would be pretty much the same. Sam must still find you quite attractive. . . ."

"You mean share him! . . . like Cynthia and Anne have to share you?" Clara asked disgustedly.

Yale shrugged. "Why not? You've got two kids. What would Sam gain if he left you? I'll bet this woman that Sam knows is more insecure than you are. I think a lot of divorce problems would vanish into thin air, if the maligned wife invited the other woman home. Probably, if you invited this girl to stay in your home, you might discover that under all the nastiness and shame that society insists that you feel . . . really, this other woman was a human being, too. It would be a nice solution for the several million women in this country who never will marry."

Clara smiled. "Which is to say you are somewhat Victorian in your ideas about females. . . . It's a man's world and all that crap. Some day, Yale Marratt . . . someone is going to get pretty mad with you . . . of all the dumb ideas!" Clara was silent, but Anne and Cynthia noticed that she was looking at Sam quizzically.

"I'm damned if I can see how you can sit here and discuss . . ." Sam was about to say "unimportant things," but he thought better of it. "Things like this when we've got a million dollar deal in the fire. Remember, Yale, part of this Latham deal has been financed by me." Pleased that at last he had captured Yale's attention, Sam continued. "Let me bring you up to date. I picked up another five thousand shares of Latham stock yesterday. An old duffer out in Chicago had them. I was lucky to get to him first. Despite the publicity he didn't know what was going on. I got it for forty dollars a share. You've got one hundred and ninety thousand shares now. With Agatha's fifty thousand shares, you've got clear control." Sam laughed, "I'll bet even your old man has been tempted in this deal. He's listed with two thousand shares. The short-sellers are willing to pay ninety dollars a share. That would net your father one hundred and eighty thousand dollars. His loyalty to Alfred Latham must be under a severe test. How about you, Agatha? You could make a couple of million dollars damned quick."

"It's going to be worth considerably more to go to the next board meeting and see my brother's face," Agatha said. "Besides, I have had those oil leases checked very carefully. I think, for once in his life, my brother may have made an excellent investment. They may be more valuable than the Shipyard."

"What have I averaged out at?" Yale asked Sam.

"Right at the moment we are in it for a total of five million, seven hundred thousand. Thirty dollars a share. I'm in as deep as you are, chum. But if necessary we could liquidate the place and clear a few million. The Latham Yards own one hell of a lot of Midhaven real estate. Besides . . . there are those oil leases. . . ." Sam grinned at Agatha. "What are you going to do with the short sellers . . . especially Paul Downing? He really got sucked in. He's forty thousand shares short. In addition to his stock there were at least another sixty thousand that were sold short when the stock was selling for about eighteen dollars a share."

Yale smiled. "I'm going to try to have my cake and eat it. Tomorrow I will offer Downing forty thousand shares at seventy-five dollars a share. That's a damned good deal. I could try for more but I want to get clear before the thing gets too hot legally. I think Downing will snap it up. He'll get off a nasty hook for three million dollars. He can afford it."

Sam shook his head. "You want to be careful. You'll lose control of Latham's. You and Agatha have got to hold onto at least a hundred and eighty thousand shares between you. Alfred Latham has a hundred thousand. If you're too greedy you and Agatha could end up depending on proxies for clear control. Alfred will try to pick up any stock you sell to the short sellers."

Yale looked at Aunt Agatha who had been following their conversation with great interest.

"What do you think, Aunt Agatha?"

"Oh, I've been thinking, young man. Don't worry about that! I figure that if you can manage it, you'll have made nearly a million dollars, clear, and you still will have one hundred thousand shares of Latham stock. Anyone as clever as that, Sam, will swing those proxies when the time comes. When do we force a stockholder's meeting, Yale? I think you should make it next week for certain." Agatha sipped her Scotch. She looked meditatively at Sam. "I think we should elect you President, and myself Chairman of the Board. Of course, we must not overlook the fact that Paul Downing was playing golf with Pat Marratt and my brother this morning. They are no doubt hoping to prick our little balloon. What they don't know is that when Yale came to me with his little scheme I decided that if Sam Higgins could quietly try to pick up some Latham stock I could certainly do as well. I bought an additional ten thousand shares of Latham stock last April just as security."

Sam looked at Agatha suspiciously. "You must have been responsible for that famous saying. . . ."

Agatha took the hook. She asked Sam what he meant. She laughed until she had to wipe tears out of her eyes when Sam said coolly: "I wouldn't trust my own grandmother . . ." Sam turned to Yale. "Cripes, I think Agatha should be Chairman of the Board. She's a fox."

"Agatha and I have another plan," Yale said. "If there's anyone that could put Latham on its feet, I think it's Pat Marratt. I'm sure, Sam, that you have too many irons in the fire to fool with Latham's. I'm not interested. Pat Marratt might make a few concessions to get the prestige. Agatha has agreed to let me feel him out." Yale picked another hot dog off the grill. He slowly spooned piccalilli on it. "There's no doubt about it. Marratt piccalilli is the best there is," he said admiringly. "I think the Marratt stock would look good in the portfolio of Challenge Incorporated."

"What!" Anne and Cynthia demanded almost simultaneously . . . amazed disbelief in their voices.

"Pat called me this morning," Yale continued coolly. "He insisted that I meet with him and Paul Downing in his office tomorrow morning. I told him that any discussion we would have required clarification. I mentioned that the board of directors of Challenge Incorporated would have to be present. When I told him that I would meet with him in the Challenge barn, I could hear him sputter. I think he believes that we are going to talk business in a stable, among horses and cows. Anyway, he's coming. We'll see what develops."

"Oh, Yale. I won't sleep all night." Cynthia wailed. "Why do Anne and I have to see him?"

Yale smiled at her and Anne. "I just want to remind you that you and Anne are the co-directors of Challenge. Tomorrow, your financial advisor . . . meaning me . . . Yale grinned, ". . . will offer Pat a very interesting proposition, in exchange for his eventual assignment of the stock in Marratt Corporation to your non-profit foundation. You may have Pat as a productive partner. . . ."

"I can see him, now . . ." Anne groaned. "You don't really think he'll buy that idea, do you, Yale?" she asked sarcastically.

Yale shrugged. "Probably not . . . but it would simplify things if he would."

They talked for a while, trying to anticipate the national reaction to Mat Chilling's book. Working in cooperation with an established publisher, Challenge, Inc. had completely subsidized the promotion. Complete distribution would be accomplished within ten days. Full advertising would start to break tomorrow. All possible media had been covered . . . national spot radio advertising . . . national coverage through newspapers and magazines . . . even some billboard advertising: "Challenge Foundation presents the most important book written in the past hundred years, Spoken in My Manner . A book to guide thinking men and women everywhere. A book that will spell the end of war and hatred for all mankind."

"It's the first book," Yale said, "that has ever been launched with a million dollar advertising campaign. Actually, it is the opening gun for Challenge Incorporated. We plan to sell at least half a million copies."

Sam flipped the pages of a copy of the book. "I don't know anything about book publishing," he said, "and I still am not quite sure what in the hell Challenge is trying to do . . . but I think in this area, Yale, you are a little cracked. You've stuck a price tag of ten dollars a copy on this book. It has four hundred pages. I'd say it was worth about five dollars at the most."

"Open to the middle of the book," Anne told him. "See . . . when you buy a copy of this book, you send us your name and address. Your ten dollars makes you a contributor and charter member of Challenge Incorporated. All that you have to do is to fill out the pre-paid postcard . . . and tell us that you believe in the Ten Commandments of Challenge. We will send you your own personal gadfly pin, or lapel button." Anne shoved a tiny box across the table to Sam. Sam opened it and took out a pin that was a perfect reproduction of a green cattle fly. Sam turned it over and over, bewildered. "Who in hell would want to wear this?"

"Millions of people we hope . . ." Cynthia said. "Actually you don't have to wear the pin. It is a psychological symbol. It means that you are picking up the challenge that Socrates accepted as his mission in life. Like him you became a gadfly to make men think . . . to analyze with whatever powers they may have; to never stop seeking the truth." Cynthia's voice was very earnest. Yale looked at her, surprised at her intensity.

Sam was about to reply when Yale said, "Sam . . . read the book, and then argue with us. It will make it much simpler."

Sam shrugged. He looked at his watch. "It's eleven o'clock. I'm pooped. Let's go to bed and read a while, Clara."

Clara looked at Sam with raised eyebrows. Reluctantly, she followed him into the house. In a few minutes they all decided to go to bed. Yale helped Aunt Agatha up the carpeted staircase. Cynthia fretted that they should have offered Clara a separate room. "She said that she hadn't slept with him since April. Now they have the bedroom with that single bed."

When they were back in their bedroom Cynthia said goodnight to Yale and Anne.

Anne yawned. "It's too hot . . ." she said sleepily. "I pass. Okay, honey? Besides, I wouldn't call this afternoon a checkmate . . . no matter what you told Sam. He isn't that powerful a king . . . is he, Cindar?"

Cynthia blushed. "I felt like the fisherman in the Arabian nights who pulled a strange bottle out of the water . . . uncorked it . . . and out popped a monster."

"He wasn't a monster!" Yale said, joining their banter. "He was a good-natured genii that became the fisherman's slave." Yale sucked in his chest. Naked, he bowed to the floor. "At your service, memsahibs. Command castles, and they are yours. Command the wealth of the world, and it is yours . . . as for me . . ." he said, flipping a towel at Anne's behind, "I'm going for a moonlight swim. Come on. It will cool you off. . . ."

The late July moon was silver on the water of the pool. They swam for nearly an hour, playing like puppies in the water, nudging each other, piling into each other, gliding their hands over each other's bodies; threatening, cajoling, laughing for no reason other than sheer delight. Finally, exhausted and shivering, they lay together on the cement edge of the pooi and silently contemplated the stars and the long moonlit shadows of the pine trees.

Yale kissed them. "Reminds me of a poem," he said softly, ". . . de la Mare . . .

Slowly, silently, now the moon walks the night in her silver shoon. This way and that she peers and sees silver fruit on silver trees. . . .

"Shhh . . . Be quiet," Cynthia whispered.

"Someone is coming . . ." Anne said.

"I'll bet it's Sam and Clara," Yale said. "We should have invited them, I guess."

Both Anne and Cynthia protested that they weren't in the mood to see either Sam or Clara again tonight. "Particularly, not naked like this," Cynthia said. They hid in the shadows of the cabanas, out of sight, and waited, feeling guilty at spying, wondering what they would say if they were accidentally seen.

Sam and Clara, wearing bathing suits and carrying towels, walked out of the pine grove that skirted the pool, onto the moonlit flagstones. They were holding hands. They stood silently and watched the water. Then Clara turned and kissed Sam. A second later to their amazement they saw Clara swiftly slip out of her Bikini bathing suit and dive into the pool. Sam took off his trunks and dove in after her.

"Am I seeing things?" Cynthia gasped. Yale was chuckling.

"For heaven's sakes, you two," Anne said. "Shut up before they hear us." While Sam and Clara were swimming together Yale wondered if the three of them might reach the path to the house unseen. He put his arms around Anne and Cynthia. They were both shivering. Yale was about to ask them if they should make a run for the house, when Sam and Clara emerged from the pool.

"It's too late, now," he whispered. "We shouldn't have hidden. We'll have to sweat it out."

They saw Sam walk toward the cabanas, almost to where they were standing. He picked up a canvas-covered mattress from one of the outdoor chaises, and brought it back to where Clara was waiting near the edge of the pool. Clara lay on it.

"They are going to make love . . ." Cynthia said, wonder in her voice. "We should leave."

But they were trapped. They heard Clara gasp, "Sam . . .!"

Later, when they finally got back to their bedroom Anne and Cynthia were busy discussing it. They kissed Yale goodnight.

"I didn't want to watch . . ." Anne said to Cynthia, ". . . but I was surprised . . . even objectively it wasn't ugly. . . ."

"I was crying I was so happy for them," Cynthia said. "Sam was very gentle with her . . . I wonder what happened? Do you suppose Mat's book got them thinking . . . ?"

When Pat Marratt arrived the next morning, Anne, Cynthia, and Clara were making breakfast. Weeks had waited for Pat at the gate to escort him to the barn.

From the kitchen window, Yale saw them go by. Weeks was in the farm jeep followed by Pat's green Cadillac convertible. Pat was driving with the top down. "He's alone," Yale said. "I thought that he was going to bring Paul Downing with him."

"Don't keep him waiting," Cynthia said nervously. A vague feeling of dread had pursued her all morning. "I don't see how you can sit there so calmly and eat while he's waiting."

"It's giving me indigestion," Yale admitted with a grin, "but it will do Pat good to simmer a bit. What do you think, Sam?"

Sam looked at Yale, amused. He chewed his toast thoughtfully.

"You look inordinately pleased with yourself this morning," Yale remarked slyly. "And Clara seems to be bubbling, too. What gives?"

Sam smiled. "I think that you mentioned once that your father has a trick of purposely keeping salesmen and certain customers waiting. His theory is that it unnerves them . . . they over-perfect their lines, and when they finally get onstage they blow up. . . ." Sam buttered another piece of toast. He gave Clara a peck on the cheek as she poured more coffee. "In answer to your other question . . ." Sam pulled two cards out of his pocket, and handed them to Yale. "Clara and I have read enough of Mat Chilling's book to think that the least we can do is to become charter members. Here's your membership cards . . . all filled out."

"Give them to Anne . . ." Yale smiled. "With twenty bucks! Those copies you read were publisher's copies, and I don't remember that you paid for them!"

Aunt Agatha walked into the kitchen, shaking her head. "Imagine . . . eating breakfast at nine o'clock in the morning. I've been up since six-thirty. Ralph made wheat cakes for me." Agatha sat down at the table. "I just saw the Great Man go by. He's waiting for you, Yale. Will you need me?"

Yale told her that he would meet Pat alone. Later he would introduce him to Anne and Cynthia. Cynthia grimaced. Yale guessed that the reason that Pat had come without Paul Downing was that Pat was expecting a showdown family argument.

"I'd like to be a fly on the wall," Aunt Agatha said. "I figured you wouldn't need me. If it's all right with you, Ralph is going to drive me to Hartford."

"Sure . . . take the Buick. Watch out for Ralph, though, he knows all the tobacco fields around here where you can go necking!"

"Not me ..." Agatha snorted. "I'm way past that cuddling nonsense."

"Aunt Agatha! . . . you are only eighty," Clara said seriously. "I know that I'll want to be cuddled when I'm eighty."

"Well, you're the helpless type!" Agatha said coolly. "I never would let any man think that he is my boss." She squeezed Yale's arm fondly. "I might have succumbed to this one, though. . . ." She was delighted when Yale blushed. "See what I mean . . . he makes me feel as if we have secrets together."

Ralph stomped into the kitchen. "The old buzzard is up there," he said. "I followed your instructions and brought him right into your office. You should see him staring at everything. Guess he ain't never seen a barn like that one. You better get up there before he bursts a blood vessel. He seems a bit put out."

Yale told Cynthia and Anne to wait. He would call them on the house phone as soon as he saw how things were going. As he walked up the narrow back road that led to the barn, he tried to gauge the extent of Pat's anger. Without a doubt the money that had been spent remodeling the barn would be a shock to Pat. Even Bob Coleman had been surprised when Yale outlined his plans. The bottom floor was to be a modern office equipped with desks and office machines for at least fifty clerical workers. In the back would be four private offices and a director's room. Upstairs would be six rooms and accommodations for overnight guests. The entire rebuilding was to conform to the colonial lines of the barn. Yale told Coleman that he wanted an atmosphere that conveyed solidity. "As if Challenge Incorporated had been in business for at least a century . . ."

Coleman had achieved it by using lumber torn out of ancient Connecticut buildings. The interior had a hand-hewn effect accentuated by carefully chosen Colonial antiques. Original stables had been retained, and ancient harness and gear rooms were converted to private offices. Everywhere, the original crude but powerful structure of the huge barn had been made a part of the new structure. Into this atmosphere Coleman had contrived to bring the most modern lighting combined with modern metal office furniture. In fine cursive letters over the front door, fashioned out of black wrought iron was the legend "Challenge Inc.," and beneath it, "A Non-Profit Foundation."

When Coleman had finished just last week, he handed Yale the keys to the front door and said: "There she is, friend. The most ancient-modern offices in the country. The only things missing are employees and business. . . ."

Pat was waiting in front of the barn. Yale held out his hand to him, reflecting as he did that the discussion with Pat would he the first formal business transacted in the office of Challenge Inc.

Pat was dressed in a light tan palm beach suit. He looked in surprisingly good health, with a white shock of hair neatly framing his tanned face. He ignored Yale's hand and looked disgustedly at his watch.

"Our appointment was for nine o'clock. I've been waiting for thirty-five minutes. Who in hell do you think you are?"

"The son of Patrick Marratt," Yale said equably. "Shall we go inside? It's cooler out of the sun." Pat followed him through the empty outer offices into Yale's private office in the rear of the barn.

Yale motioned at his desk. "Sit behind the desk, if you wish. It gives a position of dominance."

Pat ignored the sarcasm. He sat in a red leather chair. "I want to get this over with quick. I don't want you to get any idea that because I'm here, I approve of what's going on. In blunt words I am fed up with this nonsense of yours. I'm sick of being greeted by friends with dirty rumors of what's happening within three miles of my house. People saying that my own son is running a disgusting nudist camp . . . that my son is living with two women, and now with this crap . . ." Pat waved his arm. "A mad scheme to change the world, I understand. The first thing I want to know is what is the truth behind these rumors?"

"Oh, they have a certain validity. Didn't Bobby confirm to you that we were all swimming naked here, yesterday?"

Pat stared at him grimly. "I didn't see your sister last night. She was supposed to have dined with us but she didn't show up. Now, look here, Yale . . . I never did understand what in hell motivated you . . . but one thing is certain . . . you are not going to ruin my good name in Midhaven. I'm not going to have anyone think that I'm associated with your activities . . . whatever the truth may be." Pat lighted a cigar. He was unable to keep his hand from shaking. "I'm asking you for the truth. . . ."

Yale raised his hands in a gesture of acquiescence. "Whatever you want to know, Pat. Just ask it."

Pat wasn't certain how to phrase his question. It was embarrassing to even consider the question of bigamy . . . what kind of people could be involved in such vulgarity? "Are you living here with two women?" he asked.

"Yes. I think you should know . . . I married Cynthia Carnell. You knew her . . . years ago. . . ." Yale stared at Pat. Pat shifted uneasily in his chair. "My marriage to Cynthia was a civil marriage. I married Anne Wilson in India in a Hindu ceremony."

"A Hindu ceremony!" Pat exploded, and then looked relieved. "What kind of crap is that? That kind of a marriage has no legality in the United States."

Yale smiled. "To tell you the truth, I haven't bothered to investigate whether it has or not. The important thing is that it was consummated willingly, and I consider it quite binding." Yale could see that Pat's face was twisted with restrained anger. "Frankly, Pat, it's not right for us to discuss this in a mood of anger." Yale picked up a copy of Spoken in My Manner and slid it across his desk to Pat. "Here, this book will explain it all to you. When you have read it I will be pleased to discuss my accidental bigamy with you as well as our other beliefs that you will find summarized in the Ten Commandments of Challenge."

Pat looked at him hotly. "Because you have managed to swindle a few bucks, probably with money stolen from the U.S. Army, don't think that you can talk to me that way. Pat shook his head in complete disbelief. "I've never heard such gall in my life. I can't believe that you are my son!"

Yale felt a twinge of sadness. He wondered if there weren't some way that he could reach through the mire of words, and tell him: "Pat . . . no matter what you have done to me . . . or not done . . . I would like to think that you would at least make an effort to be interested in what I'm trying to do. Maybe not understand it . . . but at least withhold condemnation." Yale wondered why he wanted to appease the bitter man sitting opposite him. For the first time he was aware that the Jesus-factor -- the attempt at complete love and understanding of man -- carried within itself the seed of destruction. Man could hate you because you turned the other cheek. But Yale couldn't help himself, as he asked softly: "Would you like to see your grandson? I think he looks a little like you."

Pat looked at him incredulously. "Grandson . . . you mean bastard, don't you? I'm not interested in seeing the result of any of your wild oats, thank you."

Yale stood up. "We seem to be reaching our usual impasse, Pat . . . I guess we have nothing else to say to each other."

Pat didn't move. "I've got plenty to say to you, son." Pat's voice was raspy with anger. "The only reason that I came up here was to see what you intend to do in this Latham business. I don't understand how a sincere, straight-dealing fellow like Paul Downing could get enmeshed in your slippery maneuvering, but I'm telling you that I am not going to stand idly by and see you ruin the Latham Shipyards. I don't own too much stock, but I'm on the board of directors. Alfred and I will fight you tooth and nail."

Yale picked up the phone on his desk, and dialed the house telephone. Cynthia answered. "Come up, will you, Cindar, and bring Anne with you. Your father-in-law is anxious to meet you."

