right hand.”
He took her right hand with his left hand and ran his fingers up and down her bare upper arm. “Any reaction?”
“Goose pimples!”
“Normal. You’re slightly ticklish. Now, through my coat, squeeze my right arm with your left hand. What does it feel like?”
“Hard. You’re very muscular.”
“I play handball with that arm… Now, Freda, close your eyes and place your right hand, palm up, on the table. I’m placing my index and second finger of my right hand into the groove formed by the index and second finger of my left hand and placing the four fingers in your palm. Now, grip the four fingers lightly. Good! Any repulsion?”
“None whatsoever!”
“Very good. Now, here. What do you feel?”
“I feel like another round. Order us one while I go to read the scoop, but send them to my room. That bartenders getting mighty curious!”
On her way to the pill dispenser for the first time in her life, she felt weirdly buoyant and free. Something was wrong with gravity!
Part of her airiness came from the certain knowledge that Hans Clayborg was the best ally in a high place any woman administrator could possibly have. This man was an authentic genius. He could read her mind. He could manipulate bureau chiefs over telephones. He could explain the Goldberg theory to a botanist and write directives to a neuropsychiatric chief denouncing the Hammerstand-Smithford theory. He had promised to teach her how to blast out an entrenched foe. She would feel safe around him even with a dying sun. He could figure out a way to relight the lamp. He had taught her, with a flick of the fingers, that her life-dominating obsession was merely a childish aversion, even if he didn’t guess the right reason. She didn’t have the slightest doubt that this boy would come up, sooner or later, with a handful of human corn seeds.
She returned to find him standing to meet her, fighting his own battle with gravity, and he said, “I’ve rechecked my figures by the bar lamp, and I think you’ve gone over the optimum. Besides, I don’t want room service coming in. My first reaction would be to jump out of the window, and sixteen stories is a long, long drop.”
“Come along, then, little man. But there’s one house rule in my room… No teeth! You take them out. How’d you lose them anyway, Hans?”
Always the gentleman, he retrieved her purse from the table and slipped his teeth into the bag, explaining, “I was trapped in a vulnerable position.”
It was a strange interlude, without apprehension, without even expectation or curiosity. Somewhere near the ceiling Doctor Caron floated and observed with clinical detachment the crab which scuttled toward Freda, sounding like a seal strangling a bark. But to Freda it was a turtle, and she giggled. “What are you giggling about?” he asked.
“I remind myself of a beach,” she said, “and you’re a turtle digging in the sand to lay an egg. But why doesn’t your shell clack?”
“I could clack my teeth if you prefer clacks, but you took them.”
Later, he said, “Oh, boy,” as he dragged her to the shower, “you are different.”
Courteous as always, Hans turned on the cold water as she sat in the corner of the stall. Leaning above her, grinning his toothless grin, he said, “Now, Freda, once more, with Gaynor. He’ll give you the Bureau, send Berkeley to Tucson, and throw in the experimental farm as a bonus.”
Suddenly his enthusiasm changed to gentleness. He bent beneath the pelting drops, kissed her tenderly on the cheek, and said, “Good night, sweet princess, and bands of angels lull thee to thy rest.”
His gentleness touched her, and as he softly closed the shower-stall door, she began to weep. Poor Paul! One girl’s defloration was another’s efflorescence, Polino had said; but, here, on a night that should have marked her entry into womanhood, she had felt nothing but a whimsical merriment, thought of nothing but crustaceans.
Her analyst
He took her right hand with his left hand and ran his fingers up and down her bare upper arm. “Any reaction?”
“Goose pimples!”
“Normal. You’re slightly ticklish. Now, through my coat, squeeze my right arm with your left hand. What does it feel like?”
“Hard. You’re very muscular.”
“I play handball with that arm… Now, Freda, close your eyes and place your right hand, palm up, on the table. I’m placing my index and second finger of my right hand into the groove formed by the index and second finger of my left hand and placing the four fingers in your palm. Now, grip the four fingers lightly. Good! Any repulsion?”
“None whatsoever!”
“Very good. Now, here. What do you feel?”
“I feel like another round. Order us one while I go to read the scoop, but send them to my room. That bartenders getting mighty curious!”
On her way to the pill dispenser for the first time in her life, she felt weirdly buoyant and free. Something was wrong with gravity!
Part of her airiness came from the certain knowledge that Hans Clayborg was the best ally in a high place any woman administrator could possibly have. This man was an authentic genius. He could read her mind. He could manipulate bureau chiefs over telephones. He could explain the Goldberg theory to a botanist and write directives to a neuropsychiatric chief denouncing the Hammerstand-Smithford theory. He had promised to teach her how to blast out an entrenched foe. She would feel safe around him even with a dying sun. He could figure out a way to relight the lamp. He had taught her, with a flick of the fingers, that her life-dominating obsession was merely a childish aversion, even if he didn’t guess the right reason. She didn’t have the slightest doubt that this boy would come up, sooner or later, with a handful of human corn seeds.
She returned to find him standing to meet her, fighting his own battle with gravity, and he said, “I’ve rechecked my figures by the bar lamp, and I think you’ve gone over the optimum. Besides, I don’t want room service coming in. My first reaction would be to jump out of the window, and sixteen stories is a long, long drop.”
“Come along, then, little man. But there’s one house rule in my room… No teeth! You take them out. How’d you lose them anyway, Hans?”
Always the gentleman, he retrieved her purse from the table and slipped his teeth into the bag, explaining, “I was trapped in a vulnerable position.”
It was a strange interlude, without apprehension, without even expectation or curiosity. Somewhere near the ceiling Doctor Caron floated and observed with clinical detachment the crab which scuttled toward Freda, sounding like a seal strangling a bark. But to Freda it was a turtle, and she giggled. “What are you giggling about?” he asked.
“I remind myself of a beach,” she said, “and you’re a turtle digging in the sand to lay an egg. But why doesn’t your shell clack?”
“I could clack my teeth if you prefer clacks, but you took them.”
Later, he said, “Oh, boy,” as he dragged her to the shower, “you are different.”
Courteous as always, Hans turned on the cold water as she sat in the corner of the stall. Leaning above her, grinning his toothless grin, he said, “Now, Freda, once more, with Gaynor. He’ll give you the Bureau, send Berkeley to Tucson, and throw in the experimental farm as a bonus.”
Suddenly his enthusiasm changed to gentleness. He bent beneath the pelting drops, kissed her tenderly on the cheek, and said, “Good night, sweet princess, and bands of angels lull thee to thy rest.”
His gentleness touched her, and as he softly closed the shower-stall door, she began to weep. Poor Paul! One girl’s defloration was another’s efflorescence, Polino had said; but, here, on a night that should have marked her entry into womanhood, she had felt nothing but a whimsical merriment, thought of nothing but crustaceans.
Her analyst
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