was right. Condemned forever to psychic virginity, she was as frigid as the water pelting back and sides. Caronous sireni pseudodos! Frozen Freda! Paul, her beloved, was getting nothing but an empty package. Her warm tears merged with the cold shower and she slept.
At almost five o’clock she awakened with nausea, and turning off the shower, she went to the toilet and was sick. The pill, she thought. She was allergic to those quick-action pills. Considering the matter objectively, a momentary nausea was far, far better than coming to her wedding, gowned in white, and five months advanced into pregnancy.
She dried her cherry-red body and calmed her chattering teeth, checked to see that Hans had not forgotten his teeth, and crawled into her mussed bed.
Strangely at peace with herself, she joined the Athenians for breakfast. There was an air of subdued elation in the alcove, though Hans greeted her with his ordinary cordiality, no whit the more, no whit the less, and handed her the reason for their happiness.
A columnist in the Posthole , the Eavesdropper, reported that the debate in the committee was splitting along party lines, which meant that if Heyburn went with his party, Flora would be admitted to earth’s colonial system.
“What do you think now, Hans?” Gaynor asked.
“Things are brightening up,” Hans said.
Gaynor beamed at her. “If this goes through, and the Gaynor Station’s established, we’ll owe it all to our Department of Cystology.”
As Freda ordered ham and eggs with a stack and a sausage patty, plus a large orange juice and a bloody mary, she read Clayborg’s mind. He did not figure for a moment that the petition would be granted. He was giving her this last opportunity to bask in official sunshine.
Tonight she would begin that novena, she decided. She could get a third of the way through. She was not particularly religious, but any little thing that could help should be tried. Anything to prevent her from using her big guns on Charles Gaynor.
Food and the bloody mary helped realign her focus on the world, and Freda spent most of the day in the Library of Congress reading in a field outside of her field. She skipped lunch and dinner with the Athenians, but she welcomed the eleven-o’clock call from the bar. “Don’t wear that green dress,” Hans said to her. “Or I’ll keep my teeth.”
Dressed in blue serge, she entered, and Hans went straight to the point, over sloe-gin fizzes. “I knew you knew what I was doing when I sounded optimistic this morning. You and I are in rapport. The Navy’s going to work Heyburn over from stem to stern. Speaking of framework, I apologize for last night. My calculations were off. When we reached the sensitive area, I couldn’t see the slide rule. I was blinded by your green dress and golden hair. Barring a few idiosyncrasies, you’re the most potent combination of beauty and brains I’ve met, but there’s no true beauty without some strangeness of proportion. Please, dear lady, never wear green again. You need Santa Barbara. Santa Barbara needs me, and you throw me off my game. Always wear navy blue to our rendezvous. It’s safer, since I’m allergic to the Navy.”
His plea was jocular, but there was intensity in his eyes and rigidity to his hair that belied his humor. Gently she reached over and took his hand. “Hans, you’ve taught me great truths, and I’m grateful. I enjoy our nightly sessions, and I don’t wish to throw you off your game. I promise you, I’ll never wear green, never drink over four drinks, and never ask you to remove your teeth again.”
Hans’s incredible ability at offhand predictions proved correct when, after three days’ deliberations, Heyburn was wafted to North Dakota as a guest of the Space Navy to dedicate the Senator Heyburn Training Pad for student pilots. The committee went into recess pending his return.
Freda was grateful for the time. She was involved at the Library of Congress, but her reading
At almost five o’clock she awakened with nausea, and turning off the shower, she went to the toilet and was sick. The pill, she thought. She was allergic to those quick-action pills. Considering the matter objectively, a momentary nausea was far, far better than coming to her wedding, gowned in white, and five months advanced into pregnancy.
She dried her cherry-red body and calmed her chattering teeth, checked to see that Hans had not forgotten his teeth, and crawled into her mussed bed.
Strangely at peace with herself, she joined the Athenians for breakfast. There was an air of subdued elation in the alcove, though Hans greeted her with his ordinary cordiality, no whit the more, no whit the less, and handed her the reason for their happiness.
A columnist in the Posthole , the Eavesdropper, reported that the debate in the committee was splitting along party lines, which meant that if Heyburn went with his party, Flora would be admitted to earth’s colonial system.
“What do you think now, Hans?” Gaynor asked.
“Things are brightening up,” Hans said.
Gaynor beamed at her. “If this goes through, and the Gaynor Station’s established, we’ll owe it all to our Department of Cystology.”
As Freda ordered ham and eggs with a stack and a sausage patty, plus a large orange juice and a bloody mary, she read Clayborg’s mind. He did not figure for a moment that the petition would be granted. He was giving her this last opportunity to bask in official sunshine.
Tonight she would begin that novena, she decided. She could get a third of the way through. She was not particularly religious, but any little thing that could help should be tried. Anything to prevent her from using her big guns on Charles Gaynor.
Food and the bloody mary helped realign her focus on the world, and Freda spent most of the day in the Library of Congress reading in a field outside of her field. She skipped lunch and dinner with the Athenians, but she welcomed the eleven-o’clock call from the bar. “Don’t wear that green dress,” Hans said to her. “Or I’ll keep my teeth.”
Dressed in blue serge, she entered, and Hans went straight to the point, over sloe-gin fizzes. “I knew you knew what I was doing when I sounded optimistic this morning. You and I are in rapport. The Navy’s going to work Heyburn over from stem to stern. Speaking of framework, I apologize for last night. My calculations were off. When we reached the sensitive area, I couldn’t see the slide rule. I was blinded by your green dress and golden hair. Barring a few idiosyncrasies, you’re the most potent combination of beauty and brains I’ve met, but there’s no true beauty without some strangeness of proportion. Please, dear lady, never wear green again. You need Santa Barbara. Santa Barbara needs me, and you throw me off my game. Always wear navy blue to our rendezvous. It’s safer, since I’m allergic to the Navy.”
His plea was jocular, but there was intensity in his eyes and rigidity to his hair that belied his humor. Gently she reached over and took his hand. “Hans, you’ve taught me great truths, and I’m grateful. I enjoy our nightly sessions, and I don’t wish to throw you off your game. I promise you, I’ll never wear green, never drink over four drinks, and never ask you to remove your teeth again.”
Hans’s incredible ability at offhand predictions proved correct when, after three days’ deliberations, Heyburn was wafted to North Dakota as a guest of the Space Navy to dedicate the Senator Heyburn Training Pad for student pilots. The committee went into recess pending his return.
Freda was grateful for the time. She was involved at the Library of Congress, but her reading
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