Yale put the phone back on its cradle. He stared at Pat intently for a second. "In a few minutes, Pat, two very good and decent young women will walk in that door. They are my wives. They are also co-directors of Challenge Incorporated. Challenge owns one hundred and ninety thousand shares of Latham. Any discussion involving this stock must be attended by them. I am simply financial advisor to this foundation." Yale's voice was low, but his words, minutely spaced, contained a teeth-clicking fury. "If you don't propose to conduct yourself as a gentleman . . . you can leave now! Do we understand each other?"

For the first time in his life Pat felt a momentary sensation of fear. He looked at Yale, bewildered, recognizing his son, but seeing for the first time another man . . . a man with a frightening messianic sense of mission. The feeling was gone in a second. He smiled at Yale sardonically. "I know how to behave myself . . . with all kinds of women."

Yale drummed his desk with a pencil. "I'm going to tell you in advance of any newspaper stories. Pat. There is nothing you can do about Latham . . . and nothing Alfred Latham can do. At the moment, between Agatha and me, we have two hundred and fifty thousand shares of Latham stock. Before the week is out we will elect a new slate of officers. If it hadn't been me, someone else would have taken over. Alfred Latham hasn't been doing so well since the war ended, and Jim is just too busy with yachting and playing golf. . . ."

Yale answered the knock on the door. Cynthia and Anne walked in. Yale introduced them to Pat. Yale noticed that the contrasting blonde and brunette beauty of the girls overwhelmed Pat. He stared at them glumly. Cynthia and Anne sat down rather tensely, facing Yale and Pat.

"As I was telling Pat," Yale said, "the stock of the Latham Shipyards is in the hands of Challenge Incorporated. In the process of accomplishing this, some outside investors who had very little faith in the future of the Latham Yards started to sell the stock short. To their surprise they woke one day to find no stock available to cover their short sales. Your friend Paul Downing may be an excellent golfer, Pat . . . but he is in this 'slippery' business up to his ears. He thought the stock was bound to fall in price once the buying was over. Thanks to my investment contacts and the careful way Latham stock was purchased, Downing never guessed that the stock would end up in a short supply. He was simply outguessed and outfoxed along with some other short sellers. He might have made considerahle money had he guessed right." Yale paused. He smiled at Cynthia and Anne. "You know, Pat, if you would make an effort you would discover that we are all quite human people in this room. You're not some Doctor Frankenstein who has created a monster. I'm sorry about Downing but he's capable of taking care of himself. Tomorrow Sam and I are going to offer him forty thousand shares at seventy-five dollars a share. That will get him off the hook. I'm taking a chance, too. Alfred Latham or you could try to grab hold of whatever stock I let go to the short sellers." Yale's eyes twinkled. "However, I think we can squeak through at the director's meetings."

Pat's look held consternation. He tried to keep his voice calm. "You mean that you are going to hold up Downing for three million dollars . . . ?"

"Pat," Yale interrupted, "three million dollars may mean a lot to you. I happen to know that Downing is worth at least thirty million. I know too that he is fooling around in another situation, and he may he a little tight for money. . . ." Yale shrugged his shoulders. "This speculating is an interesting business . . . Downing will have to liquidate a few things. He was really playing a desperate gamble with Latham stock."

"How much are you making on this deal?" Pat asked, unable to withhold the astonishment in his voice.

"Challenge, I hope, will clear nearly a million dollars," Yale said. "The foundation already has three million, but I may as well be frank with you, Challenge needs much, much more. That is one of the reasons that I was anxious to talk with you." Yale spoke with complete sincerity.

"Cynthia, Anne and I would like to have you as a director of Challenge. Cynthia and I have consigned to the past what you did to us. Honestly, Pat, we deeply feel that there is no room for hatred in the world. We feel that we should be able to prove that in small things as well as big ones, we can live together in a God-given humanity." Yale ignored the look of utter amazement on Pat's face. "We'd like to have you 'in' with us, Pat."

"In with you?" Pat repeated the words with a snarl. "In with you?"

Yale nodded. "Wednesday, Agatha and I would like to elect you President of the Latham Shipyards. As President we would work with you to merge the Marratt Corporation and the Latham Yards into a new corporate grouping with the over-all name of Marratt Industries. Eventually, Marratt Industries would pick up other companies, not for speculation but to run them as profitable businesses." Yale paused. He noted that Pat was following him intently. He explained that Pat would have complete managerial control, and alignment of any new corporate acquisitions into a tight managed organization. He and Agatha would be responsible for investments. He told Pat that he estimated that the initial merger would create a setup worth at least seventy-five million dollars.

Then Yale dropped his bombshell. "The entire stock of the Marratt Industries would be owned by Challenge Incorporated. . . ."

"What . . ." Pat roared. He jumped up, towering over Yale's desk. Anne thought he was going to strike Yale. Cynthia blanched with fear. "I've never listened to such rotten, cheap crap in my life. You must be out of your mind! Do you think I condone your actions? Do you think I would be so stupid as to be involved when this fool's paradise of yours tumbles on top of you? Do you think that after working all my life to create an estate and a nationally known and respected business, I would be so insane as to jeopardize the name of Patrick Marratt by endorsing the actions of a crackpot son and his two whores? You can go straight to hell. . . ." Pat turned and stared coldly at Anne and Cynthia. "I warn you . . . and if you have any sense you'll both get clear of this man. I'll do everything in my power to discredit him. You have divorced yourself from God-fearing people with your rotten orgiastic ideas." Pat strode out of the office. They listened to his footsteps echoing in the empty barn. The last words they heard him shout were: "He'll never get control of the Marratt Corporation . . . not in two lifetimes."

Yale put his head in his hands. "Well," he said, and he sounded discouraged, "I tried. I'm sorry, Anne. I'm sorry, Cindar. I apologize for my father. . . ."

"He's a frightened man, Yale," Anne said. "I told you . . . when you started to cross the mores of society . . . you'd cause an eruption. We've only begun . . . you, and your two whores. . . ."

Yale winced.

"That's what we are in the eyes of society," Cynthia said sadly. "Yale . . ." She looked at him, tears in her large brown eyes. "Yale, I love you . . . but I think you should quit. I'm getting afraid." She started to cry . . . "Oh, I'm sorry, Anne . . . but don't you see I want the three of us to go on . . . to have a good life . . . I'm afraid that Challenge is going to breed a more virulent hate than the hate it is trying to destroy. Let's be content that we have found the secret of happiness. Let's not try to change the world. I don't think I'm equal to it, Yale."

Anne sat on the arm of Cynthia's chair. She patted Cynthia's head. She looked at Yale, who seemed to be staring at something beyond the walls of the room. "She's probably right . . . Yale," Anne said softly. "Maybe we should be glad to have accomplished this much . . . and stop, now."

Yale didn't answer. A fly buzzed around the room. He looked at them both . . . tears in his eyes. "Don't you see . . . Anne . . . Cindar? I can't stop. A month or two ago . . . yes, I could have tried to stop. . . even then I wouldn't have succeeded . . . because you see . . ." Yale said the words slowly: "I've come to believe that the sole purpose of my existence is to fight hatred and prejudice with love. . . . ?"

"The trouble is . . ." Cynthia murmured, "you can't say what you really mean without using the word fight."

10

There was no calm before the storm. That afternoon Liz Marratt called Yale. She demanded to know where Barbara was. As Yale listened to Liz talking excitedly on the telephone he suddenly realized that Barbara hadn't come home since she had left his house. Liz told him that all Barbara's clothes were still in her room. The reason that she was calling Yale was that Pat remembered Yale had mentioned that Barbara had been swimming with them Sunday.

"I'm not going to ask you whether it is true or not," Liz said. Her voice sounded deeply disgusted. "But Pat said that you and your friends were swimming naked!"

Yale made no comment. Liz asked him what in the world had come over him anyway? Had he gone absolutely crazy? Did he have any idea what he was doing to his father? Pat had gone to the doctor's this afternoon to have his blood pressure checked. If anything happened to Pat, Liz sobbed on the phone . . . she would put the blame right where it belonged. How had they ever managed to bring such an ungrateful son into the world? How could he behave this way to his father and mother. And Barbara . . . she was almost as bad . . . divorced . . . travelling around with a wild crowd and now she had disappeared. If only Barbara had sense enough to just stay with her husband. It was obvious that the way she was acting now, and the kind of people she was associating with, she would end up in had trouble. Maybe she had been the victim of foul play. Liz hung up with the admonition that after all Barbara was his sister . . . and Yale was the one who had seen her last. During the entire conversation whenever Yale tried to answer or comment, Liz proceeded to berate him in an anguished tone, reciting a long catalogue of things he had done to shame his father and mother.

Yale put the phone down, and stared at it blankly. Where in hell could Barbara have gone, he wondered? Somewhere in the conversation, he told Liz that he would try to find Barbara. He promised to call her back. Yale decided to call Bob Coleman. Coleman had been attentive to Barbara yesterday. Perhaps he would know.

"Sure, I followed her car when we left your place. We went to the Midhaven Yacht Club," Coleman said, when Yale got him on the telephone, "We had a few drinks there. She said that she was going to meet your folks . . . they were supposed to have dinner together with Paul Downing. She seemed all right to me, Yale." Coleman sounded a little peeved at Yale's probing him. "She was reading Mat Chilling's book to anyone who would listen . . . telling them that her baby brother was responsible. I remember her reading the Eighth Commandment of Challenge to a couple of characters . . . and telling them she really believed it. She was a little slopped but I couldn't stop her drinking. She refused to go home. I left her with a gang she had picked up. That was about six o'clock Sunday evening."

Yale called the yacht club, and talked with the steward The steward remembered that Barbara had still been there around eight o'clock but had disappeared after that. He thought that she had gone off with a group of her friends. A few minutes later he called Yale back with the surprising news that Barbara's tan Cadillac was parked in the yacht club parking lot. It had evidently been there all night.

Yale tried to conceal the alarm he felt from Cynthia and Anne. He wondered if Barbara might have gone off on someone's boat. There were plenty of them tied up at the yacht club floats every night in the summer. Mostly, they stayed moored while their owners and friends used them as floating barrooms. Maybe Barbara had gone off with some half-crocked gang? Maybe she was spending the night with some of them on one of the islands in Midhaven Harbor? She couldn't have fallen overboard . . . or drowned. They would have known it by this time.

He remembered that Coleman said that Barbara was supposed to have dined with Paul Downing and his family. He called Liz back. "No," Liz told him, "by the time Pat and Alfred and Jim Latham finished eighteen holes with Paul Downing and got cleaned up and had a few drinks . . . it was seven-thirty. We all decided to eat at the 'Hare and Hounds' rather than go on Paul's boat."

It was a dead end. Cynthia wondered if they were responsible. Had Barbara been affected in some way by seeing everyone naked, and reading Mat Chilling's book? Bob Coleman had said that Barbara kept repeating the Eighth Commnandment.

"If you read that out of context," Anne said, quoting from memory, "'Challenge believes that in the sexual union of man and woman, all men, regardless of race, color or creed, have moments of awareness of the Beauty and the Goodness inherent in every man and woman; and Challenge believes that through proper instruction from childhood, men can learn to transfer this Ultimate Insight into their daily commerce with each other.'" Anne smiled. "You see, without Mat's book . . . and coming on you unexpectedly . . . it sounds kind of wild."

"How could that affect Barbara?" Yale asked her. "It means exactly what it says."

Cynthia shook her head. "You are analyzing only in relation to your little world, Yale. Barbara is divorced. She reads something like that. Does she admit that is true? Maybe. Maybe deep inside her she knows it is true . . . but she has lost that kind of love. So I ask you? Does she say that's a lot of tripe . . . and go out and tie one on . . . ?"

"I think she 'ties one on,'" Anne said before Yale could answer. "I don't think that she feels that copulation is nice or pretty or good at all. She thinks . . . to hell with that stuff . . . screw the world!"

"Would you think that way?" Yale asked incredulously. "Would you, Cindar?"

"I did once," Cynthia said quietly. "I knew in my heart that you loved me . . . yet I acted just as crazily as that."

Yale frowned at both of them. "Ye gods, women are too much for me," he sighed. "How do I manage to get so involved? Whatever Barbara is doing is not my red wagon."

He tried to tell himself that Barbara wasn't his problem, that his sister had never paid much attention to him one way or the other, that she would do what she wanted to do anyway. But he knew that in some strange way he was his sister's keeper, too. Was it some kind of curse to become so involved with people?

He asked Anne. She recited a part of Edna St. Vincent Millay's poem for him. As she spoke her eyes twinkled at the amazed expression on his face.

A man was starving in Capri. He moved his eyes and looked at me; I felt his gaze. I heard his moan, and knew his hunger as my own."

Anne was sticking her tongue out at him, and wiggling her feet in the air when the telephone rang. Yale answered it, appreciating the long, clean view of Anne's legs and calves under her cotton dress. Neither Anne nor Cynthia wore panties. Sometimes Yale found it difficult to keep his mind on what he was doing.

Yale had answered the phone abruptly. A polished male voice with a New York accent told him that he was speaking with Paul Downing.

"Oh, yes . . . Paul Downing. . . ." Yale repeated in a loud voice so that Anne and Cynthia could hear him. They scurried across the room, picked up the extension phone and listened.

"We haven't met, Mr. Marratt . . . but we have mutual acquaintances," Downing said. "Now I'm afraid that we must meet under circumstances somewhat less than happy. I think it is about time we straightened out our problems with the Latham stock."

"My broker is announcing tomorrow that Challenge will sell forty or fifty thousand shares at $75.00 a share . . . first come first served," Yale replied. "You can appreciate that I can't offer sufficient stock to cover all the 'shorts' without making my own position too thin. If you would like to give me your certified cheek for three million dollars, I will have the stock transferred."

Both Anne and Cynthia were surprised at the change in Yale's manner. His voice was brusque and his words sharp and clipped. He heard Anne whisper, "Hey, listen, Cindar! Aren't you proud of our big tycoon?" Cynthia started to giggle. She clasped her hand over the mouthpiece, and pretended mock fright at Yale's grim look and waving hand.

"I'm afraid, young Marratt," Downing said softly, "that you are driving much too hard a bargain. Even if I weren't a bit strapped at the moment, I'd have to say that it was impossible."

"That's up to you." Yale's voice was cold. "I'm not going to hold the offer open more than twenty-four hours. Maybe not that long. This Latham situation is beginning to jell pretty fast. Agatha Latham and I have other fish to fry."

Yale heard Downing clear his throat. In the background he could hear the music of an orchestra. Downing was evidently calling from some road house, or night club. "I could force this out in the open," Downing said. "The New York Stock Exchange has rules in a situation like this."

"Listen, Downing, you know as well as I do that the Latham stock is not traded on the big board. I'm offering you a damned good deal. I honestly believe that I can squeeze you and the other shorts a good deal harder . . . maybe twice as hard . . . so take it or leave it. . . ."

Downing didn't answer for a moment, and then he said a surprising thing. "You know, fella, if I weren't certain, I'd have thought I was talking with your old man. You and he may have something in common after all. Your voice sounds strangely like his. . . ."

Cynthia looked at Yale, startled. He saw her nod silent agreement to Anne. Suddenly, just as Downing was about to continue, they heard the phone being wrested away from him. They heard him protest to someone to get away.

"Give me the phone!" a female voice demanded. "Let me talk to that brother of mine!" It was Barbara. They listened, startled. Barbara had been drinking. She sounded quite high. "You listen to me, Yale Marratt . . . I think you are acting like a big heel . . . why dontchu be nice to Paul? All day long I've been reading this very nice book that you and that man and your two wives all wrote together . . . shut up, Paul . . . I'm talking to my brother. He has, too! . . . two wives! . . . two . . . unnerstand? . . . How do I know? . . . Yale, are you listening?"

Yale shrugged, and said that he was.

"Yale . . . Paul wants to know how in hell do you do 'it' with two women at once. Huh? Okay, don't answer! I read all your book and those Commandments you have printed in the cover, and I said to Paul . . . you see Paul is in pretty serious trouble . . . I said to Paul . . . look at this . . . read this Commandment Number Three. 'Challenge is not concerned with the immortality of man . . . man must be taught to seek his salvation on this earth and in this lifetime through Love and Understanding of all men.'" Barbara chuckled . . . "Anyone who writes somethin' as nice as that . . . just wouldn't be a big fat prick . . . like you think my brother is, Paul . . . would he, Yale? . . . you know. . . ."

"Bobby!" Yale interrupted angrily, "where in hell are you? Liz has been looking everywhere for you . . . she's worried sick. You call her up . . . right now! Do you hear me? What are you doing with Downing, anyway?"

"What do you think I'm doing?" Barbara snapped, "teaching him how to play marbles? Well, you're right! I am! In his bed. And I'm lousy because I am miserable . . . all because of your Challenge crap . . . and Paul is lousy, and no damned good because of this Latham business. . . . Oh, to hell with you and your stinking Challenge!" Yale heard the phone crack in his ear as Barbara slammed it down. He looked at Cynthia and Anne, bewildered.

"I never thought you could be so cruel, Yale," Cynthia said worriedly. "It's strange, but you know . . . when you were talking to him you did sound just like your father."

"Well, you know the cliché," Yale answered, "like father like son. Wouldn't you know that that dumb sister of mine would screw up the detail? Why does she want to get involved with Paul Downing?" Yale rubbed his face with his hand, and sighed. "My God, if happy bigamy is so bad . . . what do you call what Barbara is doing?"

Yale wondered if he should call Liz. What could he say to her? Your daughter is sleeping with a man twice her age. She's all right. Stop worrying, Liz.

"I can't call her," he told Anne and Cynthia. "I just haven't got the heart. Besides, it's pretty common knowledge that Liz has been fooling around with Frank Middleton for years. Bobby probably knows the whole story. Who is to pass judgment . . . ?"

Yale flopped on the couch, his head on Cynthia's lap, his legs across Anne's. "You know something, kids . . . sometimes I find it pretty difficult not to say the hell with everyone except us . . . let them stew in their own problems."

Anne took the telephone from the table near the sofa, and dropped it on Yale's stomach. "What's your father's telephone number?"

Yale looked at her, surprised. "It's Midhaven 3467. What are you going to do?" he demanded as Anne gave the operator the number.

"May I speak with Mrs. Marratt?" While Anne waited for the connection she smiled coolly at Yale and Cynthia. "Mrs. Marratt . . . yes . . . this is Anne, Mrs. Marratt. I'm married to your son. No, not Cynthia. No. We've never met. I hope we may meet one of these days. The reason that I'm calling you, Mrs. Marratt, is that Yale has found out that Barbara is all right. No she isn't here. She's with a friend of hers. If she doesn't call you, you're not to worry. No, honestly, Mrs. Marratt . . . I'm not sure. It's some girl friend of hers. Yes . . . I'm sorry about Yale and his father. It's really too bad. Well, I'm sorry about that, too, Mrs. Marratt. I'm sure that if you would just let little things stop bothering you we could all be friends. . . ." Anne held the phone out to Yale and Cynthia. They could hear Liz talking angrily about how disgusting it was for two women to live together with one man. Anne bit her knuckles. Finally she said very quietly, "Mrs. Marratt, I just called you to set your mind at ease about Barbara. I've got to hang up now. You see, Yale is sneaking off with his other wife . . . I've got to check up and see what is going on." Anne laughed gaily into the phone and said, "Goodbye, Mrs. Marratt." She slouched on the sofa. "Well, how did I handle it?" she asked. Yale shook his head and said, "Oh . . . boy . . ."

Cynthia laughed. "What are you going to do with her?"

"Well, I tried!" Anne said sleepily. She slouched on the sofa. "Come on, Cindar, since we got out of rotation, let's draw straws and see who gets our wonder boy tonight. . . ."

Harry Cohen called Yale at eight o'clock in the morning. He told Yale that he had decided to advance the strike date one day. As of this moment the Marratt employees, all twenty-two hundred of them, were officially on strike.

"I want to thank you for your confidence, Yale. I think I've really got Pat Marratt off base. I hope we can settle the wages and get a contract in a few days. I thought you might be interested to know, in case you happen to see your father."

"Harry . . . if you think that I'm in any position to conciliate your union problems with Pat, you are quite mistaken." Yale leaned back on his pillow. He looked at Cynthia, who still was asleep beside him. She opened one eye and looked at him queruously. "Is that so, Harry?" Yale said into the telephone. "No . . . we didn't hear the news broadcast. No kidding . . . well, it's all publicity good or bad. Challenge isn't afraid. Yeah, I'd stay away from here, if I were you."

Yale hung up the phone. He flung the sheet off Cynthia and snuggled against her for a moment.

"What'd Harry want?" Cynthia asked. She tried to ignore his fingers tracing the contours of her body, and his lips nibbling lightly on her nipple. "Hey, stop it! Any milk I have . . . and it's slowly drying up . . . is for Adar!" Cynthia sat up on the bed. She grinned at him. "What does it taste like, anyway," she asked curiously.

"Chalky . . . warm . . . nice way to eat.' Yale jumped out of bed. "Come on, we've got problems." They ran into the big bedroom, and jumped into the canopied bed beside Anne, shrieking "good morning" to her. Anne groaned, "Oh, my God, such energy so early in the morning." She tried to hide under her pillow.

Yale didn't give them details about Harry's telephone call until they were eating breakfast. "Today things are popping," he said to Sam and Clara.

