the country. But now he’s impatient and upset, and that’s no good when you’re collating.” Suddenly, he peered through the smoke at Paul. “You’re not Catholic, are you?”
“My mother adhered to the teachings of John Calvin, my father to Bob Ingersoll,” said Paul. “I have a sister in New York who is devoted to Mary Baker Eddy. I’m-well, I suppose I’m most faithful to Voltaire.”
Dr. Chapman stared at the pavement a moment. “Let’s walk back,” he said.
They walked more slowly now, and Dr. Chapman resumed again. “There’s an opening,” he said. “We’re preparing the presentation. It is the final stage, but it’s the one we’ll be judged by. I’m loaded down with assisting specialists in physiology, psychiatry, sociology, endocrinology, anthropology. At this point I need someone who knows something about literature-and a little of everything else-to help with the presentation.” He glanced at Paul. “Like the man who wrote your book.” It was his only concession to levity the entire evening.
And so, within a week, on a part-time basis, Paul became a member of the team. During the year that followed, the latest survey was prepared for the press. The more closely Paul worked with Dr. Chapman, the more he admired him and saw in him the traits that he always wished his father had possessed. For, in Paul’s eyes, Dr. Chapman wore, like three precious stones in an idol’s head, the qualities of Direction, Dedication, Confidence.
Paul’s admiration for Dr. Chapman carried over into the project itself, so that sometimes it seemed that all the world beyond the college hut was a primitive and ignorant place, waiting only for the Message to give its dark age a renaissance. Dr. Chapman toiled
mornings, afternoons, and from eight to midnight every evening, as well. Always, Paul was beside him. The notes on Sir Richard Burton gathered dust, the Milwaukee Braves were one rooter shy, and the Lake Forest girls sighed and cast about for more likely prospects.
When the project was done, and the book put to press, Paul felt oddly bereft. Something needed and encompassing had left his life. And, when the book was printed and released, there was the dreadful apprehension. Would it be accepted, or was all this belief and devotion a delusion? Accepted it was-as few books in all history had been accepted-by specialist and layman alike. In the hysterical excitement that followed, Paul forgot his vocation, his career, his private dreams. He wanted only to go on being a part of this new adventure.
Dr. Chapman’s third survey, A Sex History of the American Married Female, was already in preparation when the enormous success of the second venture ensured the undertaking of the third. Paul was offered a permanent job as member of the interviewing team. His salary increase was twenty-five per cent. But even without it he would have grabbed the opportunity. He resigned as lecturer on “English Literature-Borrow to Beardsley” and became a full-time investigator of female sexuality.
After the groundwork had been laid-the studying and orientation, the planning of objectives, the sifting of questions, the corresponding with friendly college groups, church organizations, community clubs, PTAs-the itinerary of the tour was set. As to personnel, Dr. Chapman had streamlined his team. On his first survey, there had been two of them, himself and an aide; on his second survey, to cover more ground, there had been seven interviewers deploying as two task forces. But now, for the third survey, Dr. Chapman decided to reduce his commandos again, for the sake of thoroughness, mobility, economy. This time, there were four of them, and a secretary. Dr. Chapman, Horace, Paul, and a portly young psychologist named Dr. Theodore Haines comprised the team. Benita Selby, a pale, withdrawn, flaxen-haired girl of twenty-nine, and frantically efficient, was the secretary. Benita was expected to fly into each city two days before the
“My mother adhered to the teachings of John Calvin, my father to Bob Ingersoll,” said Paul. “I have a sister in New York who is devoted to Mary Baker Eddy. I’m-well, I suppose I’m most faithful to Voltaire.”
Dr. Chapman stared at the pavement a moment. “Let’s walk back,” he said.
They walked more slowly now, and Dr. Chapman resumed again. “There’s an opening,” he said. “We’re preparing the presentation. It is the final stage, but it’s the one we’ll be judged by. I’m loaded down with assisting specialists in physiology, psychiatry, sociology, endocrinology, anthropology. At this point I need someone who knows something about literature-and a little of everything else-to help with the presentation.” He glanced at Paul. “Like the man who wrote your book.” It was his only concession to levity the entire evening.
And so, within a week, on a part-time basis, Paul became a member of the team. During the year that followed, the latest survey was prepared for the press. The more closely Paul worked with Dr. Chapman, the more he admired him and saw in him the traits that he always wished his father had possessed. For, in Paul’s eyes, Dr. Chapman wore, like three precious stones in an idol’s head, the qualities of Direction, Dedication, Confidence.
Paul’s admiration for Dr. Chapman carried over into the project itself, so that sometimes it seemed that all the world beyond the college hut was a primitive and ignorant place, waiting only for the Message to give its dark age a renaissance. Dr. Chapman toiled
mornings, afternoons, and from eight to midnight every evening, as well. Always, Paul was beside him. The notes on Sir Richard Burton gathered dust, the Milwaukee Braves were one rooter shy, and the Lake Forest girls sighed and cast about for more likely prospects.
When the project was done, and the book put to press, Paul felt oddly bereft. Something needed and encompassing had left his life. And, when the book was printed and released, there was the dreadful apprehension. Would it be accepted, or was all this belief and devotion a delusion? Accepted it was-as few books in all history had been accepted-by specialist and layman alike. In the hysterical excitement that followed, Paul forgot his vocation, his career, his private dreams. He wanted only to go on being a part of this new adventure.
Dr. Chapman’s third survey, A Sex History of the American Married Female, was already in preparation when the enormous success of the second venture ensured the undertaking of the third. Paul was offered a permanent job as member of the interviewing team. His salary increase was twenty-five per cent. But even without it he would have grabbed the opportunity. He resigned as lecturer on “English Literature-Borrow to Beardsley” and became a full-time investigator of female sexuality.
After the groundwork had been laid-the studying and orientation, the planning of objectives, the sifting of questions, the corresponding with friendly college groups, church organizations, community clubs, PTAs-the itinerary of the tour was set. As to personnel, Dr. Chapman had streamlined his team. On his first survey, there had been two of them, himself and an aide; on his second survey, to cover more ground, there had been seven interviewers deploying as two task forces. But now, for the third survey, Dr. Chapman decided to reduce his commandos again, for the sake of thoroughness, mobility, economy. This time, there were four of them, and a secretary. Dr. Chapman, Horace, Paul, and a portly young psychologist named Dr. Theodore Haines comprised the team. Benita Selby, a pale, withdrawn, flaxen-haired girl of twenty-nine, and frantically efficient, was the secretary. Benita was expected to fly into each city two days before the
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