Aunt Agatha had already eaten. She was sitting in a large rocker in the kitchen, reading the morning newspaper. She looked at Yale, amused.

"If you are going to tell us that the Marratt employees are on strike . . . don't bother . . . we've alread read the details on the front page of the Midhaven Herald . There is also a story on the Latham Shipyards." Agatha read it to him with pursed lips. "A new stockholder grouping led by the son of Patrick Marratt and the termagant Agatha Latham are forcing a stockholders' meeting in the offices of the Latham Shipyards tomorrow morning. The new group claim control of sufficient shares to oust the present management. Local feeling is that the present management has not made sufficient effort to bring new government contracts to the Yards." Agatha stopped reading. "It just goes to show that you can't trust these oily characters. I might have known that Peoples McGroaty was too good to be true. The other day he was being nice as pie to me . . . and now he has the nerve to call me the 'termagant Agatha Latham' . . . even worse, there's a long eulogy here in praise of Alfred Latham, and his long successful career . . . the article ends up trying to guess how the shadowy Yale Marratt, who is practically an unknown in the investment field, figures in the picture. . . ." Agatha scowled. "Imagine . . . after being so nice to me and then to call me 'termagant.' Clara, get me a dictionary out of the library, will you? I want to find out what it means. . . ."

"This story has a New York date line," Sam said, laughing. "Peoples couldn't have written it. You probably got in the hair of some New York financial reporter once, Agatha. Gave him a wrong tip on the market or something." Sam picked up the paper that Agatha had put down and handed it to Yale. "Agatha is saving the best until last. . . . Read it and weep. Challenge is in hot water."

Yale recognized the story that Harry Cohen had tried to tell him over the telephone. He read the article aloud. A Boston minister had demanded that Spoken in My Manner be banned from sale in the United States. "It's a filthy, blasphemous book. Using the guise of religion, this book promulgates the vilest kind of sexual filth. It exalts man above God. It has the nerve to state that its infamous beliefs are Commandments for all who accept its credo. The first terrible Commandment of this religion exhorts you to believe that there is no God but Man. That this book is being promoted as supposedly written by a now-deceased minister of the gospel is simply perpetrating a fraud."

"He's really wound up." Yale read the news report with interest. "Listen to this! Spoken in My Manner is supposed to be the avant-garde of a new secular religion called Challenge. It has supposedly been published in the interest of good-will among all men. Don't be misled. This book is obviously the work of Communists. It is not only an attempt to destroy organized religion in the United States, but it is striking at the roots of our democratic government itself. I call upon all religions, Catholic, Jew, and Protestant, to unite against the terrible evil of this thing called 'Challenge.' It is a dirty, rotten creed . . . dreamed up by a modern Beelzebub."

"Good heavens," Anne said, a worried expression on her face. "I'd be afraid of him, Yale. He's the kind of rabble rouser that starts book burnings."

"Yale," Cynthia whispered, "I'm scared. This is only the beginning. The country is filled with people who will find Challenge a wonderful whipping-boy. Anything to get notoriety for themselves. It's easier to condemn than to understand. Oh, go ahead . . . smile . . . you have such confidence, Yale." She sighed but was unable to keep from returning Yale's smile. Yale was so clean-cut . . . such an honest person, but so naive. She wanted to hug him. "How did I ever get mixed up with you? When the world says, J'accuse . . . Yale Marratt! . . . Coupez sa tête! . . .' and the guillotine falls . . . Anne and I will gather up your head, with tears in our eyes, and take it home and preserve it in formaldehyde!"

"Ugh!" Clara said. "I'm glad that I married a simple man."

The telephone rang. Anne answered it. "It's New York, Yale; the publishers. . . . Yes, Mr. Greene. No! Honestly, I can't believe it. I don't know. Here, you better talk with Yale." She handed the phone to Yale. "They are swamped." She yelled excitedly, and started to dance around the kitchen. "Greene says that they have sold out that first crazy edition of one hundred thousand copies. Remember, Cindar . . . Greene said that it would never sell. He said in six months it would be remaindered and selling for fifty-nine cents a copy. They would never have run such an edition if it hadn't been for Yale's insistence. Now it's sold! What do you think of that, Sam Higgins? A million dollars' worth of Spoken in My Manner sweeping the country." She clapped Sam on the back. "Cindar . . . don't you wish that Mat Chilling could be here?"

Cynthia nodded. "Oh, dear God . . . I really do, because Yale is going to need all the help he can get."

Yale hung up the phone. "I never expected such a fast reaction. So far, according to Greene, we seem to have deeply disturbed three or four Congressmen, and a half dozen ministers. No comment as yet in the press from Catholic or Jewish opinion." Yale sat down. He continued to eat his breakfast. "The book is selling at a good clip . . . I told Greene to run another hundred thousand copies. He's got to move fast, I want plenty of copies available. Right after Labor Day the advertising campaign will really break."

As they were discussing the amazing sale of the book, it occurred to Yale that he would now have to find an office staff for Challenge and get them ready to handle the avalanche of membership cards that would soon be pouring in.

"Do you realize what you are up against?" Sam asked. "Everyone who pays ten smackers for that book is sure as hell going to claim his Gadfly Pin. I don't know why or how . . . but you've unleashed some kind of craze that's likely to sweep the country. Do you know what a job it's going to be to handle all those membership cards . . . send out those pins . . . and handle God knows how much correspondence?"

Yale and the girls looked at Sam, bewildered. "Yale!" Cynthia was dismayed. "You never actually placed the order for those pins. You told the manufacturer you were going to wait. Now what are you going to do . . . ?"

Yale didn't answer. He grabbed the telephone and placed a long distance call to Pennsylvania. While the call was going through he cracked out rapid-fire instructions to Anne and Cynthia. They would have to develop a training plan for employees before the day was over . . . Anne could write an advertisement for office help. Call Peoples and get it in this afternoon's edition of the Midhaven Herald . They could interview the applicants tomorrow. They should check with the post office on the trucking of mail. They would need postage meter machines. How had he forgotten that? They would have to play the whole operation by ear . . . develop systems as they went along. He guessed that there would be a tremendous amount of personal correspondence. Cranks would write them . . . people would write them seeking information . . . maybe they would even become a clearing house for all kinds of personal problems.

"Remember," Yale said, listening for his connection with Philadelphia, "this book is only the beginning. Challenge is going to have enough money and enough enthusiastic members some day to become a strong influence on public opinion. We will challenge hypocrisy on every front!"

"Hear! Hear!" Anne cheered. "The King has spoken. . . ."

"Yes . . . this is Yale Marratt." Yale winked appreciatively at his interested audience. "Mr. Healey. You've got your order. Yes, the Gadfly Pins . . . go ahead with two hundred thousand of them. Yes . . . I know . . . Challenge will send you an advance payment of fifty thousand dollars today . . . balance on delivery. I want delivery of the first hundred thousand within three weeks, boxed, ready to ship . . . no excuses. . . ."

Ralph Weeks chauffeured Agatha, Yale, and Sam to the Latham Shipyards. Dressed in a wrinkled seersucker suit, wearing a yachting cap, his beard extending his profile, Weeks made an impressive, if somewhat Bohemian appearance behind the wheel of the car. When they drove up in front of the administration building a crowd of unemployed Latham workers gathered around the car and greeted them with shouts of encouragement. "You tell 'em, Agatha. Atta boy, Yale Marratt. Let's get this place going. Kick Alfred Latham out. He and his son have ruined the place." Several men were carrying crudely lettered placards exhorting them to get a Navy contract to save the city of Midhaven.

Yale mentioned to Sam that employment in the Yards was down to three thousand people from a war-time record when nearly thirty thousand were employed. At the moment the Yards had only a couple of small tanker contracts that were nearing completion.

"They think you just hire them, and pay the wages from some kind of a money tree . . contracts or not." Agatha was grim. She remarked that the laboring man really should be pitied. "Despite your Ten Commandments, Yale, that try to tell people that they are free . . . capable of making decisions . . . the truth is that only a small portion of us actually run things. The rest of the population, the millions upon millions of people in any decade of history, are just statistics. In one country you have a Hitler or a Mussolini, and these statistical entities called people are motivated, basically, by fear of extermination. In countries like ours we do it more subtly . . . by the mass pressure of advertising or the even stronger pressure of conformity."

As they entered the elevator Agatha was still expounding. "Did you ever stop to think, Yale, the social force that this shipyard exerts on the city of Midhaven? Right now in your high schools without the Lathams saying a word, a solid body of future workers are not only being trained, but they are being conditioned for an eventual future as employees of the Latham Shipyards. Guidance counsellors are telling children that Lathams always has openings in electrical work, drafting, pipefitting . . . what have you? So you see, young man, the average man's life is pretty much determined for him. His muscles and rudimentary brain power are his only within certain prescribed areas."

Yale smiled. "The interesting thing about what you are saying, Agatha, is that the slave owns the master. We are developing a society where your average pre-conditioned man . . . also is pre-conditioned to expect as his social right that he will be employed. In the coming years this is going to lead to some interesting changes in your Victorian form of thinking."

The elevator attendant opened the door into a broad-loomed outer office. Several reporters who had been waiting gathered around Yale and rapid-fired questions at him. Will the Challenge Foundation direct the policies here? Are you sure that you have the controlling interest? Will Miss Agatha Latham take an interest in the operating management of the Yards? Is there anything to the rumor that you will liquidate the Yards? Weren't you quoted as saying that the day of this type of shipyard is fast running out? Where did you get your investment knowledge, Mr. Marratt . . . from Miss Latham? What's your philosophy of business, Mr. Marratt? Do you think Senator Williams can get a Naval contract for the Yards?

Yale parried the questions good-naturedly. He told them that Challenge was not interested in operating the Yards. Challenge had other work to do. It was only interested in maximum dividends from its holdings. No. He was not personally interested in taking part in the active management of the Yards. Yes. He and Agatha Latham were vitally interested in making the Yards profitable.

While he was talking, Alfred Latham opened the door of his private office. Tall with a full head of white hair and piercing blue eyes, he listened to the conversation a moment, and then coldly invited them inside.

The big windows of the mahogany panelled office looked out on the skeleton structures of the Shipyard ways. The floor was covered with two very large oriental rugs. At one end of the office, the long directors' table was already occupied by a number of people. Yale recognized Pat Marratt, Doctor Amos Tangle . . . and yes, he thought, next to Pat must be Bert Walsh, older, a little grey at the temples, and seeming even more poised than when Yale had worked with him during summer vacations. Sitting at the head of the table was Jim Latham who stared at Yale frigidly. Sitting next to Jim were two men unfamiliar to Yale. A mousy-looking woman, her hair tied in a pug, was evidently the recording secretary.

Yale wondered what Bert Walsh was doing here, and then as Bert made his excuses to leave because of the strike situation at Marratt, Yale realized that Pat had probably promoted him to Executive Vice-President of the Marratt Corporation. Bert shook hands with Yale perfunctorily. "I met Pat here to discuss what steps we are going to take. You can tell your friend Cohen that he'll be sorry that he started this."

Yale didn't show his surprise. It was obvious that Pat had started a surveillance of him, and was aware that Harry Cohen had been at his house.

"This place should be familiar to you, Agatha," Alfred Latham said as he led her to her place at the directors' table. "I know that you haven't attended a stockholders' meeting for several years, but we haven't changed the offices much. It still doubles as my office and directors' room."

"It still smells the same, too!" Agatha sniffed. "As if several generations of Lathams were buried under the floor!"

Sam thought that was funny. Sitting at the directors' table next to Yale, he laughed until he caught the sneer of Jim Latham who was looking at both of them as if they were ill-mannered serfs that the ducal lord had been reluctantly forced to entertain. Yale had to admit that he and Sam, dressed as they were in sport jackets and slacks, were in strange contrast to the neat pin-striped, pinned-down collar appearance of the other stockholders. Yale remembered, with a grin, that both Anne and Cynthia had argued with him before he left. This morning, they told him he should make an exception and at least try to look like the successful young executive. He could wear his gabardine suit. A man capable of earning millions of dollars shouldn't look like one of the crew just off a tramp steamer.

It would make no difference, Yale thought, If I made a hundred million dollars. I could never acquire the cool self-possession that Jim Latham and Bert Walsh have adopted as a kind of trademark. Yale had discovered, however, that his insouciant non-conformity, coupled with an ability to say the completely unexpected, tended to ruffle these bright young men. He found it constantly interesting to match his intensity against their exterior polish, and see them grow dull and less confident.

Alfred Latham performed the introductions. Jim Latham nodded at Yale and Sam, but made no effort to stand up or shake hands. Ed Baker, sitting next to Jim, was introduced as Vice-President and Comptroller. Baker, a slight man, wearing rimless glasses, shook hands limply with Yale and Sam and bowed his head to Agatha. The man next to him, John Norwell, was Vice-President in charge of production. He was a granite-faced man who spoke with a Scotch accent. Yale thought he detected a congratulatory tone in his voice. He took Yale's hand in a strong grip.

"You've been around Latham for a long time, Mr. Norwell. I've heard your name mentioned frequently since I was a youngster." Yale looked at him for a moment, and then said: "How would you like to take over here?"

Norwell's face was expressionless. "I've been here for thirty years, laddie. To tell the truth, you still seem a bit of a youngster to me. I wouldna' care to answer your question . . . yet."

Alfred Latham looked at Norwell, a little displeased. He continued with the introductions. "On the other side of the table is Bessie Martin, our recording secretary . . . down at that end is, of course, Patrick Marratt and Doctor Amos Tangle. This constitutes our Board of Directors." Pat ignored Yale. He nodded at Sam Higgins. Doctor Tangle shook hands with both of them perfunctorily.

"Shall we call the meeting to order?" Agatha's interruption was crisp. "I see no need of prolonging the agony." She looked at Pat Marratt a moment and cackled at him. "How are things going at your plant, Patrick? Everyone milling around outside like a lot of damned fools? The other day I was offered twenty dollars if I would join the pickets and carry a placard that said, 'Pat Marratt is a tight old skinflint.'" She smiled charmingly at Pat. "If we get through in time I might take them up on it. Unless you'd like to better the offer."

Pat's face flushed. "I've known you a long time, Agatha. Lately, I don't find your actions or statements amusing. Maybe it's to be expected of people in their senility."

Agatha and he glared at each other. Alfred Latham called the meeting to order. Yale immediately asked for recognition from the chair. "Mr. Chairman, I think we should establish immediately the stock control of this corporation. I represent Challenge Incorporated, a non-profit foundation. Mr. Sam Higgins will pass among you a certified auditor's statement that one hundred and ninety thousand shares of this corporation are controlled by Challenge. He will also give you proof that I have a right to vote these shares. While Challenge is in the process of dealing with certain interests who were caught napping when they sold Latham stock short, I can tell you that under no circumstances will Challenge dilute its controlling interest. Should there be any doubt in your mind that the situation may change . . . even, should I decide to settle completely with the shorts at an agreed upon price, Agatha Latham has assigned to Challenge, for the purpose of this stockholders' meeting, the right to vote her shares in any way I may desire."

Alfred Latham couldn't control an exclamation of disgust. "Agatha, I'm seriously considering having your sanity questioned. Ever since it became apparent that you and young Marratt were in league together, I have tried to get you to come to my house and discuss this rationally. It has occurred to Jim and me, as well as our lawyers, that you are not a young woman, and this young man might be exerting undue and subtle influences on you. . . ." Alfred paused and cleared his throat nervously. "After all, Agatha . . . you are eighty years old . . . I don't believe that it would be misconstrued by anyone to say that when a person reaches that age, certain parts of his brain might not function with complete clarity."

"Alfred . . . this is pure nonsense, and you know it! I'm completely in control of my mind. Sound enough to know that the executives of this company need a thorough shaking up . . . sound enough to know that my Latham stock has missed the last two dividends . . . sound enough not to have got caught in the predicament that you are in. You have been counting on my shares for quite a few years to hold you in power. If you and your son had had any judgment, you'd have gone into the market and purchased Latham shares, and retired them as treasury stock . . . instead, you bought oil leases." Agatha took off her glasses and polished the lenses. "I may be eighty years old, Alfred, but even without glasses I can see that you are still a pompous old fool . . . and your son is a good enough boy . . . but a little thick between the ears."

There was an ominous silence when Agatha finished. Yale felt a little sorry for Jim Latham who looked at Agatha as if he couldn't believe his ears. The poor devil, he thought. He was enjoying life before I appeared on the scene. Latham Shipyards would have always provided him with a comfortable living, and plenty of time off for golf and sailing. Now his little world is disappearing. Yale was beginning to realize that the good he wanted to accomplish in the world wouldn't always be accomplished pleasantly. It frightened him a little. The Communists excused their purges on the principle of the greatest good for the greatest number. But who was to judge?

"Agatha! Think what you are doing to your family!" Doctor Tangle said. "Jim is your nephew. Alfred is your brother. I've known Yale Marratt since he was a young man, and I can tell you that this man is dangerous. Most of us rebel a little when we are children, but when we grow older we realize that we have to conform for the sake of society . . . for the very continuance of society. What this young man is doing is corrupt and insidious. The book he has published has already been scored as blasphemous. Have you seen the morning newspapers? This Challenge thing is an attempt to rock the high standards on which our culture is based." Doctor Tangle took a copy of Spoken in My Manner from his brief case and threw it on the table. "I don't believe that Mat Chilling had anything to do with this book. It has been written by an egotistical maniac . . . a man as dangerous as Hitler in his way. You simply can't afford to have your name associated with this man, Agatha." Doctor Tangle turned to Pat. "I'm sorry to have to speak about your flesh and blood this way. Have you read this monstrous book, Pat?"

Pat admitted that he hadn't. "We have copies of it. My public relations department is studying it. I've already come to the conclusion, however, that whatever my son is doing up there at the old Langley place, it is highly immoral! Whether we have laws against it in this state, I don't know, but I do know that for the sake of the business that I have devoted my life to building, it will be necessary that I publicly denounce the whole thing." Pat shrugged his shoulders and looked around the directors' table. "You can see that this curse has not only descended on Alfred Latham, but it touches me even more closely. I have harbored a viper. I discussed this with Bert Walsh, who incidentally is being groomed for the presidency of my company. He agrees that it could have a very deleterious effect on our sales. The general public who buys our products has no sympathy with deviationists. I think you should know, Agatha, that . . ." as he spoke Pat looked at Yale, but he acted as if Yale weren't present, ". . . Yale is no longer a son in my eyes. He has become, as Doctor Tangle pointed out to you, a menace to society. Individually, and as President of the Marratt Corporation, I will do everything possible to discredit him."

Yale listened to the stinging attack in silence. He noticed the eyes of the others watching him, examining him coldly. They were wondering whether he would crumble under the attack, or retaliate with even stronger words. But there was no anger in him, and he was a little pleased with himself. I have taken a step forward, he thought. I really, honestly feel no anger. This is my father. He is judging me cruelly, unfairly. He feels only contempt and hatred for me, yet I actually feel sorry for him. He is frightened but I can no longer give him courage with a game of verbal reprisals.

"I'm sorry you feel this way, Pat," Yale said, "but actually you are only a small stockholder here, and the point of this meeting is not whether Challenge is a good or bad force in the world, but rather whether the majority stockholders of this corporation are dissatisfied with the officials elected by its Board of Directors. Since the by-laws of this corporation give one vote to every share of common stock, it follows that even without Agatha I am in a position to outvote every stockholder present or otherwise."

"You are not without me, Yale," Agatha snapped. "For your information, Patrick Marratt, I would be ashamed of myself if I were you. And you, Amos Tangle . . . nothing you have said disturbs me in the least. I want you to know that I'm proud of this young man. I like fighters . . . particularly when they are fighting stupidity and moronity." Agatha pounded the table. "Now let us elect a new Board, here."

Yale quickly nominated Agatha as Chairman of the Board, and himself as a director. Miss Martin grimly tallied the nays registered by Alfred, Jim, Pat, Doctor Tangle, and Ed Baker and John Norwell who owned a few hundred shares of stock apiece. The total votes the opposition could muster were one hundred and thirty thousand shares. Alfred and Jim Latham followed the proceedings disgustedly.

Once elected, Agatha made a ceremony of moving to the head of the table. She sat down and surveyed them all with an appraising glance. "I realize that if you could voice your opinion, gentlemen, some of you would demand to know what an eighty-year-old woman expects to do as Chairman of the Board of this company. I'm going to answer for you. I'm going to do just one thing! I'm going to get a President who will pull this company off its fat, complacent behind. If that can't be done . . . then while there is some value left in the inventory and equipment, and some of the real-estate holdings that my father Lincoln Latham was astute enough to purchase in this city . . . the majority stockholders will proceed to rapid liquidation of the company. Since we are now a cozy little group with most of the stock represented, we can dispense with protocol and move fast." Agatha looked at Pat. "I don't like you, Pat, but I think you could run this company. Yale offered you the presidency the other day. Do you want it?"

"Not under any circumstances. You not only have a perfectly good President in Jim Latham. You owe it to him to give him a chance." Jim smiled at Pat and thanked him for his confidence. Agatha ignored him. "John Norwell . . . do you want the presidency?"

"Agatha, don't think that I'm afraid of you," John Norwell said slowly. "And don't think that I'm afraid of the job. I'm not. What I wouldn't care to look forward to is being tossed around. You and the laddie are not interested in this company, you're just manipulators." Norwell pointed at Yale with the end of his cigar. "He'd sell out tomorrow to clip the short-sellers. I keep my ear to the ground. I know that if sufficient stock becomes available, some other interests at this table are going to scramble to get it . . . I don't feel like being President one day and office boy the next. . . ."

"Very sound judgment, John," Alfred Latham applauded.

Yale tried to point out to Norwell that he had already affirmed that he was not going to lose control of Latham. Norwell shook his head. "You are bound to get to the point where you'll require Agatha's stock. You and Agatha may have a falling out." Norwell was about to say that, before he would give any decision, he would have to think it over, when the doors of the office were violently opened, and a young woman rushed in.

"I'm awfully sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Latham," she said, her face flushed, "but the reporters are going wild outside. It seems that a Mr. Paul Downing has just committed suicide!"

Pat looked at Yale dumbfounded. As several reporters dashed into the room, Pat stood up. There was a terrible fury on his face. "There you are, gentlemen. That's the kind of bestial animal I have spawned! Look at him. Get him well in mind. He is the one who killed Paul Downing! He's a ruthless, depraved killer!"

Yale heard one of the reporters say it was "a suicide in a love nest." The reporter grabbed Yale's arm. "Downing shot himself . . . right in front of your sister, kid! Blew his goddamned brains out while she was eating breakfast and daring him to."

Agatha stood up and demanded that the reporters leave the room. "This meeting has not been adjourned," she snarled.

Pat, when he heard that Barbara had been with Paul Downing, paid no attention to Agatha. He told Alfred that he was leaving. Alfred, Jim, and Doctor Tangle followed him out of the office. Baker and Norwell, looking embarrassed, made their excuses, and left. Bessie Martin started to get up, and Agatha told her bluntly to sit down. "This meeting is still in progress. We don't need them anyway. We can issue a directive to them. Well, young Marratt . . . this company needs a President. . . ." She looked at Yale speculatively. "I know it's a shock to you, but don't let this Downing thing get you down. I knew him. I could have predicted that this would happen to him some day. . . ."

Yale looked at her for a moment, "Aunt Agatha, can you predict what will happen to me some day?"

Agatha leaned across the table. She grinned at Yale, and shook her head. "No, but I can tell you you've got a mess on your hands, and it is the kind of a mess that strikes at the fatal flaw in your personality. You've got a company without a president, and you haven't the time or inclination to be president. Unless you pull in an outsider and really clean house, the old-guard here will sabotage you. They will gladly pull the house down around their ears just so long as they can bury you in the mess. So you've got to get rid of them! That will hurt, because it could even mean that my brother or his son could try a Downing stunt . . . if they did, that, I think would demoralize you. You're not tough enough, yet! The other alternative is to liquidate the place. We could get out just dandy. I figure there is six to eight million dollars' worth of inventory even if we sell it below market. There's the two tankers which are nearly completed. There's at least ten million dollars' worth of choice real estate the company owns throughout the city, and there are those oil leases . . . which I have a hunch may be a real bonanza." Agatha stared at Yale. "You don't like it, do you? We could make more in the long run just wiping out the Latham Shipyards, but what happens to your Challenge ideas then? When Lathams is all gone and the couple of thousand people that are working here now are on relief . . . it's going to be kind of hypocritical to spout that Challenge stuff at them." Agatha sat back in her chair and looked at Yale triumphantly.

Sam scratched his head, and even Bessie Martin looked at Yale with interest. Yale walked over to the windows and stared out at the Yards. The noon whistle blew. The whistle you could hear even in the suburbs of Midhaven. He remembered the war years when the ways in the Yards were all occupied, and the lights burned through the night.

"Agatha," he said softly, "you are confusing me with yourself. I have only one reason to make money. It's all written down in that infamous book published by Challenge. What would it gain me to win the earth and lose myself?" Yale smiled. "Agatha . . . you are Chairman of the Board. If you expect to earn Alfred Latham's salary . . . get us a President . . . one who knows how to pull a company off its fat, complacent behind!"

11

When Ralph stopped the car in front of the house, Cynthia ran out, her hair flowing behind her. "Barbara is here," she told them. "Yale, she's on the verge of cracking up. Paul Downing shot himself right in front of her. Oh, my God, Yale, everyone says that you are responsible! What are you going to do?"

Barbara was in the library with Anne and Clara. She was crying. "I couldn't go home," she told Yale bitterly. "Liz will be completely shocked . . . me sleeping with him, and then having him do this. All the reporters know. They were swarming all over the place, interviewing his crew, wanting to know everything . . . O God, it was awful. . . ." Barbara looked haggard. In the lines around her eyes, and the tightness of her lips as she tried to restrain her tears, Yale was surprised to discover a resemblance to Liz.

Barbara opened her pocketbook, and handed Yale a check. She studied his face as he took it. Yale whistled his surprise, "Well, what do you know? Downing came through." He passed the check to Anne and Cynthia. It was made out to Challenge Inc. for three million dollars.

"You have no heart, have you?" Barbara said, tears running down her cheeks. "It doesn't bother you a bit that you drove Paul to do it. You killed him! But all that interests you is that money."

Yale nodded slowly. He wondered for a moment if he were really responsible for Downing's death. The expression of doubt that he saw on Anne's and Cynthia's faces bothered him. What would they think if he told them he had very little sympathy for Downing? There were too many people in the world with cancer eating at their vital organs or heart trouble or lost limbs or eyes . . . people hanging desperately to life who would have gladly traded problems with Downing.

"I guess my Hindu leanings have pre-conditioned me. I fear the willful destruction of life. Downing killing himself is a form of inhumanity . . . masochism. . . ."

Barbara started to sob. Anne murmured, "Yale, that's cruel. You don't know what she has been through. Tell him, Bobby."

Barbara told them how Paul Downing had seen her Sunday evening at the Midhaven Yacht Club. He had been friendly and talked with her. Barbara admitted that she had been "feeling no pain."

"So when he asked me on his boat, I went with him." Barbara looked at Yale defiantly. "Go ahead, say that I'm a tramp. Maybe we've both got bad blood from some ancient ancestor. It's no worse than what you are doing. . . ."

"Except that I am doing it with responsibility," Yale said wryly.

Barbara shrugged. Downing had been very nice to her. Sunday night when she had been very tipsy, he had just undressed her and put her in a bunk. He didn't try any funny stuff. Monday they cruised in Long Island Sound. It was a beautiful boat. Except for a cook and a crew of three they had it to themselves. During the day, while Barbara sunbathed, Downing read Spoken in My Manner.

"He seemed to be very much interested in it," Barbara recalled. "I remember him discussing the Fifth Commandment: the one that says that Challenge believes that no man is pre-conditioned to act by any metaphysical fate or man-conceived determinism. Paul couldn't accept that. He felt that his entire life had been pre-planned for him. I remembered that we used to argue that 'free-will, or not free-will' crap in college, so I egged him on." Barbara looked at Yale ruefully. "It's too bad that you never met Downing. When you got to know him he was really nice."

Yale listened as Barbara told him about her one-day idyll with Downing. He wondered why, when people had discovered for a moment a little of the magic and wonder of living, they didn't work harder to hold onto it. Most people were so completely unaware when they were happy that they abandoned the moment they had already discovered in search of something better. That was what had happened to Downing and Bobby. After a day of delight with each other's thoughts and the warm peacefulness of the wind in their sails and the ocean gliding by underneath them, they docked at a yacht club that Downing was a member of on Long Island Sound. They both proceeded to get thoroughly drunk.

That was when Downing had telephoned Yale. "He didn't really think you would go easy on him, Yale. He believed that you had no choice in the matter. Anyway, he said that if he were in your shoes, he'd have done the same thing."

Yale looked at her curiously. "I know," Barbara said, "you think that leaves you off the hook. I don't believe it. . . ."

"After all," Yale said quietly, "he didn't tell me that he was in such a desperate spot that the only solution would be to kill himself. . . ."

"You wouldn't have believed him," Barbara said.

They returned to Paul's boat about one in the morning. When they were undressed and in bed together, Paul was too drunk to do anything. "He said that it was predetermined that he could never screw me . . . then he passed out. You see, even then he was thinking of killing himself," Barbara said sadly.

During the night, evidently following Paul's orders, the crew had sailed the yacht back to Midhaven Harbor. This morning, when Barbara had awakened she discovered they were at anchor a few hundred yards off the Midhaven Yacht Club. After she had dressed, and staggered with her head pounding into the sunlight, she found Paul sitting in the fantail. It had been built so that part of it was permanently covered, and part of it covered with a retractable canvas. Paul was slouched in a rattan chair, his feet perched on a cocktail table. He called the steward and ordered breakfast for Barbara. Then she realized that Paul was still drinking. A bottle of Scotch and a half filled glass sat beside his chair within easy reach. Barbara commented on it. He told her that he wasn't hungry.

"He seemed very distant and remote. I tried to talk with him, but he didn't answer me."

After the steward had brought toast and coffee for Barbara, Downing pulled a small revolver out of his coat pocket. "It's predetermined that I do this, Barbara . . . this is the direction my life has been heading ever since I was born. . . ."

She had looked at him astonished, and told him that it was no joke to kid about taking your life. When he told her he wasn't kidding, that within the next ten or fifteen minutes he was going to kill himself, Barbara told him that he would look good with a hole in his head.

She asked him why wait? Do it now. She told him that he was just being overdramatic, feeling sorry for himself because he had been impotent last night. She told him that people who talked about such things never did them.

"I'm sorry it has to be this way, Bobby," Paul told her mildly, not taking offense at her bitter kidding. "You might say that this business with Lathams is just the straw that broke that camel's back. Last night, too. And maybe that damned book of your brother's has affected me. Anyway, last night I saw myself as a sixty-year-old lecher trying to climb into bed with a woman half my years." He told Barbara that she was too nice a person to get herself mixed up with him. "I'm a bastard," he said. "I'd have screwed you for a while, and then got sick of you. . . . As for your brother . . . I don't know him, but anyone who has the nerve to do what he is doing deserves help. I could kill myself, and Yale would find my estate so fouled up he would never get his hold-up price on the Latham stock . . . or if he did it would take years. I've been in town while you were sleeping this morning. . . ." He gave Barbara the certified check.

Barbara was still kidding him, laughing at him, telling him that he was just trying to make her feel sorry for him, when he held the revolver up to his temple, and pulled the trigger.

Barbara shuddered. "God! What a horrible thing! There he was alive, talking to me, and then a second later he was sprawled on the deck, dead. Bleeding! I screamed and screamed and screamed." Barbara was silent, sobbing in body-wracking heaves. Cynthia suggested that they give her a sedative. She and Anne took Barbara upstairs, telling her that she could stay with them as long as she wished.

"Reminds me of a poem by a young poet I used to know, years ago," Agatha said, bemused. "When I lived in Cambridge . . . Eddy Robinson . . . people don't read him much today.

So on he worked, and waited for the light, and went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night went home and put a bullet through his head.

I used to ask Eddy what he meant by meat and the bread. Do you know, Yale Marratt?"

Alfred Latham wasted no time in bending the story of Downing's suicide to fit his purpose. Peoples McGroaty called Yale and told him that he felt as if he were an unarmed neutral caught between opposing armies. "They are playing the whole deal for all it is worth, Yale. I got a release this morning from Alfred that has been given out to all the news services."

He read parts of it to Yale:

"Yale Marratt, a young, wet-behind-the-ears speculator, and Agatha Latham, a woman approaching eighty-one years of age, today voted themselves as Director and Chairman of the Board respectively of the Latham Shipyards . . ."

Yale heard Peoples cluck unhappily on his end of the phone. "Listen to this," he read: "There is no coincidence in the suicide of Paul Downing this morning, and this despicable raiding of a strong, well-established business. Young Marratt, a ruthless, irresponsible, new breed of businessman, better known as a corporate pirate; a man who is a disgrace to the investment and business world, is directly responsible for the suicide of Paul Downing. The tax-dodge outfit that is controlled by Marratt and two women who parade under the Marratt name . . . called Challenge Incorporated . . . deliberately put Downing on the spot just as truly as modern gangsters put their victims on the spot."

"I don't like it, Yale," Peoples said, and his voice sounded doubtful. "Listen to this, and don't forget that this stuff is going to get a coast-to-coast play. It has the kind of drama that sells newspapers." Peoples continued to read to him. "How this young Marratt obtained his start in amassing a fortune estimated at three or four million dollars is a complete mystery. Alfred Latham declared today that he had it on responsible authority from young Marratt's father, who is well known in Midhaven and respected throughout the business world, that other than his pay as Lieutenant in the Finance Department of the U.S. Army and ten thousand dollars that Patrick Marratt had given him in 1939, young Marratt had no honest source of funds . . . that other than the time spent in the Army, Yale Marratt has never worked in his life."

Peoples sighed, "Don't you see what they are trying to do, Yale? They are intimating that you might have been robbing the Government."

"Don't worry," Yale chuckled. "If the General Accounting Office reviews my Army transactions, they'll find them clean as a whistle."

"It won't be the General Accounting Office. . . ." Peoples warned him, "it will be the Internal Revenue."

Yale told him that he had a splendid tax lawyer and accountant. Challenge was in excellent shape.

"You don't understand," Peoples said. "I admire what you are trying to do with Challenge. But your father and Alfred Latham will try to cast doubts as to your honesty . . . maybe even your sanity. When a respected, influential citizen calls you a thief, the general public begins to think you are one. I'm afraid that when they get through, your name will be mud in this city. You won't be able to change the impression later even if you manage to prove your honesty. Listen to this: 'Although the stockholders' meeting was interrupted by the announcement of the death of Paul Downing, Alfred Latham stated today that it was reliably reported to him that young Marratt and Agatha Latham were considering the possible liquidation of the Latham Shipyards. This would be necessary, Alfred Latham stated, in any event, since the new controlling interest had been unable to elect a President from the present employees or directors. Since it is impossible to run the Latham Shipyards without intimate knowledge of local conditions, it is apparent that the people of Midhaven, and the businesses in this city that depend on Latham for their livelihood, will face the future without a Latham Shipyards.'" Peoples was silent, and then he asked Yale if it were true that he and Agatha would liquidate the Yards.

"Look, Peoples, I sense throughout this one-sided conversation that you, too, are a victim of Alfred Latham's nonsense. That disturbs me more than anything. Let me tell you that Agatha and I have absolutely no intention of liquidating the Latham Shipyards. I'm demanding that you print that."

Before the evening was over Yale wearily told the telephone operator that he couldn't take any more telephone calls, but before he managed to call a halt to them, he had patiently explained his position to the owners of several of the larger stores in Midhaven, as well as a number of small businessmen who assured him that the collapse of the Latham Shipyards would mean the end of their enterprises. One anonymous caller shouted at him angrily and accused him of not only planning to ruin the city of Midhaven, but the entire Christian world with his vile book. To dare to call his cheap and orgiastic ideas Commandments was a crime against God. He would be punished everlastingly. The last call that he accepted was a menacing voice that abruptly warned him that if the Latham Shipyards were closed down, his life wouldn't be "worth a cent" in the city of Midhaven. The voice was calling him a dirty son-of-a-bitch when he hung up.

Cynthia and Anne listened silently to some of the calls on the extension telephone. When Yale finally refused to take any further telephone calls, he noticed that Cynthia had walked away from the phone, and was sitting on the sofa with her head in her hands. He lifted her face and looked at her tear-stained cheeks.

"Our little private world is crumbling, isn't it, Yale? Starting tomorrow we stop living for the three of us, and devote our lives to the great public who will hate us for being happy, and spit on us for trying to tell them how to be happy. Doesn't it frighten you, Yale?" Cynthia brushed the tears from her eyes. She looked at Anne who was listening to her. "Neither of you seems to realize it. Maybe because you don't know what it is to be one of the 'minority.' We will be hated for the same reason that Jews are hated . . . because we have set ourselves apart." Cynthia smiled sadly. "Whether you realize it or not, Yale, the First Commandment of Challenge that states that Man is God, denies the need for Christ, and puts us in a position equivalent to the Jews. We are going to be in trouble, Yale . . . I just know it. We are providing people with just the kind of whipping boy they need. People like conflict. It's an antidote to boredom. I've been through it with Mat. Being horrified with us and what we are doing will help them keep their minds off their own boring lives. People don't want to be challenged. Socrates proved that. It's too demanding for them."

"What about the people who are buying the book? I don't expect to reach everyone." Yale rubbed his eyes in weariness. "A few hundred thousand seems like a pretty good start to me."

"Maybe it's just a fad . . maybe they are not buying the book because they agree with us but because it is something to talk about." Anne looked at Yale in thought. "Maybe we shouldn't push it so hard, Yale. I don't think that either Cynthia or I realized that you were going to stir up such a commotion with this Latham business. I think one thing at a time is all that we can handle." Anne wanted to say "handle emotionally," but Yale looked so dejected that she rumpled his hair. "We're with you, honey. It just may be good judgment to go a little slower."

Yale smiled at them. "Just in case I forget to tell you . . . I love you both very much." He told them that until the Latham Yards was in good shape he wouldn't attempt any further speculations. He assured them that there was nothing to worry about in the Latham situation. Within a few days he expected that John Norwell would accept the presidency. It was natural that Alfred Latham would start all kinds of rumors going. "What I'm not completely able to adjust to," Yale said, "is that I have, inadvertently, created a witches' brew of hatreds. . . ."

"Did you expect that Alfred and Jim Latham would love you?" Cynthia asked. She wondered sometimes at Yale's essential naïveté. "Did you think that your father would approve of our ménage à trois . . . that he would love the book?"

Agatha Latham walked into the living room, followed by Sam and Clara. She heard Cynthia's remarks. She smiled sardonically at the girls. "You young ladies have had the questionable fortune of becoming associated with a young man who quite evidently thinks he is a modern Jesus." Agatha sat down. "You'll be lucky, young man, if you don't reap Jesus's reward."

Agatha told the girls that for the next few days they were going to have to run Challenge by themselves. Yale and she would be very busy trying to patch together an executive organization at the Latham Shipyards. She smiled at Yale and asked him whether he thought that he had at last bitten off more than he could chew.

"What Aunt Agatha is really asking is, have I got cold feet?" Yale, who was sitting between Cynthia and Anne, grabbed them around the waists and pulled them to him. "Listen to me, all of you. Some people in this world must make a stand. I'm being reviled because I'm saying that every individual is fundamentally good and loving. People will say, if you believe this why couldn't you say it quietly? Why couldn't you just lead an exemplary life and prove it in a humble way? Why do you want to make enemies? Why do you shout from the high heavens that all men are brothers? People will say, we know these things. You don't have to spend a million dollars to prove them." Yale's voice had risen in volume as he spoke. He released Anne and Cynthia and stood up.

"I love you two girls deeply and intensely. I never want to lose you. But some one has to try to stem the tide of hatred and stupidity in the world. How I got myself elected to do the job, I'll never quite know. Maybe because I fell in love with Cynthia Carnell. Maybe because I met Mat Chilling. Maybe because I went to India and married Anne Wilson. What does it matter now? What does matter is that the loudest voice in our western culture is the voice that has money in back of it. It's time that the message that the three of us dared to formulate as Commandments was backed by money and lots of it." Yale plopped on the sofa and grinned at them. "Okay, I'm ranting again. But no matter. I'm not afraid."

Agatha chuckled. "Cynthia Marratt, Anne Marratt, I hope you appreciate this man. Most young women wouldn't. You have to live a long time to know a real man." She squeezed Yale's arm affectionately, and then told them that she was going to bed. As she left the living room she dropped an envelope in Yale's lap. "Here's something to help make the voice a little louder."

"I think Cynthia and I are going to be jealous of her if she doesn't cut it out," Anne said, grinning at Yale when Agatha had gone.

"What's the old hell-cat given you?" Sam asked curiously. He looked at the envelope that Yale was holding unopened.

Yale opened the envelope slowly. "Well, what do you know?" he asked excitedly. He held up a sheaf of green stock certificates. "It's Agatha's shares of Latham stock all transferred to Challenge. Do you know what that means, kids?"

Cynthia and Anne weren't quite sure, but they were impressed by Sam's astonishment. Sam asked Yale how he had managed to hypnotize Agatha. "That's equivalent to giving the foundation four million dollars," he explained. "It's even better than that because up to now Yale didn't know where in hell he stood. If Agatha had dropped dead, and her shares got into Alfred Latham's hands the stock Challenge held in Latham Shipyards, in fact, the whole damned foundation, would be on pretty thin ice."

They discussed the implications of what Agatha had done. Sam suggested that Agatha might very well leave her entire estate to Challenge. "She's worth close to a hundred million dollars," Sam said. He looked at Yale wonderingly. "If she does, she's going to give Challenge a pretty loud voice."

Yale shook his head. "I don't want any of you to get the impression that I'm after Agatha's money. I like Agatha, and she likes me. It's as simple as that. While I think that Challenge is a worthy cause, I don't want it so fat that it becomes complacent. This is a people's cause. After I have made most people aware of what we are trying to do, they will either support it spontaneously or it will die."

Clara assured him that she and Sam were going to be ardent supporters. Sam told Yale that they were going back to New York in the morning. "Agatha has answered the problem I was going to bring up. Now that Latham Shipyards are in the bag, Higgins, Incorporated would like to be repaid."

"Are you afraid the ship is going to sink, Sam?"

"Who knows?" Sam had come to enjoy Yale too much to want to shake his confidence. "Let's say that the elder Higgins talked with me yesterday. He admitted that we had done a good job. But Higgins isn't interested in owning a shipyard." Sam didn't tell Yale that the elder Higgins had suggested that the entire affair in Midhaven was assuming emotional overtones that weren't conducive to good investments. Their nearly three million dollar loan to Yale, backed by collateral in Latham stock, could go very sour if the Yards didn't get organized with several good contracts, government or otherwise.

On the way upstairs Sam told Yale that he would keep in close touch with him. He chuckled. "I don't know what it is you've got, Yale . . . but I heard a word for it once -- 'Serendipity' . . . I'm not sure, but I think it means that if you fell into a pile of horse-shit you'd come out of it sweet and clean smelling. Take Clara and me . . . we are all straightened out . . . providing I stay home nights. . . ." Sam shrugged. "I haven't got what it takes to convince her that a man needs two women."

Later, lying in bed with Cynthia and Yale, Anne asked Yale if he thought he needed two women. "Cynthia and I have wondered if you met Cynthia and married her without ever having been married to me . . . and then met me later . . . if you would have tried to talk us into living together?"

Yale looked at Cynthia. He noticed that she was waiting expectantly for his answer. Both girls leaned on their pillows and looked at him. Lying on his back between them, he looked at Cynthia's heart-shaped face and big brown eyes, and then at Anne's face, impish; her blue-black eyes sparkling. He pulled them down beside him, flopped on his stomach and nuzzled in their necks.

"You know something?" he whispered, enjoying the warm feminine fragrance of them, "only a woman would ask a question like that. If I say yes then you'll both be convinced that what you heard Sam say is right . . . that a man needs two women; on the other hand, if I say no then Anne who asked the question will be convinced that I don't really love her." Yale could feel them both snuggling against him under the sheet. "Let's not try to analyze it. Let's say by some kind of magic we were all able to love each other. Let's say that it isn't impossible in this world of hatred to love one another . . . if you really want to."

Within a few days Anne, Cynthia, Yale, and Agatha had established a temporary routine. Yale spent most of each day with Agatha at the Latham Shipyards. Agatha took over Alfred's vacated office. Together they studied the Yards departmentally, interviewing superintendents and foremen and planning for the future. Senator Williams, yielding to Agatha's long-distance telephone prodding, assured them he was working for a Navy contract for the Yards. He told them that he hoped the situation at the Yards was settling down. There were some doubts in high places whether the recent changes in ownership might make it unwise politically to seek a contract for Latham's. He wanted to know what connection Challenge Inc., which was creating quite a fuss, had with Latham's. Agatha told him to stop being an old biddy and concentrate on getting Latharn a contract.

Each day as Ralph Weeks drove them to work they passed the Marratt Corporation factory. The place looked strangely deserted. It was the third week of the strike. A handful of pickets walked up and down in front, and looked sourly at their car as they passed.

While Yale and Agatha were trying to re-organize the Yards, Anne and Cynthia worked desperately to develop a clerical staff to handle the flood of mail that had descended on Challenge. Barbara Marratt, having nothing better to do, and feeling ill at ease at home, had temporarily moved in with them. The three of them alternated at being nursemaid for the two children. While one of them watched the babies the others tried to train a staff of some twenty girls into a system for handling the thousands of membership cards that were being received from the sale of the book.

The morning that Liz Marratt drove up and parked her car near the Challenge barn, Barbara was minding both babies. Cynthia and Anne, appalled at the accumulation of mail, had been interviewing older women who they hoped might be indoctrinated with the Challenge ideas. As Yale had pointed out to them, the correspondence which was rapidly piling up, and ranged all the way from violent, vituperative crank letters to letters sincerely seeking advice on every conceivable problem, would require a staff of trained and sympathetic people to handle it. Yale had insisted that all the letters be answered. Cynthia, Anne, and he had tried valiantly each night to wade through the accumulating mail, but it had quickly become obvious that their main job in the future was going to be to teach a competent staff to carry out their instructions.

Liz walked into the busy office and joined the line of women whom Cynthia and Anne were interviewing. For nearly fifteen minutes she waited while her astonishment and anger grew apace. She had read Spoken in My Manner , and been shocked. Nothing in her own background had prepared her for such a casual linking of sex and religion. It seemed wrong to her somehow, and yet she was strangely attracted by the idea. She wondered what influence these girls had had on Yale. Why did he insist on living with both of them? It was dirty, somehow . . . while the idea of a nice sexual relationship, that maybe encompassed God, was possible with one person . . . Liz had known it a little with Pat, and once quite deeply with Frank Middleton . . . Liz couldn't understand how a woman could accept a man who had been with another woman. Ugh, she thought.

The line of women she was in had moved up in front of Cynthia. Liz looked at her and thought, the girl is really quite beautiful, and so is that other one . . . Anne -- was that her name? She knew it must be Anne who was quietly talking to some woman just ahead of her in line.

Cynthia smiled at Liz, and then recognized her. "You are Yale's mother, aren't you?" she gasped, thinking it had been ten years since she had seen Mrs. Marratt. Yale's mother still impressed her as being supremely self-confident.

Cynthia quickly called Anne, who looked up surprised, and then grasped the situation. She called Ruth Willis, a woman they had hired a few days before, and turned the remainder of the interviewing over to her.

As they guided Liz into their office at the back of the barn, Liz asked them when Yale would be back. Cynthia, frightened, wondering whether Liz was going to create a scene, or deliver a blistering attack on the evils of bigamy, told her that Yale wouldn't be back until three or four o'clock.

Liz told them it was just as well. She sat down in the chair that Anne offered her and fumbled in her bag for matches and a cigarette. She finally found them, and slowly lighted one. She blinked back tears of anger. Anne suddenly realized that Liz was close to hysteria.

"So this is Anne and Cynthia." Liz's voice was tense. She had regained her perspective. For a moment she had thought these were, after all, just young girls who apparently cared for her son. Now she knew it wasn't so. She hated them. In her distaste she could visualize them cheap and shoddy. Women who traded in sex.

"Do you think you are going to get away with it?" she demanded. "You have destroyed my family. First you took Yale . . . then Barbara moved in with you. Yesterday my husband had a heart attack." Liz was pleased with the shocked expression on Anne's and Cynthia's faces. "Yes . . . you did it . . . the three of you. He's had a bad heart for several years . . . now he's flat on his back . . . put there by a rotten son and his two whores." Liz started to sob wildly. She told them almost incoherently how Pat had wanted to have Yale come back from the Army and help him. Now Yale was obviously trying to destroy his father's life. "Oh, God . . . dear God . . . where is it all going to end?"

Liz took several typewritten pages out of her pocketbook. With tears running down her cheeks, she handed them to Cynthia. "Both of you . . . read that! Don't think you'll stop Pat Marratt. He dictated that over the phone to his secretary. It will be in the Midhaven Herald tomorrow."

Through a haze of tears, her hand shaking so that Anne had to grasp her wrist to hold the paper steady so that she could read along with her, Cynthia swiftly read:

Copy for a full page advertisement in the Midhaven Herald.

KNOW THE MAN WHO LEADS YOU!

Ten years ago the international union that now represents the employees of the Marratt Corporation sent an organizer named Harry Cohen to Midhaven, Connecticut. While it is not the policy of the Marratt Corporation to engage in denunciatory tactics (we agree that our employees have the right to organize, bargain, and if necessary strike) we feel that all employees should be acquainted with the kind of man who leads them. Harry Cohen is a dangerous man. His connections and his beliefs should be questioned by each and every one of you. Ask your leader, Harry Cohen, who is demanding a ruinous wage scale for the Marratt Corporation, to explain these things to you.

ASK HARRY COHEN WHO JACK LEONARD IS?

Ask him if Leonard who was once a correspondent for the Communist Daily Worker was in constant communication with him, visiting with him at his home? Ask Harry Cohen when Leonard was discharged from the faculty of Midhaven College if he admitted freely to the President of Midhaven College that he had been sent to Midhaven to "contact" Harry Cohen? Ask Harry Cohen whether Jack Leonard is now in jail serving an extended term for conspiracy against the United States?

ASK HARRY COHEN IF HE IS A PRACTICING NUDIST?

Ask him if he has ever entertained people in his home completely naked? Ask him if he exposed his wife and daughter naked to the eyes of any and all male guests?

ASK HARRY COHEN IF HE IS A FRIEND OF YALE MARRATT?

Ask him what his connection is with the orgiastic cult that has been started at the old Langley place, now called Challenge Farm? Ask Harry Cohen if he and his wife have swum naked with other dubious citizens of this city, in company with a strange woman known as Anne Meredith Wilson Marratt, and a woman who calls herself Cynthia Carnell Chilling Marratt, born Cynthia Carnetsky? Ask Harry Cohen what goes on in this place? Ask him why his close friend is a man denounced by his father? Ask Harry Cohen if this close friend of his isn't actually a bigamist and a man who is promoting a cult that denies the existence of God?

ASK YOURSELF whether you want this Harry Cohen to negotiate for you? Ask yourself if you wouldn't be better off to throw out this Harry Cohen and his union, and negotiate directly with the company which has offered you steady employment at good wages for thirty years. Elect your own group. NOW. And have your own honest representatives contact me.

The last page of the paper was signed Patrick Marratt, President.

When Cynthia finished reading she looked at Liz in horror, unable to speak.

Anne took the pages from her, and said, "Mrs. Marratt, this is shocking! I don't understand what kind of man would do this to his son, or fight even an enemy with such underhanded tactics."

"Everything he says is true . . . you know it is," Liz said in a flat voice. "Cynthia knows it is. She knows about Jack Leonard. Both of you know that you have been flaunting yourself around here, naked and cheap. You even have the nerve to publish a book to tell the world what you have done . . . while both of you calmly go around and call yourself Mrs. Marratt . . ."

Cynthia nodded. It's true, she thought bitterly. Everything that we have done in love and happiness with a few twists of words becomes ugly and hateful.

"You're right, Mrs. Marratt." Cynthia sobbed, "I'm a dirty Jewess. If Yale hadn't met me . . . none of this would have happened. Oh, my God . . ." Cynthia ran out of the office, heedless of Anne who begged her to wait. Through the office window they saw her running pathetically toward the house.

Anne stared grimly at Liz who was visibly shaken by Cynthia's response. Holding back her own tears, Anne said softly, "You may not know what I mean, Mrs. Marratt, but I love Cynthia. She's as fine a person as you will ever know. Whether you or your husband understand it or not, Yale is crusading against just this kind of stupid hatred. But I'm not so good as Yale. I can only respond with hatred to anyone who wants to hurt us." Anne looked at her silently for a moment, and then she smiled. Her manner changed so swiftly that Liz looked at her, astonished.

"You know something, Liz . . . I'm going to call you by your son's name," Anne said, grinning. "When I first saw you out there I thought, golly, Liz has come to us because she wants to be friends. I thought maybe it would be the beginning of a reconciliation."

"You mean that you have the nerve to think that I would accept you into my home? Two women living with my son?" Liz looked at her with blazing eyes. This woman, she thought, is worse than the Jewish one.

Anne looked at her without rancor. "Your daughter, Bobby, and I have become very good friends, Liz. She told me a long story about you and a certain Frank Middleton. . . ."

Liz stared at Anne, dismayed. She was silent.

"It's dwindled a bit in the past few years, hasn't it, Liz?" Anne continued. "But there was a time when you were calmly sleeping with two men . . . and yet you were accepted into the best homes in Midhaven." Anne took Liz's arm. "You know something, I think what you were doing is somewhat worse . . . because you had to do it without faith in either Pat or Frank Middleton. Come on, Liz, I want you to come up to our house and have a cup of coffee and break bread with us. I want you to make the biggest effort you ever made in your life. . . ." Anne's fingers tightened on Liz's arm. She smiled at her. "The only price I ask for my silence is just the attempt at understanding on your part."

Anne was having a Manhattan with Barbara when Yale and Agatha came back from the Shipyards. Anne hugged him, and then looked in his face. She could tell by his expression that he had heard about the advertisement. He told her that Peoples McGroaty had called him at Latham's. He had stopped in Peoples' office on the way back. Anne waited for him to say something about the advertisement, but instead he asked her where Cynthia was. Anne told him that she was upstairs with a pretty bad headache. "I think we accomplished something this afternoon," Anne told him, happily. "Your mother was here!"

Yale looked at her, astonished. "Well, the old saying is that it never rains but it pours . . . what did Liz want?"

Anne told him what had happened. "You won't believe it, but after the fireworks were over . . . all four of us had a nice talk. We know all about your father's advertisement . . . that's why she came."

While Yale ran upstairs to see Cynthia, Anne made a Scotch and soda for him. Aunt Agatha decided that she could use a weak one, too. In a few minutes Yale came back with Cynthia, looking a little pale, dressed in a housecoat. She told them that she was feeling much better.

Yale took his drink and toasted them. "Here's to four of the nicest women in the world," he said, enjoying their different beauty, and the evident, different femininity of Barbara, Anne, and Cynthia contrasting with the china-doll fragility of Aunt Agatha. "Okay, I'm listening . . . what happened?"

"Oh, Yale, I wish I wouldn't get so terribly frightened," Cynthia said. "I thought my head would burst. Anne saved the day. You know what your mother simply couldn't understand?"

Yale shook his head.

"She couldn't believe that we both could love you so much and not hate each other. Anne explained to her that it wasn't always easy." Cynthia chuckled. "She told Liz that sometimes she felt like giving me a good crack on the fanny."

"I meant it, too," Anne warned her. "When you let your fears run away with you I get pretty mad at you. Will you just get it out of your head, Cindar, that your being Jewish has caused all our problems."

"I'm the cause of your problems," Yale said, delighting in their conversation. "The day I learn to stop beating my head against the wall, I guess we won't have any."

Barbara listened silently as Cynthia and Anne reviewed the afternoon for Yale. Barbara had been shocked when she saw Cynthia rush into the house, sobbing her heart out. While she was trying to soothe her into telling a comprehensible story, Anne had walked in with Liz.

"We are all going to take our hair down and have a good girlish confession hour," Anne said quietly. And that was just what they did. Amidst tears Liz admitted to Cynthia that she had been cruel. She was dreadfully sorry for what Pat had done that day in his office. It was worse because she could have crossed Pat and told Yale. If she had, none of this would have happened. It would have been better if she and Pat had had a closer relationship. But she didn't know how to talk with Pat, somehow. He was so completely in possession. She never had strong opinions on anything that might not coincide with Pat's. She guessed that was how she had come to like Frank Middleton. He listened to her. He just liked to hear her talk about anything . . . her fears and worries and hopes . . . things that Pat was always too busy for. It was wrong, but it hadn't hurt Pat.

As she listened to Liz, Barbara wondered about herself and Tom Eames. But that was another life ago. Yale had probably been right: she should have gone back to him. Maybe it had been her fault in some ways. Maybe a woman shouldn't try to "own" a man's physical love. Maybe you loved a person not because he loved you . . . but just because you loved him. Maybe Yale had discovered something in the seeds of this crazy religion. For some reason, as she listened, she thought of Bob Coleman, and she wondered what he thought of her. She regretted the silliness with Paul Downing. She sighed. No doubt Bob would think it a great deal worse than silliness. Would he judge her as a loose woman . . . a playgirl the way the newspapers had? Probably.

When Anne and Cynthia had apprehensively shown Liz the babies, and Cynthia had carefully pointed out that Ricky actually was her grandson, they wondered what Liz's reaction would be.

"She was delighted with them," Cynthia told Yale, laughing. "I'll bet when she thinks about it she'll blush. You know what she asked us, Yale?"

Yale shook his head, still unable to comprehend the change that had come over his mother.

"She asked us how many babies we were going to have!"

"She looked disappointed," Anne said, "when I told her that you had set a limit. Not more than three each."

"What did she say she was going to tell Pat?" Yale asked.

Cynthia and Anne looked at each other blankly, and Anne said, "Yale . . . I don't think she'll even tell your father that she was here. She's quite afraid of him."

Later that evening when they were undressing for bed Anne noticed that Yale was unusually quiet and subdued. "Okay, chum . . . you said no secrets in this marriage. Tell Cynthia and me what happened in Peoples McGroaty's office."

Yale didn't answer her immediately. He watched Cynthia bending over, trying to touch her toes without bending her knees. He grinned and patted her on the rump. "You'll never make it, Cindar." He bent over and looked into her flushed face. "My, what big breasts you have!" He grinned at her.

Anne was flopped on the bed indolently reading the Midhaven Herald . "I hope you like that newspaper," Yale said finally, "Because as of this afternoon Challenge Inc. owns it!"

They both squealed and stared at him. He told them that Peoples had refused to print Pat's advertisement. He had been terribly shocked by it. He told Yale that he regretted it but he doubted whether it was good policy for the paper or himself to be too closely associated with Challenge or with any of them in the future.

"I didn't understand what he meant at first," Yale told them, "but finally the pieces fit together. Peoples borrowed heavily to put in new presses. Pat is on the Board of Directors of the bank that has the loan. That's not all. Randall and Foxon's department store practically support the paper with their advertising. An hour after Peoples told Pat that he wouldn't print the advertisement, Randall and Foxon's cancelled their advertising for the next week."

Yale shrugged. "When I suggested to Peoples that he sell the paper to Challenge, he thought it was a wonderful idea. I told you, kids, the loudest voice in this culture is the one that speaks with money behind it. Peoples is still editor, but Challenge owns the paper."

"That means you'll refuse Pat's ad?" Cynthia said, relieved.

"On the contrary, I telephoned Bert Walsh and told him that it would be published as scheduled."

"Oh, no!" Anne fairly shrieked. "You can't let it be published! You just can't! What do you think will happen to Harry Cohen? He'll be ruined! Don't you understand? The way that ad is written Harry can't deny it. Nothing he can say will explain himself to all those people at Marratt. And what about us?" Anne looked at Yale, alarmed. "We are in that ad. What is going to happen when they read all that stuff about swimming naked . . . and our bigamy? Yale . . . it was one thing when we knew that your father was going to have that advertisement in the paper, and there was nothing we could do about it. Now that you could stop it if you wanted to . . . it's nothing but suicide to let it run."

Yale tried to tell them that accepting the ad was the only way out. "Just because Challenge owns the paper doesn't mean a thing. We need the revenue from the advertisers. I'm not ready to have the paper run at a loss. In fact, buying the paper was simply a way of getting Peoples off the spot."

"What about Harry Cohen?" Cynthia demanded. "He's your friend, too."

"I know it," Yale acknowledged. "But what you are forgetting is that in the long run Peoples would have had to run that ad. So Harry would have been cornered anyway. The way it is now we can try to counteract the whole thing with a big front page editorial. Challenge will have the voice to explain itself and defend Harry."

They stayed awake most of the night, arguing. Yale couldn't convince either Cynthia or Anne that what he was doing was sound. Cynthia told him that she thought he had gone crazy. He was having delusions if he thought he could let their private life become an open book.

"There's a law against it, Yale," Anne said, tears in her eyes. "I looked it up. If anyone takes it into their head to complain, you could be put in jail." She told him that Agatha was right. He must think he was God.

Yale looked at her with indignation. "Well, I'll be damned. Go ahead! Both of you . . . complain! That'll be just dandy. I hope you both enjoy life without me." He looked so forlorn that Cynthia couldn't help smiling.

"Okay," Anne said. "You think you've won . . . but at least we'll have each other. You'll get pretty lonely by yourself in a cell."

12

Lying in bed on a Sunday morning a few weeks later with Yale sleeping against her breast, Anne watched the rain beating against their bedroom window. Cynthia was asleep, her face buried in Yale's shoulder. About five-thirty, just as the sky was getting grey, she had pattered into Yale's bedroom, shook Anne gently, and whispered that she was lonesome. Anne grinned at her understandingly and motioned to her to get into bed beside Yale. Yale continued to sleep, oblivious to both of them.

Without actually discussing it, Anne knew that in the past weeks she and Cynthia had drawn closer to each other than either of them had thought possible. In place of their former banter which often served to cover their embarrassment at their sharing of Yale's affections, was a new tenderness, and an uninhibited admission of their love and desires. Cynthia, admitting her need this chill morning to be with them, was tacitly saying to Anne that she would be equally welcome some future morning.

It was an achievement, Anne thought. They had transcended the inviolability with which centuries of mankind had endowed the one-to-one human relationship, and had become aware that the very uniqueness and wonder of their arms and legs, of their mouths and eyes, of Yale's penis and their vaginas, of their eating and digesting, and of their urinating and defecating, were all small wonders beside the ineffable miracle of being able to individually and together appreciate their humanity. It was comparable, by any judgment, to God resting on the seventh day and declaring his satisfaction. When men appreciated men weren't they gods themselves?

As she watched the rain through half closed eyes, Anne tried to assimilate the events of the past few weeks. They had, all three of them, matured rapidly under the vast pressures. Two people couldn't enclose space, Anne thought, but three could. Marriage should be for three or four, a movement through life as a wedge or square containing its own built-in strength.

But according to law their relationship was a crime against the state. A crime against a society which could tolerate individual hatred and war; a crime against a society which could close its eyes to a divorce rate that was practically polygamy or polyandry depending from whose point of view you examined it; a crime against society for three human beings to make a supreme intellectual effort to love each other.

Anne remembered when Yale had received the telephone call from Ralph Baker, the district attorney of Buxton County. It was the Monday after that insane week-end when Harry Cohen's house had been burned to the ground, and she and Cynthia had been attacked at the supermarket. Anne had walked into Yale's office as he put the phone in the cradle. His face was grim and drawn. Anne suddenly realized that Yale had lost weight. She remembered that he had tried to be light-hearted.

"The forces of darkness are really out to crush Challenge," he said wearily. "That was the district attorney. He is issuing a warrant against one Yale Marratt charging him with unlawful cohabitation. Bigamy." Yale's first reaction was not to tell Cynthia. "After everything else that's happened in the past two days she will just worry herself silly."

Anne sat on the edge of his desk. "She'll know, Yale. You can't keep it from her. You may be able to keep it out of the Midhaven Herald , but this will be a national story. It's just the kind of thing that a lot of people are waiting for. Something to make Challenge look like one of those crazy cults that usually get started in California." Anne smiled. "Most of them are run by some kind of bearded bigamist who claims that he is a Yoga."

After she said it Anne was sorry. She saw the hurt expression on Yale's face. "I'm not a bigamist, Anne," he said slowly. "If you think I am then you have missed the point."

Anne put her arms around his neck. "I'm sorry, honey. After all, I helped write the Seventh Commandment. 'Challenge believes that any human problem (hence all problems known to man) can be solved in an atmosphere of love; and the existence of hate as an emotion should be extirpated from man's relationships and be considered the greatest evil confronting civilization."

But only the bald fact, and not the philosophy, had seeped through to the district attorney's office. Freed on bail, Yale demanded to know who had lodged the complaint. Telling Anne and Cynthia later, Yale was disgusted.

Baker had grinned at him sarcastically. "Trouble with your generation is they don't have any respect for the law. Bigamy is a crime in this state and in practically every civilized Christian country. We don't need any complainants. You can just say that it's the State of Connecticut against Yale Marratt. We've had a bellyful of trouble around here because of you, young fellow. You've stirred up religious prejudices. You've made the young bucks around here so damned sex conscious that they think their brains are between their legs. What's more, my phone is ringing all day long with ministers, priests, and rabbis as well as just plain citizens asking why I don't have your book censored, or just complaining about your morals. Don't think that because you own the Midhaven Herald you can make your own censorship either. You started to challenge people. Now you've got to accept the fact that society is able to cook your goose, if it wants to. A bigamy charge seems just as good as any way to stop you." Baker smirked. "Although I understand there are some people around here that think they might eventually get you on an income tax charge."

Cynthia tried to be optimistic when they told her. She suggested that, since neither of his wives was complaining, it would be impossible for anyone to prove a bigamous relationship. She had grinned at Yale. "We're living together just like a brother and his two sisters."

But Baker had sneered at him. "You've got those sexy-looking fillies living right with you in the same house, haven't you? Everyone in Midhaven knows that you are screwing them both. We don't go for your attitude, Marratt. There are even people around here that think you are subversive . . . out to destroy our government. It's pure crap to preach this love mankind bunk while the rest of the world is hating our guts. This Challenge business of yours is creating too much of a stink. It's time that someone put a spoke in your wheel." Baker made some further remark about certain wise young men who were raiding established businesses like the Latham Shipyards, and then running them to the ground. Yale suspected that either Alfred Latham or maybe even Pat was behind the charges.

With only three weeks before he would be brought to trial, Yale called Saul Angle and told him the story. "I'm a corporation lawyer," Angle said. "It's completely out of my field." Yale asked him if he were afraid. Saul had sounded angry. "I told you it was a pipe dream. Don't try to involve me in it." Saul told him that he would call back. The next day he was still irascible. "Okay, I'm a sucker. I'll probably be sorry I ever heard your name. If you aren't afraid of having a Jew defend you, I'll take your case." Saul had arrived in Midhaven a few days later with his wife and was staying with them now.

Sleepily, trying to refocus the swift events of the past few weeks and evaluate them in some kind of perspective, Anne couldn't help thinking of Harry and Sarah Cohen. She wondered what they were doing and where they had gone. She knew that both Yale and Cynthia were deeply disturbed by the loss of Harry's friendship. Yale had once said, "The intellectuals, or what they are now calling them, the eggheads, have much in common with the Jews. The intellectuals are a minority, too. They have ideas in advance of the masses, and hence stir up suspicion and distrust because they worship at different altars."

Yale knew that he was responsible. If Harry Cohen had never known Yale Marratt, he would be in Midhaven now leading his union. Remembering the wild ride to Helltown, the night after Pat's advertisement had been printed, Anne shuddered. When they received the telephone call that vandals had set fire to Harry's house, and it wasn't known where the Cohcns were . . . that maybe they were inside the house . . . Yale had turned pale. Anne knew that he was remembering the way Harry had talked to him, and was blaming himself.

The last time that they had seen Harry was the night before the advertisement had appeared in the Midhaven Herald . Yale had called him and told him that he wanted to talk with him and Sarah. Ralph Weeks had driven over in the Buick station wagon to pick them up. Yale had also telephoned Peoples McGroaty. He arrived a few minutes after Harry and Sarah, and shook hands glumly with them.

Without preliminaries Yale had handed them galley proofs of the advertisement. Sarah read it with a sharp intake of breath. Harry looked suddenly shrunken and older. He stared at Yale with a defeated expression on his face.

"Can't you stop it, Yale? Does it have to be printed?" Harry looked helplessly at Peoples. "Pat Marratt would be subject to libel, wouldn't he?"

Cynthia said: "Anne and I think he can stop it. But he won't." She looked at Yale with tears in her eyes, and begged him again. "For God's sake, Yale, don't you see what this will do to Harry?"

Harry said nothing while Anne and Cynthia continued to argue with Yale. Yale insisted that if he refused to publish the advertisement Pat could easily find some other way. The only hope was that Pat would withdraw it voluntarily.

"That's not going to happen because I won't ask him, and I'm sure that Harry won't," Yale had said. He told Harry that he was sorry.

Harry shrugged and said that sorrow would do him no good. When the Marratt employees read Pat's advertisement he would be washed up in Midhaven. Officials at his union's headquarters would be terribly angry. Their only hope would be to denounce him and move fast to save the strike. A new business representative would be sent to Midhaven.

Sarah listened impassively to Harry. She sighed. "All this trouble because sometimes, in our own back yard, and in our own house, we didn't wear clothes. We bother no one. This Jack Leonard, we haven't seen him for years." Her face brightened as she remembered. "You were there, Yale, and Mat Chilling. You remember. Ruthie and the boys were there, too. Ruthie has four of her own now." Sarah smiled happily. "That was the very last time we ever saw Jack Leonard. That was the day he told us that he was a Communist."

"Listen, Sarah, you have been playing with fire," Yale told her. "You and Harry have been doing unconsciously what I am doing consciously. If I get burned, it will come as no surprise. But remember that I am playing with new rules, and backed by the one thing the average man respects in this country, money. I remember Mat Chilling telling you that afternoon that you could have ideas different from the masses, and maybe you could lead them, but on certain fundamentals such as sex and nakedness you were either very circumspect or you were in trouble. For most people in this country, educated as they are, nakedness and sex are equivalently a dirty business. Pat has found your Achilles heel. Without the power of money behind Challenge it could very well be mine.

"I'm sorry that at the moment Harry's neck is in the noose, but the Midhaven Herald isn't the only way for Pat. If I stopped the advertisement, Pat could have it run as a handbill, and probably do just as good a job. Right now he is mad enough to try and pull the paper down around my ears. Challenge is going to need the Midhaven Herald . I bought it to get Peoples off the hook, but I can't let it drain the foundation." Yale sighed. "I feel badly, Harry, that I can't figure out any way to extricate you. At least by accepting the advertisement we can attempt to counteract it. I have already discussed it with Peoples. We will run a headline editorial on the front page. We'll try to show the readers how they are being played upon emotionally. We'll honestly show them how the half-true statements that Pat has made . . . the whole emotional approach . . . has been done to inflame the public and create prejudice and hatred. We'll tie the whole thing in with Challenge. Appeal to their reason . . . and at the same time show the essential validity of what we are trying to do." Yale patted Harry on the shoulder. "Cheer up, Harry, I want you working for me, anyhow. You can do more for people with the Challenge concepts than you ever could with unionism."

Harry's smile was sad. "It'll help you sell a lot more books, but it won't do me any good, personally. I'm sorry for you, Yale. I like you, but I don't believe in Challenge. I don't believe that man is God. I've been raised a Jew. God is outside man. Some men may get close to God, but man is not God. A feeling like this I cannot change."

Anne remembered that they had talked for a long time. Yale had been obviously upset to find that Harry couldn't accept the Challenge Commandments. Harry had underscored his feelings with a bright red line when he told Yale that Yale was more interested in abstract principles than the men who would be necessary to make the principles work.

"I have a feeling, Yale," Harry had said, in almost a whisper, "that if it came to a choice between saving a friend and proving the validity of your Commandments, you would sacrifice the friend."

Yale had demanded that he be more explicit.

Harry shrugged: "So far there's Paul Downing, young Jim Latham, Alfred Latham. I understand that your father has had a heart attack. Have you been to see him? He is your father."

Yale scowled at Harry and shook his head. "And now I have, as you put it, 'sacrificed' you, too."

Harry realized that Yale was deeply hurt. "Yale, my friend, I am afraid that you are so dedicated to your mission in life that you have a blind side. Anyone with a name like Cohen would be a hindrance to you. You are going to have enough disapprobation without having a landslide of subtle anti-semitism. No Jew so far as I know, since Christ, has dared to be connected with a new religion."

When he was leaving he begged Yale to be careful. Harry patted Cynthia's cheek fondly. "This little girl loves you too much . . . see that she doesn't get hurt again." Anne knew that he was reminding Yale of the night that Mat Chilling had brought Cynthia to his house. She wondered what Cynthia thought about Harry's remarks that a Jew would be a hindrance to Yale. Knowing Cynthia, and able to guess the silent, tortuous course of her thinking, Anne suspected that Cynthia was troubled. Anne had put her arm around her. She told Harry not to worry. No matter what their crazy husband did, she and Cynthia would stick together.

Harry smiled at Anne and shook his head. "Two such lovely beryeh . A lucky man, this Yale Marratt. Why should he wish to go around doing mitzvahs for the world?"

It was the last time they saw Harry Cohen. The advertisement had been published two weeks ago in the Midhaven Herald . Peoples had written an excellent editorial. He explained that he had interviewed Harry Cohen very thoroughly and while Harry admitted that Jack Leonard had been a friend, Harry Cohen had had no idea of Leonard's political leanings. Never had Harry Cohen in any way been associated with the Communist Party. Peoples went to great length to explain the strong democratic leanings of a man who had devoted his life to his friends and the underpaid workers of Midhaven. Peoples did not attempt to deny that Harry and his wife enjoyed the pleasure of their home and their back yard, occasionally in the nude. He suggested that probably many Midhaven families did the same. Certainly, there was nothing of sexual significance in this. Peoples enjoined his readers to weigh Pat's charges carefully in their own minds. He pointed out to the striking Marratt employees that the absurd charges obviously did not affect Harry Cohen's acumen as business representative of their union.

But reason seldom triumphed against emotion, Anne thought. The large black type of Pat's advertisement shrieked its message of fear and hatred, and in its simple virulence denied the quietly reasoned editorial that Peopies had written.

Fuel was added to the fire by headline stories that appeared in the out-of-town newspapers which circulated widely in Midhaven stating that influential legislators were going to demand an investigation of the Latham Shipyards coup as well as initiate a probe of the Challenge Foundation. Knowing Yale Marratt had suddenly become a worse stigma for Harry Cohen than his association with Jack Leonard.

They had no trouble finding Harry's house that night. The black sky over Helltown was pink with the reflection of the holocaust. Anne remembered the horror of forcing their way through the jeering crowd, asking stony-faced people who recognized them if they knew where Harry and Sarah Cohen were; all the time praying that they hadn't been trapped in that inferno of flames.

Someone recognized Yale. In a few minutes it was generally known that they were there. In the fire-lighted faces there was anger and distrust. Thinking of it later Anne knew that they should have been forewarned of worse to come. A groundswell of anger against Yale Marratt and his wives was gathering momentum. She and Cynthia had finally received the full impact of it the next day.

As they edged toward the fireline that had been drawn in front of the house they heard nasty comments: "That's young Marratt. He's the one that's screwin' up the works at Latham."

A heavy-built man grabbed Yale by the arm. "If that rat Cohen is getting his ass fried, you and your two whores caused it. Why don't you get the hell out of Midhaven? Go back to those heathen countries where you can have a whole goddamned harem."

Yale wriggled out of his grasp, but the big man had followers equally as verbose. One of them kept up an exceptionally filthy barrage on their marital life, following them and taunting them. "You're a dirty rotten man," he concluded incongruously. "You and your fuckin' Challenge stinks."

Yale located the chief of the Midhaven Fire Department, who told Yale that when the fire engines had arrived the place was beyond saving. All they were trying to do now was keep it from spreading. "If Cohen and his wife didn't get out, they won't be nothing . . . not even a mess of bones. Whoever started that little blaze must have gotten his arson training in the U.S. Army. A very thorough job."

Yale continued to search but he couldn't find any trace of the Cohens. When they got back home Peoples telephoned, and told him that he could stop worrying. Harry and Sarah had packed up and gone to New York that morning. Peoples told Yale that Pat Marratt, ostensibly recovered from his heart attack, had been the last one to talk with Harry.

"Bert Walsh called me this morning," Peoples said. "Bert sounded quite elated. Harry had admitted defeat. Bert said that they were as surprised as hell to see Harry walk into the administration offices this morning looking for Pat. Harry found Pat walking around the empty plant. Bert saw them talking together for a few minutes, and then Harry left. When Bert demanded to know what Harry was up to, he said that Pat had a strange look on his face. He told Bert that the strike was over, and then he said to Bert, 'Under other circumstances that son-of-a-gun and I might have been good friends. I admire him, Bert Walsh. He has dignity, and do you know something? He thinks my son is hell-on-wheels.'"

What Pat meant by hell-on-wheels remained a mystery. Liz had not come back to the house, but Barbara had seen her occasionally and mentioned that the subject of Yale Marratt was not for discussion. "He's made his bed. Let him rot in it," was Liz's report of Pat's attitude.

But it was apparent that the vandals who had set fire to Harry Cohen's home hoped that the Cohens were inside. Harry had left Midhaven without saying goodbye to Yale. Nor had they heard from him since. Although he claimed that it was inevitable, and what had happened to Harry was no fault of his, Anne and Cynthia knew that Yale was deeply disturbed.

Anne noticed that Cynthia had turned half on her back, and was looking across the bed in her direction with a troubled expression on her face. She reached her hand across Yale's chest without waking him, and squeezed Cynthia's hand. "Stop thinking about it, Cindar," she whispered. "It was just a bad dream that you had. Nothing can touch our love for each other."

Cynthia smiled at her gratefully and returned the pressure of her grasp. Yale stirred restlessly and continued to sleep. I love you, Anne, Cynthia thought. I love the strength and lightheartedness that you manage to show even when I know you are as frightened and terrified as I am. I accept your tenderness and concern because I know that if the need arises for you, you will turn to me. We are the equal halves of the arch that holds the structure up. Cynthia grinned. Yale would like that idea.

But society wouldn't accept it. Cynthia wished that she could stop worrying. She wondered how Yale could take so calmly that the day after tomorrow he would be in a courtroom fighting for his right to live with both of them. It was hopeless, she thought. The law couldn't be denied. "A marriage contracted while either party thereto has a former wife or husband living shall be void." It meant in reality that she wasn't legally married to Yale, because she was the second wife. But did it really matter? She remembered telling Yale once that she didn't care if they were ever married, just so long as they could live together. What was marriage anyway? A convenience for the state to assure the future of its progeny. Looked at that way, wasn't this marriage a responsible marriage? But would the three of them have the courage to insist on their moral right as a higher right than the law of the land?

"As long as you want me," Yale said, "I will see that the three of us stay together. I promise you that, Cindar. I'm not afraid or embarrassed that we love each other. You've simply got to look upon this trial as unavoidable. It's only the beginning. The world needs its thinking shaken up a bit. Our morals, our ethics, and our religions have grown musty and need a breath of fresh air."

But the little people of the world weren't pleased with deviationists. Cynthia wondered if she herself would have the courage to continue to defy the well rooted common beliefs of the world. She hadn't told either Anne or Yale that Rabbi Weiner had telephoned her. It had been a rather one-sided conversation. She had invited him out to the house, but he had curtly refused.

"I don't know how to say this to you," Rabbi Weiner had said. "If you don't mind, I'll make it simple for myself and refer to you as Mrs. Marratt." Cynthia noted the implied disgust in his voice, and was tempted to tell him that bigamy was quite a common custom in old Jewish chronicles. She refrained and listened. "What I briefly wish to point out to you is that if you have any love for your people and your traditions, you should disassociate yourself from this madness. The Jews in Midhaven are a small respected group. Prejudice has been at a minimum. Now, since that disgraceful advertisement and that terrible episode last week, we have become a target of enmity. Innocent people are being held responsible for your actions." Rabbi Weiner intimated that while he wouldn't come out to Challenge Farm, he would very much like to talk with Cynthia in his own home. "I think you have forsaken your people, Mrs. Marratt. Come and let my wife and me remind you how good and peaceful it can be to follow your own traditions."

Cynthia knew that he was wondering what kind of person she was. Probably after reading the story of what had happened to her and Anne in the newspapers, and seeing that picture that had been published in one of the out-of- town newspapers showing both of them half-naked -- similar to pictures she had seen of women in German concentration camps -- probably Rabbi Weiner assumed that she had deserved what had happened . . . a tribulation.

She couldn't forget it. Detail by detail she remembered the horror and shame and utter degrading fear that she had known. Just a few weeks ago, Saturday, after Pat's advertisement had been printed, and after the fright they had received, thinking Harry and Sarah might have been burned alive in their own house, Anne had suggested that they both needed a change. They would go into Midhaven and buy some new fall clothes, and then stop on the way back and pick up some groceries at the supermarket that had just opened on the New York highway.

Cynthia remembered, afterwards, that she had a premonition that they were being followed. But she had forgotten about it as she and Anne piled two carts high with groceries; both of them enjoying the fun of deliberating over hundreds of exotically packaged foods while they decided what they could buy that wouldn't be too fattening. When they brought their carts to the check-out counter, Cynthia noticed a noisy group of high-school boys dressed in jeans, their shirttails tied nonchalantly around their middles, milling around in front of the store. Two of them walked into the store and stared boldly at them as the clerk packed their purchases into cartons.

One of the boys nudged Anne and said, "Hey, what's the scoop? Is one guy really gettin' into both of you?"

"Jeez . . . he must have a big dick!" the other one said, smirking at Cynthia.

"Maybe neither of them is gettin' enough."

One of the boys grabbed Cynthia's arm. She stared at him, terrified.

"Wanta try it with a man?" The boy leered at her and put his pimply face close to hers.

Anne pulled him away from Cynthia, and demanded that the check-out clerk get the manager of the store. She told him to call the police and tell them that they were being accosted. Cynthia noticed that a group of women shoppers had collected around the entrance and were watching, nodding their heads and smiling sarcastically at each other.

And then two more boys walked into the store. They grabbed their cartons of groceries. The first two boys, although they probably weren't more than eighteen or nineteen years old, towered over Anne and Cynthia. They quickly clasped Anne's and Cynthia's arms behind them and propelled them through the door into the waiting crowd who let out a yell of pleasure as they surrounded the girls.

There must have been at least fifty of them, mostly teen-age boys, a few girls, and a handful of older men. Both Anne and Cynthia screamed their fright as they suddenly realized that they were prisoners in the middle of a rioting mob. Their screams were greeted with a roar of delight, as the tough looking boys milled around them, calling them whores and worse; saying the filthiest words Cynthia had ever heard in her life.

When the girls had tried to break out of the circle and run for their car the boys surrounded them, pinching them, trying to fondle their breasts, and grabbing at their buttocks. Just as they reached the car, one of them clasped Cynthia around her waist. Another boy bent down and, ignoring her kicking, yanked her dress over her hips, tugging at it, and tried to pull it over her head. She felt the dress being ripped at the belt. She screamed in panic as she realized that her arms would be captured by the dress and she would be trapped inside while they dragged her around. Just before the dress was pulled over her head she saw one of the boys slashing at Anne's dress with a switch knife.

They were both being stripped in front of this raving mob! Cynthia screamed, clawing at them frantically. She felt hands rubbing her body, ripping off her panties. She felt them clutching at her bra, and then suddenly her dress, that had caught at her neck and armpits, was yanked violently. The garment gave way and she stumbled forward, free of it and naked into the arms of several grinning boys. They held her arms and she watched frozen with fear while another group ruthlessly stripped Anne. Anne had stopped struggling and was letting them cut off her clothes while she dazedly watched them.

Naked, they were pressed into a narrow circle by a yelling, slobbering crowd of teen-age boys who kept shoving them from one to the other, squeezing them and feeling their bodies everywhere.

"You like to walk around naked!" one of them yelled. "We're just giving you a chance."

"Come on, shake those titties for us."

"Hey, which pussy do you like best?"

"Look at the knockers on that Jewish babe."

"Share the wealth! Who does Yale Marratt think he is with all this hot ass for himself?"

"Hey, it's my turn. Let me feel some of that stuff."

Cynthia shuddered as she recalled the horror of the moment with the boys crowding around them, all trying to touch them. She felt hands rubbing and searching her body everywhere, and knew that the same thing was happening to Anne. It was filthy! Ugly! Degrading! As she sobbed her fear she realized the furious panting breathing was the sound of a crowd gone mad. She wondered if she and Anne were going to be raped in the middle of the day in the bright sunlight just off the New York turnpike.

Then someone yelled that they'd better clear out. The cops were coming. Cynthia felt herself being lifted bodily off the ground, and then she was dumped into the back seat of their car. Anne, naked as she was, screaming now, was shoved in beside her, followed by their groceries, tin cans, and glass jars smashing on the floor beside them. All around the windows of the car, male faces leered at them and made vile remarks. Some of them started to shake the car, screaming happily as they watched Anne and Cynthia being jostled back and forth against each other.

Anne realized that they were going to turn the car over. Cynthia remembered that Anne had the presence of mind to grab the edge of the window which had been lowered. She screamed for Cynthia to hold her around the waist. As Cynthia clutched her arms around Anne's stomach, the car went over with a bang, shattering the windows on the opposite side. They heard the piercing scream of the police sirens. Then there was utter silence. The mob had disappeared. Slowly, Cynthia placed her feet on the shattered window. She relinquished her grasp on Anne. "Oh, my God, Anne. Oh, my God," was all that she could say.

John Norwell was at the house with Yale and Agatha when the police car drove up with Anne and Cynthia. After satisfactorily eyeing them, enjoying their nudity, the policemen had concluded that the girls' clothes, scattered in the parking lot, were torn beyond repair. They proffered their coats.

Anne sat in the back seat of the police car, and held her arms around Cynthia while the policeman who wasn't driving tried to interrogate her and find out what had happened. When the police had got there not one of the boys was in sight. All that remained were a few of the clerks from the market and a group of women shoppers whom the police had questioned.

"It was one of those gangs from Helltown," the policeman said. "They've been incited by all this stuff in the newspaper. He stared at the girls. "It's your own fault in a way. The Marratt family shouldn't air their dirty linen in public. You're lucky. I think you are both more scared than hurt."

"We are hurt," Anne whispered, tears running down her cheeks. "It may not show, but believe me we are hurt!"

Cynthia had stopped crying when they walked into the house. Yale looked at them astounded, and demanded to know what had happened. One of the policemen tried to explain. "It was unfortunate," he concluded, "but at least there was no physical harm done."

"Yes, it was very unfortunate," Cynthia said looking at Yale coldly. "It was unfortunate, Yale, that you wouldn't let our love be private. Now half the young men in Midhaven have squeezed our breasts and stuck their fingers in our crotches." Cynthia took off the policeman's coat and handed it to him. "Since you don't mind us parading around naked, I suppose it doesn't matter."

Astonished, Yale and John Norwell had watched her walk up the front stairs. Anne ran after her.

Yale had been drowsily awake when Cynthia crawled into bed with them. He felt her cold feet touch his, and the warmth of her breasts and belly as she curled softly against him. This is a good thing, he thought. We have discovered that the depth of love begins and continues not in the genital organs but in the probing of the human mind as it searches and merges with other minds in the upward struggle for a humanity that transcends individuals. Anne, Cynthia, and he were proving in a small way that it was possible for minds to merge without destroying individuality.

Yale had heard Anne say to Cynthia that "nothing could touch our love for each other." He guessed that Cynthia was thinking about the frightful and degrading attack that had occurred at the supermarket.

Yale remembered that he had rushed upstairs after Cynthia and Anne, forgetting that John Norwell had come to discuss the future of the Latham Shipyards with him. Norwell had just finished telling Agatha and him that he was a very conservative Scotchman. "I might consider the idea of the presidency of Latham's, but what bothers me," he said, "is identifying myself with this Challenge business. It's a madness, Yale Marratt. I think you better have done with it. Right or wrong, no man ever changed the world, at least for the better."

Just as he spoke, the policemen had come into the living room escorting Cynthia and Anne. Yale remembered how pathetically frail and very feminine they looked with their hair mussed, tears in their eyes, the policeman's coat jackets scarcely covering their nudity.

Upstairs Yale found Cynthia on the canopied bed, sobbing. Anne was running the water for a bath. "I feel so dirty." Anne shuddered.

Yale examined them and found several bruises and scratches from their rough handling. "I have a terrible frustrating anger," Yale said. "I feel as if I should have Midhaven turned upside down and find every last one of the rabble involved in this, and yet I know that it will do no good to answer hatred with hatred."

He massaged Cynthia's back. She rolled over and looked at him with swollen eyes, her face tear-stained. "Yale, I love you. Nothing can ever stop that. But you'll never know what Anne and I have been through. You don't know what modesty is for a woman. The Germans knew when they reduced the Jewish women to animals. The French knew when they shaved the heads of the women who collaborated with the Germans." Cynthia shivered. "This morning, Yale, Anne and I might just as well have been raped. It couldn't have been much worse. I'll feel unclean the rest of my life. Don't you understand why this happened?"

Yale didn't answer because he guessed that Cynthia would say it had something to do with anti-semitism. She confirmed his thought.

"It happened because I am a Jew," Cynthia said. "Sure, the Challenge ideas are different and strange and people fear them, but now that your father has identified you with Harry Cohen and me, he has implanted the idea that the whole business is instigated by Jews. When they were tearing at our clothes, you should have heard the terrible things those boys said. They didn't have those thoughts all by themselves. I think everything that happened was subtly promoted by older people who are determined to stop Challenge by any means." Cynthia was crying wildly. "Don't you understand, Yale? Anne and I were attacked with the same kind of cold hated used against the Jews in Germany. If the police hadn't arrived, I think they would have killed us."

Yale took Cynthia in his arms. "Yale," Cynthia sobbed, "I'll do anything for you. I'll have your babies. I'll scrub your floors, but if you love me . . . if you love Anne . . . then let us both out. You run Challenge by yourself. I don't want you to give it up. But honestly, I can't stand it. I'm afraid that I'll crack up. Honey . . . Honey . . . don't you understand? I just want a quiet home, and the three of us, and our children."

Yale tried to quiet her. He told them that from now on when they went out they would be guarded, but as he said it he knew that they couldn't live a happy life that way. "We'll build our own private fortress right here. If you prefer, you won't have to go anywhere."

"But we'll go on challenging the world?"

Yale sighed. "Don't you understand, Cindar? What happened to you and Anne is just what Challenge is fighting against."

"Do you think that those boys who stripped us and slobbered over us are God, too?" Anne demanded.

"Yes." Yale paused. He looked at both of them quietly. "You don't really have to ask me that. We rewrote Mat's book together. We are agreed that if men are taught they are sinful or partially evil, then they have an excuse. When Man knows that he alone is the Ultimate then there is no shelter for him. He must love his brother."

"Yale," Anne said, sitting on the bed near Cynthia, "I think you should know." She paused. "Cynthia . . . you better tell him. . . ."

Cynthia smiled sadly at him. "I suppose it is too late to complain. We've hitched our wagons to your star, Yale . . . wherever it may lead." She looked at him thoughtfully, "I guess for the next few months we'll have nothing to do but live quietly in your fortress, walking around with our big bellies. Anne and I are both pregnant . . . about ten weeks."

Yale grinned as he remembered Anne's remark to Cynthia. "Look at him! He's really pleased with himself! The male ego. He thinks he is a maharajah with his harem!"

He was pleased. Anne and Cynthia's easy acceptance that they would bear his children was more than a sop to his male pride, it was re-assurance that all their love for each other had solid foundations. When Yale realized that they were both pregnant he insisted on calling Doctor Starkey to examine them. Lurid details had already reached Starkey. He promised to come immediately. While they were waiting for him to arrive, Agatha and Barbara came upstairs and listened in shocked silence to Anne and Cynthia as they recounted what had happened to them.

"It's Pat's fault, Yale," Barbara said. "He should be ashamed of himself. What kind of man is he, anyway?"

Yale pondered that. "I suppose Pat would tell you that it's my responsibility and I guess he would be right."

Doctor Starkey thought it was definitely Yale's responsibility. After he had examined Anne and Cynthia thoroughly, and looked at the black and blue pinch marks on their arms, and on their buttocks, he said to them, "I won't withhold my opinion. As far as I can determine you both are all right. You are lucky young women. Those boys could have hurt you badly. What I don't understand is why do you girls put up with it? Both of you are attractive enough to get your own husband. This situation will only get worse for you." He looked at Yale grimly. "Who in hell do you think you are, Marratt?"

Watching the day grow bright and the rain slowly diminish, enjoying Cynthia's warm breath against his shoulder and feeling the light pressure of Anne's hand as she intertwined her fingers with his, Yale asked himself the same question that he had been unable to answer for Doctor Starkey. Who did he think he was? When he told Anne and Cynthia laughingly that he was God, they understood. They understood that they were God, too, and that he respected their love so much that he would never make any attempt to possess it.

"You understand, don't you, Anne . . . Cindar, I love you both very much. But I'm not a bigamist. The solution that we made is a solution for us. It might even be the solution for other men and women . . . but probably not for most people. What we are trying to say to the world is that the ultimate for man is to comprehend the grandeur that exists in all men. If there is a God then this God is an active principle only when men realize that there are no narrow solutions to living; that life is an unceasing challenge, and Man is the measure of Life."

Yale asked them what they thought when they listened to someone like Doctor Starkey who obviously believed they were all quite cracked.

"We went to bed with you and you made us pregnant. We wanted to be pregnant. We helped you with Mat's book. We are as responsible as you are, Yale," Anne said. "I love you."

Cynthia had smiled as she listened to Anne. "Yale, I love you, too. Don't you realize that right or wrong I've been indoctrinated by either you or Mat for eight years. I believe as you do. The only thing I'm not sure about is how far we should challenge the world. Isn't it possible for us to live our lives together, not in a fish bowl?" She studied Yale's face as she spoke, and then grinned and patted his cheek gently. "I should know better than to ask, shouldn't I?"

"You know," Yale had said, "I sometimes think that both of you wonder what drives me." His look was solemn. "You see, I have a complex . . . nothing so simple as an Oedipus complex . . . what I have is an Icarus complex. You remember the story. Icarus had a father who was a very progressive and far-seeing man. Both of them were imprisoned. Call that prison the demands of life itself. Anyway, Daedalus fashioned wings for both of them. Consider that Daedalus, a sincere man, warns Icarus that the wings are wax. He tells him not to fly too close to the sun . . . but Icarus, the son, can't help himself. He has a compulsion to discover what his father dared not." Yale grinned at Anne and Cynthia who were obviously wondering if he were joking or sincere. "Don't worry. Because I have an Icarus complex doesn't mean that I will fly too close . . . just near enough for a quick look. But what you shouldn't overlook was that it was Daedalus who had the divine concept to escape in the first place."

But Yale couldn't help wondering where Challenge was leading them. Would they always have the courage to overcome the hatreds that they were inadvertently creating? Would the day come when Anne and Cynthia would look at him in fear and demand to know why he persisted in trying to change the world? Would he be able to answer them? What was he trying to accomplish anyway? Was there some fatal flaw in his personality that would make him fight for a lost cause until he had ruined all their lives? If he had never known Cynthia, never had his love for a Jewish girl attacked because of her religion, never had discovered the depths of anti-semitism that ran in deep channels throughout much of what was supposedly known as the civilized world, would he have become so obsessively involved with leading people and revealing to them, if only in a small way, the extent of hatred, large and small, dominating their lives and shriveling their power to love? The answer was yes. Whether he had known Cynthia or not had little to do with it. His love for Cynthia had simply triggered the man who had become Yale Marratt.

Perhaps, as Rabbi Weiner had pointed out to him last week, he was doing more harm to the Jews in Midhaven than he realized. Rabbi Weiner had told him that he couldn't fight anti-semitism with a flaming torch. It was a mistake for Cynthia to be identified with such a volatile program as Challenge. Yale disagreed with him. "It is you who are making this identification with Judaism. Challenge is fighting all hatred and intolerance." Yale pointed out to him that Challenge essentially denied all religions. "Cynthia is a woman to me. This . . . not her religion . . . is the all-important fact of her existence."

But Yale couldn't avoid the certainty that his own sense of mission and his obsession with the ideas that he, Anne, and Cynthia had found in Mat's book and paraphrased as Commandments were gradually affecting the lives of many people. How many people had already been influenced by his unwillingness to accept the world as it was? Obviously the more than three hundred thousand people who had purchased the book, Spoken in My Manner , thus indirectly subsidizing Challenge, were having the direction of their lives changed. For how many of those thousands, he wondered, would it be a disruptive experience? He could ask himself, for that matter, what right he had to subject Anne and Cindar to the glaring spotlight of the bigamy trial? Was he doing it for personal aggrandizement as Saul, who had tested him thoroughly with a thousand questions in the past few days, had asked. "I'm trying to find what makes you tick, Yale Marratt." He grinned when Yale became a little annoyed. "If I detected a false note in your beliefs or statements, I'd drop this case like a hot potato."

Cynthia had answered for him. "You won't find a false note, Saul," she said. "Both Anne and I can tell you that. Crazy . . . yes, but not false."

No, Yale thought, he had no fear of his motives. What did frighten him was whether he had the right to tamper with other lives. Would the lives of Anne, Cynthia, the Chinese girl Tay Yang, his sister Barbara, Pat and Liz, Paul Downing, Harry and Sarah Cohen, Alfred Latham, and Jim; even people who had existed on the fringe of his life like Marge Latham . . . would their lives be happier or more complete (certainly more placid) had Yale Marratt never existed? How many more lives would be changed or twisted into new channels because one man was attempting to use twentieth-century techniques of money and advertising to make all men aware of their divinity.

Yale sighed. The questions that would plague him as long as he would live were fruitless. There were no answers. He was a product of his times. If he were crushed "assailing the seasons" then the world would have to wait the coming of a more likely messiah.

It was strange, that as a result of the frightful attack on Cynthia and Anne at the supermarket, he had discovered a new ally. When the girls had come in half naked, escorted by the policemen, John Norwell had waited downstairs, forgotten in the excitement. Agatha had remembered him. Sitting in the rocker in their bedroom, she told them, "Unless I miss my guess, seeing you two girls in tears and hearing from the police what happened to you wrenched at his Scotch sense of chivalry. I think he has a proposltion for you, Yale."

Agatha had been right. Yale had hurried downstairs and apologized to Norwell for keeping him waiting. Norwell shook his craggy head and told Yale not to be concerned. "It was a terrible thing," he said, rolling his "r's". "Those are decent lassies. It's rotten men there are in the world could do that to women. You should have the city turned upside down to find them."

Yale told him that he didn't believe in reprisals as a solution for hatred.

Norwell smiled at him. "I thought not. I've read your book since I saw you last. Don't get the idea that I'm a convert. I'm not. But I am interested in seeing how deeply you believe your own ideas." Norwell stared at Yale a second. "You probably know without me telling you that the Lathams hate your guts." Yale nodded, and Norwell continued. "I wouldn't want to guess who is the angriest at you, Alfred or Jim. Probably Jim. Alfred is seventy-six, so the prestige of the thing can't mean a damn to him for long anyway, but Jim has got his life ahead of him. What I want you to do is to give Jim a moral victory. Re-elect Jim president of Latham's." Norwell smiled at Yale's surprise. "I know, laddie . . . you don't have to. You could bring in some bright boy from some other Yard who could put Latham's on its feet. You wouldn't need me, even. But I can tell you that if you have the courage to put your hand out to Jim now . . . I promise you we'll make a better thing out of Latham's than any outsiders could."

Norwell told him he had nothing to lose but a little "face." He pointed out that with Alfred retired, and with his (Norwell's) help, Jim would have a new lease on life. He expounded at length on Jim Latham's untapped ability. "He'll work to prove to you a Latham should run the Yards, and he'll work harder than anyone else because he hates you. But maybe," Norwell said reflectively, "like me, he'll end up thinking you're a hell of a man."

Yale had grinned at him and said with a burr in his voice, imitating Norwell's rich accent, "I never knew a Scotchman could be so talkative. You convinced me some ten minutes ago."

Norwell chuckled. "I guessed I would. I knew if you thought you were a latter-day Socrates, you couldn't resist the chance to justify even your enemies."

Yale craned his neck to see the clock on the dresser.

"It's quarter of nine," Anne whispered. "Twenty-four hours from now we will be walking in the Buxton County Courthouse."

"You don't have to whisper," Cynthia said, leaning on her elbow. "I've been awake for an hour. Look, the sun is coming out. Our last day together will be a beautiful one." She looked at them, trying to smile through the tears in her eyes. "it's funny but you know I'm quite attached to you two."

Anne hugged her. "We're all attached, sister . . . attached with unbreakable links."

13

The day before Yale's trial, Agatha telephoned Pat Marratt. "It occurs to me, Patrick," she said into the silent phone that echoed Pat's surprise, "that you might like to take an old lady to lunch." She heard Pat's grunt of annoyance, and listened patiently while he temporized, trying to probe the reason for Agatha's call.

It occurred to Pat that Yale might be using this means to try and patch up their relationship. He wondered if Agatha was being used as a go-between. Even Liz had been working on him lately, especially after that disgraceful affair at the supermarket when those women Yale was living with had been practically raped.

"No matter what you may feel," Liz told him, "I think, for your own peace of mind, you should talk with Yale. Everyone in Midhaven is enjoying our misery. Some of our so-called best friends are gloating over what everyone is calling 'the Marratt affair.' Yale is our son, Pat. Can't we disagree with him privately?" Liz had begged. "Can't we present a united front to the world?"

Pat had been exasperated. "You must be losing your mind, Liz. I didn't start this. Have you read that damned book of his? I honestly can't believe sometimes that Yale is any part of me! Believe me, Liz, if he wasn't your son, and you read the stuff he writes . . . you would say this man is dangerous! He not only tries to deny that any God exists except man, but he writes a thing like that Second Commandment. How in hell does it go?" Pat thought a minute. " 'Man must be taught to challenge and excoriate any concepts that deny the ultimate divinity of man.' Those are crazy, dangerous words." Pat sighed. "I'm not a religious man and I may be content to just accept the idea that there is a God, but I sure as hell could never advocate anything that would destroy all organized religions. Men are basically rotten . . . without religions of some kind and the fear of God the world would go to hell. I've given it a lot of thought. Yale may be a genius . . . but I can only conclude that he is partially insane. If he isn't, why does he persist? Why does he insist on letting this thing come to a trial and making a laughingstock out of the Marratt name? The whole business could have been squelched easily. I would have even helped him. All he had to do was to get rid of that Jewish girl. She was the last one that he married. Yale told me himself that he married the blonde girl in India. Baker told me that would make that marriage the legal one even though it was a Hindu ceremony. That damned Carnell girl has been a noose around his neck ever since he met her. She has no claim on him. The kid is hers, not Yale's."

Pat told Liz that he had called Rabbi Weiner. "He's a good sort," Pat said inconsistently. "He told me that even her own people have ostracized her. You'd think that she would have better sense and clear out."

Pat remembered that Liz had said, "You are so blind, Pat. If you had let things alone years ago . . . all this wouldn't have happened. Yale would have married her, and probably would have been working with you right now."

He wondered if Liz was right. Lately, he had been having moral twinges that handicapped his usual straight-line thinking. Christ almighty, couldn't Liz understand that in trying to get that girl out of Yale's life, he had been doing it for Yale's own good. Some day Yale would wake up. When they put him behind bars for a while, and let him cool off, he'd probably come to his senses.

Pat finally agreed to meet Agatha at the City Club at one o'clock. He found her sitting in the lounge talking with a dark-complexioned man who had a decidedly semitic nose. Angrily, he decided that Agatha was just trying to get his goat. She introduced him with a twinkle in her eye, observantly noting that Pat's jaw was twitching. "This is Saul Angle. He is defending Yale tomorrow. I thought that you would like to meet him, Patrick."

"Listen, Agatha, I have a great deal more to do than to discuss the peccadillos of my stupid son with his lawyer. I don't give a damn what they do to Yale. The quicker this thing is forgotten by the newspapers the better I will like it. I understand that bigamy is good for five years in prison. Maybe that is what he needs to bring him to his senses."

While he was talking, Pat sensed that Saul Angle was examining him casually. "You really don't need me, Agatha," Saul said, looking at Pat. "I'd prefer to eat my lunch in a calmer atmosphere. Besides, Mr. Marratt has to be careful with whom he associates these days." His smile was sarcastic. "I understand that there are all kinds of odd fish in town for this trial tomorrow."

"I need you, Saul. Patrick, if you can't afford it, I'll pay for the lunches. But let's not stand here and haggle. Have the decency to take us into the dining room. I'm an old lady. I like to eat my meals on time."

Sipping a Scotch on the rocks while they waited for their lunch, Agatha extolled the merits of liquor for the aged. "Makes me feel twenty years younger. I kind of get into the spirit of things when I've had a little nip." She nudged Pat's arm. "Aren't you excited? I can't remember when Midhaven had so much publicity. Peoples McGroaty told me that there must be at least five thousand people in town for the trial. Every room for miles around is sold out. I hear they are putting up some of the reporters in the old Army barracks in West Haven. All kinds of foreigners have come to Midhaven. They have heard rumors that this trial may be fought out on classic issues."

Pat scowled. "Classic issues, baloney! These people are here for just one thing, sex. They want to roll in it; pour it over themselves. They hope to hear all kinds of juicy things. They want to see what a bigamist looks like and what kind of women would live with him. Add to this that Yale and his women go around naked and think nothing of it, and you inflame everyone's imagination. It sounds like a Roman orgy." Pat stared at Saul. "I've heard of you, Angle. You're a pretty smart lawyer. Why do you want to get mixed up in this mess?"

Saul smiled. "I could say that I came to exonerate myself. If Yale is a modern Jesus as some reporters are saying, then it is fitting that a Jew should defend him." Saul ignored the dark anger in Pat's face. "Actually, I am interested in the moral principles involved. If you have read the book that Challenge has published, you will remember the Sixth Commandment. I think it goes something like this: 'Challenge believes that Man is the measure of all ethical and moral values and the test of validity in man's ethics and morals and written laws should be that they exalt and confirm the dignity of man.'" Saul sipped his martini. "Now it is obvious that wasn't written by a lawyer, but it is an interesting idea. In the case of Yale's marriages, I think it may be a worthy defense, even if we do lose and who knows, we may win!"

Pat shook his head. He was out of his depth, and he admitted it to himself. Bigamy was a sexually disgusting thing. It violated common decency. Only animals indulged themselves that way. Sure a man might play around a bit, but to want to live with two females day in and day out . . . such a man must be a sap. Yet, Yale bothered Pat. There were obviously quite a few men who were impressed with what Yale was trying to do. This Saul Angle for one, and then there was Harry Cohen. There you are, Pat thought, I'm accused by Yale of being antisemitic, yet I really admired this fellow Cohen, even when he was fighting me hardest. Take this fellow, Angle. He's obviously a pretty sharp cookie and I can't say that I dislike him. It just shows that Gentiles and Christians can get along. The smart Jews don't expect to mix socially with you . . . and certainly don't want to intermarry any more than we do. They have their ways and we have ours.

Yes, Pat thought, Yale obviously could sway diverse kinds of men. That John Norwell, for instance. One look at him and you'd guess Norwell wouldn't go for that Challenge crap; yet Norwell had capitulated. Of course, Yale had been smart enough to see the handwriting on the wall and re-elect Jim Latham president. But it was peculiar that a man like Norwell would defend Yale.

"He's a breath of fresh air," Norwell had told Alfred Latham. "I may be old but I decided not to close the window."

Pat realized that his thoughts were wandering. A bad habit that he had developed lately. He knew that it was caused by uncertainty. He was disgusted with himself. Agatha was telling Saul about the oil leases that were among the Latham Shipyard holdings. "They were what interested Yale," she said, "and alerted him to the Latham deal. He wants to buy a drilling company." Agatha smiled. "Yale told me that he has that odd tingling feeling. You should be proud of your son, Patrick."

While Pat was impatient to discover why Agatha had asked him to lunch, he decided to wait for her to broach the reason. "I understand, Agatha," he said, trying to flatter the old lady, "that Yale owes everything to you. If you hadn't backed him in this Latham deal, he would never have made it."

"He owes me nothing." Agatha snorted. "He had already made his first million dollars when he called me and asked me whether I thought he could hold a corner on Latham stock. I went along for protection. He could have done it without me. Of course, I did have the fun of teaching him about the market . . . but that was years ago."

She didn't say: You damned old fool, Patrick Marratt. You should thank God for giving you a fine, idealistic son . . . and, Agatha thought, amused . . . two fine daughters-in-law. Three times blessed and this stubborn man cursed his fate.

Agatha remembered a few nights ago talking with Yale in the big kitchen. Anne and Cynthia had gone upstairs. She told Yale that she wanted to stay up for a while.

"When you are as old as I am you don't waste time sleeping," she said. She sat in one of the old-fashioned rockers that Anne and Cynthia had placed near the hearth. She watched the logs that crackled in the fireplace and warmed her thin blood.

"I've been happy here," she told Yale. "I didn't realize what a lonely life I have been living in Belmont. Cats are all right but they are in business for themselves even when they jump, purring, into your lap. I like the life you are trying to live. You keep my old brain buzzing with ideas. I don't know how I managed to live alone so long."

"You'll never be alone again, Agatha," Yale said, sitting on the flagstone hearth, watching her as she rocked. "Only one thing, I want you to know. I want you here, not because you are rich, but because you are a lovely woman." Yale grinned, "Of course, Cynthia and Anne will tell you my trouble is that I love all women." Yale stood up and kissed her cheek. "I hope that Cynthia and Anne will grow old just as gracefully as you have . . . and of course, just a little bit cantankerous . . . it adds spice."

After Yale had gone upstairs, Agatha touched her withered cheek where he had kissed her. She felt sorry for Yale, and she knew that she cared deeply what happened to him. In the past few weeks, under the pressures he had created for himself, she detected a little weariness and discouragement. She prayed that Anne and Cynthia would stick by him. They would have to have courage, too. It wasn't easy for young women to share their man.

And look at myself, Agatha thought. I worry about the lives they will lead, and all my life I have been lonely and unloved. Why had she lived so long, she wondered? Here she was approaching eighty-one years and she couldn't remember a day of bad health. Was there a God who had been exceptionally kind to her? Or was it just luck and a strong constitution. If there was a God who was personally interested in his creations, why had he picked her for such good fortune? She had done nothing to merit the gift that had been bestowed on her. She had lived her life selfishly . . . alone . . . for herself; dedicated to making money for the Lord knew what reason. If I were God, she thought wryly, I wouldn't be pleased with Agatha Latham. Maybe God had shown his displeasure by withholding both love and wonder from her life until her eightieth year. Now, by giving her a glimpse these past few months of the love and happiness that Yale, Anne, and Cynthia had achieved with each other and with their children; by dropping her into the magic realm of living, thinking, probing minds bent on the wonderful search and discovery of the essential humanity of man; by letting her find in the last moments of her life, a purpose for living . . . if there was a God, he had revealed how barren her life had been. If there was a God, Agatha thought, then he must be pleased with Yale Marratt who perhaps denied Him by saying that Man was God, but actually exalted Him if God cared at all for the creature called man.

Watching the glow of the fire that night, feeling the ghosts of time past that Cynthia and Anne had preserved in the old house . . . Agatha made her decision. . . .

"I've spent the past two days having my head examined," she said, smiling ironically at Pat, who made no comment but was tempted to say that in view of her actions lately it was a good idea.

The waiter arrived with their lunch. Agatha waited until he had placed the dishes on the table. Pat was chewing on a piece of steak when she continued: "Saul, since Pat is enjoying his meal so thoroughly, let him read those letters."

Pat took the papers that Saul extracted from his briefcase and looked at them casually, continuing to eat. There were three letters from different doctors stating that they had examined Agatha Latham, giving her extensive tests. Each letter attested that Agatha Latham had passed numerous mental examinations, and concluded that Agatha Latham was perfectly sane.

One of the letters was from a prominent New York psychiatrist whose name Pat recognized. It stated that he was present when Agatha Latham had dictated the provisions of her last will and testament to Saul Angle. The letter stated that Agatha Latham was sound in mind and body and was under no pressure from outside parties.

Pat knew that there was more to the letters than appeared on the surface, but he waited, egging Agatha on. "Even if you are as nutty as a fruitcake, Agatha, it is no concern of mine." He handed the letters back to Saul. "I hope you didn't arrange this luncheon just to prove to me that you are sane."

"When you are alone in the world, and have accumulated as much money as I have," Agatha said, "there are any number of people who have plans for when you are gone. It is quite possible that there are people who would contest my will. I haven't become rich by taking wild chances." Agatha smiled, obviously enjoying herself. "While what I do with my money is no concern of yours, Patrick, in this case it may affect your life more than a little. . . ." She sipped her Scotch while Pat listened impatiently. "Without going into details, I'm leaving my niece, Margery Latham, securities worth one million dollars. The balance of my estate, approximately one hundred and twelve million dollars, I'm leaving to Challenge Incorporated."

Pat stopped eating and stared at Agatha, astonished. "I don't care what the letters say, Agatha, you really must have a screw loose somewhere. Does Alfred know this?"

"He'll read it in the papers, tomorrow. The reason that I wanted to tell you first, Patrick, is that with this money, and his own investment skill, Yale is going to be able to make Challenge a very powerful force in the world. I believe that rather than fight him, you have the chance to make your declining years a monument to the Marratt name."

Pat's look was incredulous. "What do you mean . . . go tub thumping for this screwball religion of his?" Pat shook his head. "Agatha, I don't believe all this baloney about loving everybody else. In a few years you will be known as a wealthy crank who subsidized a simpleton. Pardon the expression, but your money will be pissed away on a lot of screwball ideas before you're cold in your grave." Pat put his napkin beside his plate. "If you don't mind, Agatha, I've had a bellyfull."

He stood up and looked at his watch. "Frankly, I have an appointment at three o'clock. You and Angle can stay here as long as you like. The lunches will be put on my account." Pat gave Saul a grim look. "I don't know what tricks you may have up your sleeve, but the district attorney assures me that when this trial is over the least thing that will happen is that Yale Marratt will be minus one wife! It may not have occurred to either of you, but my guess is that when Yale's matrimonial balloon is punctured, Challenge Incorporated will crash to the ground along with it."

Agatha and Saul watched Pat stride across the dining room. Saul ordered coffee for both of them from the waiter. "Well," Agatha sighed, a sad expression on her face, "I didn't accomplish much, did I?" Saul looked at her thoughtfully but didn't answer. "What do you think, Saul?" Agatha asked. "Is Pat right? Will you lose? Will Yale, Anne, and Cynthia be forced to separate?"

Saul stirred his coffee. "Agatha, this is a Christian country. Everything that is written in this book of theirs is nothing more or less than an extension of Christ's views. But if there is one thing that Christians have never really learned to do consistently, it is to love one another. In a way, it is unfortunate that the views embodied in Challenge must receive their first test with a thing of this kind." Saul shrugged. "Perhaps bigamy is so repugnant to Christians because it seems so impossible. By the rules that Yale, Cynthia, and Anne have established for each other, it takes a kind of denial that is incomprehensible to most peoople who have never denied themselves; particularly the luxuries of anger and suspicion and hatred. The Jews and the Eastern nations may understand this kind of marriage better because the large, loosely-integrated polygamous households, where they exist, function on a male axis with the father or chief of the tribe in full responsibility. In the Western world where the mother is the chief symbol, bigamy is equated with a form of enslavement. Of course you and I know, having seen it in action, that this marriage of Yale, Anne, and Cynthia exists without compulsion. In fact, its very strength is based on a high degree of free-wheeling individuality. That kind of marriage is something new under the sun. To make it work takes a kind of brain that most people don't have."

Saul smiled at Agatha. "I'm not answering your question because I don't know what will happen tomorrow or after. There are some imponderables in this situation which could have interesting results. First, Yale Marratt is a frighteningly tenacious man." Saul scowled. "Obviously, inherited from his father. Second, he has two women who really believe in him. And third, he has an old lady who, one of these days, will have put in his hands the thing our society understands . . . dollars . . . a hundred million of them."

"I only wish it were a billion of them. We spend billions for wars. A hundred million is inadequate to fight all the hatreds in the world that breed wars." She was silent for a moment. "I have never asked you, Saul, whether you approve of what I am doing. It is much easier, I suppose, for all of us to go along with the old truisms. The world has survived and grown fat on wars, hatred, and bigotry. Man is basically an animal in his responses. We need wars to clean out the excess population. . . ." Agatha shook her head. "It's too easy. Isn't it better for me, at eighty, to hope that perhaps for the first time in the world there exists a body of beliefs that could be commonly understood by all men? Beliefs not based on fear of the state, or established religions, but beliefs rooted in a calm, youthful confidence that through recognition of the wonder of man, all men could lift themselves out of the mire . . . by their own bootstraps."

"I don't know whether Challenge is the answer, Agatha," Saul admitted, "but I do know that my own actions should affirm to you how I feel. After all, I'm here . . . led on by the same piper's tune. . . ."

Saul chuckled. "I told Yale that Challenge was a Byronesque idea . . . a religion for the young and beautiful. Not for men like me . . . beak nosed and ugly. The old and the ugly could either not remember or would never have participated in the physical or mental awareness that he calls for in the Eighth Commandment.

"Yale didn't answer me until later that night. We were in the library. Rachel, my wife, was there; and Anne and Cynthia. Yale asked Anne whether she thought I was ugly. All of us could see that Anne was puzzled, wondering what Yale was driving at. She stared at me for a moment with that frank, disarming look of hers and said: 'Saul, no man is ugly to a woman in love . . . and I'm in love with you.'"

Saul grinned. "I'm not the type that blushes, but she had me off-base. Rachel was bewildered. Anne was delighted with our reaction. She asked: 'Why is everyone in this world so willing to grasp at hate, and so embarrassed and circumspect with love? I don't mean a sickening, sad-apple kind of love that the do-gooders and religionists preach. I mean what Mat Chilling, and now Challenge, is trying to say . . . that if you open your mind to the ineffable wonder of each living human being then there is no ugly man or woman. If one man is God . . . then all men are Gods. Once you truly understand this, you will know that hate and evil in the affairs of men can be vanquished from the world.'

"You see, Agatha," Saul continued, "Yale didn't prompt Anne. He knew she would answer me . . . I envy what the three of them have accomplished for themselves, at least. And, as a Jew, it amuses me that, if you sift the philosophy of Challenge, it is nothing more or less than what Socrates . . . or Jesus after him . . . preached to the world."

Saul shrugged. "Socrates drank hemlock and Jesus let himself be nailed to the cross. Neither of these symbolic acts did much in the last analysis to wake men to their possibilities." Saul touched Agatha's gnarled hand in a quick gesture of understanding. "I sometimes think one of the best things about Challenge is the Tenth Commandment which has both courage and humor: 'Challenge will never cease to challenge. No thing, no beliefs, not even the Commandments of Challenge are sacred or inviolable.'" Saul chuckled. "'For the world is like a big thoroughbred horse, so big that he is a bit slow and heavy, and wants a gadfly to wake him up. . . .' Come on, Agatha . . . we have work to do."

Epilogue

Saul Angle stood up and addressed the court. "Your honor, I realize that at this juncture you must be under the impression that the defense has no case at all, and the logical thing under the circumstances would have been for the appellant to have entered a plea of guilty. Ordinarily I might have concurred in this opinion, but close study of the laws governing bigamy, and the manner in which they have become laws and statutes of this country, led me to feel with the defendant that their validity for human beings today should be re-examined and questioned. These laws were for the most part devised before the turn of the century when our country had a vastly different moral outlook on life than now dominates most of this culture. We are now living in a society, for example, when one marriage in four ends in divorce, and this percentage seems to be on the increase. Marriages of this kind, contrasted with the bigamous marriage of the defendant, seem far more deleterious to the welfare of the state than a responsible marriage of three human beings who care deeply for each other.

"In the proclaimed, principles of their secular religion called Challenge, the defendant and his wives have already received wide publicity, and are in fact living their lives according to these principles. The defendant is aware that he has broken the law as it now stands on the statute books of this state, as well as the federal law. Today we hope to convince the jury, despite the evidence they have heard and despite the necessity of the bench to charge the jury under the law to bring in a verdict of 'guilty' . . . we hope to open the minds of this jury to the fact that the law is written by human beings for human beings. It is not beyond the province of men or of this society or of this jury to set the wheels in motion that will write new laws based on new times and new conditions facing civilized man everywhere in this world of conflict and hate. It is possible that our generation can write laws governing marriage which are more attuned to present reality. This jury stands on the threshold of a new era. Recognizing that the law as it now exists evidently concedes that the easy divorce and remarriage system society has created is nothing in essence but 'tandem polygamy,' you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, by bringing in a verdict of 'not guilty' will have the unusual opportunity to be charter thinkers and point the way to a revision of the moral code of our time."

Saul's vibrant black eyes swept the courtroom, and rested on the jury. "To accomplish our purpose, in cross-examination of the defendant and his wives, we will examine carefully how these three people have united, and we will consider the alternatives that were available to them. In weighing the alternatives we will consider whether society as a whole would have benefited by Yale divorcing or having his marriage to either of these women annulled.

"This case is of particular interest because the defendant, while he is not on trial for the views set forth in the book, Spoken in My Manner , is editor and publisher of this book. In no sense should it be assumed that the defense in this case is based on proving that bigamy is one of the tenets of the secular religion called Challenge. This is not the issue. The defendant himself does not believe that all men should be permitted bigamous marriages. Our plea of 'not guilty' is based on the fact that we believe that whatever your decision as a jury and as men and women, the law must eventually be rewritten to permit marriage forms, such as bigamy, which have built-in responsibilities to the state. The availability of this type of marriage would in many cases solve the problems of divorce by allowing variationism within marriage, and at the same time would insure the sanctity of the home. Moreover, this modern marriage law would open a new life for thousands of women who in the preponderance of females in most societies have no opportunity to live a full life.

"In a social structure which in the past fifty years is breaking down into smaller and smaller family units, it is conceivable by its variety and strength the bigamous or even polygamous household would have a unity now lacking in the very narrowness of our present family units."

Saul paused. The quiet seriousness of his manner and the sincerity of his words delivered without oratorical effect or bombast had captured the jury and the entire courtroom. Saul continued. "While I have stated that the constitutionality of the law on bigamy will not be challenged on religious grounds under the First Amendment, I do believe that these words spoken by a lawyer, in a bigamy case in 1889, should be exhumed from the dusty reports of the United States and reviewed in the light of the wars and cataclysm of human despair that has visited the world in the past five decades. These words were written by a man who never heard of the Kaiser or Hitler or Mussolini or Khrushchev. They reflect a philosophy which is dying in the world today . . . it is your sacred duty to nurse the flame of this kind of thinking before it is extinguished and reason and love and free human beings vanish from the world."

Saul picked up a leather-bound volume and read:

"Religious liberty is a right embracing more than mere opinion, sentiment, faith or belief. It includes all human conduct that gives expression to the relation between man and God; it includes all frames of feeling, all forms of faith, and acts of worship to which man is impelled by his hopes or fears; it includes the coitus or outward expression of the religious sentiment; it means entire freedom of creed, thought and worship with a restriction upon the government that it cannot go beyond the overt act; in other words it includes all manifestations or exercise of religion which are not in violation of peace or good order. . . ."

Saul smiled at Yale. "When the defendant came to me to draft the charter for his foundation called Challenge, I was doubtful as to the sanity of this man. Today, I know that Challenge is not a muddleheaded philosophy or religion which calls for other-worldly sanctions for its existence, but a practical philosophy of living which, if it should gain acceptance by a majority of mankind, could truly spell the beginning of the Golden Age. The decisions to be reached in this court are beyond the problem of whether the law at the moment will allow this marriage of Yale, Anne and Cynthia to continue." Saul paused a moment and said, "No . . . the real problem here is not so much one of law, but whether at this juncture in the history of man, you . . . the men and women who hear these words . . . wrapped as you are in mortal clay, can transcend your human limitations and judge like Gods.

"The defense calls for its first witness, Yale Marratt. . . ."

IN THESE TIMES
OF SEXUAL AND
MORAL UPHEAVAL,
ROBERT RIMMER
IS THE BOLDEST NOVELIST OF THEM ALL!

------------------------------------

THE REBELLION OF
YALE MARRATT

HAS TAKEN ON  THE WHOLE OF AMERICAN
MORALITY AND TURNED THE STORY OF ONE
MAN'S UNCONVENTIONAL SEXUAL LIFE INTO
A NATIONAL CONTROVERSY.
-------------------------------------

YOU MAY NOT DARE TO LIVE THIS WAY --
BUT YOUR ATTITUDES TOWARD SEXUAL BE-
HAVIOR WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN!

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THE REBELLION OF YALE MARRATT
IS AN AVON GIANT -- ONE OF A SERIES OF
FAMOUS BOOKS OF EXTRAORDINARY SCOPE AND
INTEREST PUBLISHED AT POPULAR PRICES.
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