“That may be so sometimes,” Dr. Peerloin said, looking at Mercy sympathetically. “But not always, Mercy. I think it would be better to inform them that if their aim is to end sex surveys, they shouldn’t object to our activities since our survey is the survey to end all surveys.”
“Could you write them a diplomatic letter along those lines, Doctor?” the Professor requested.
“I’ll be happy to.”
“Good. Now the next protest comes from the ‘Interstate Conference of Homes for Unwed Mothers.’ Pointing out that they can’t keep up with the demands for their services, they criticize us for creating a climate of activity which might further add to their case load.”
“I’ll write and tell them that we’re in favor of birth control information and devices being made available to teenagers,” Dr. Peerloin offered. “It may not directly answer their question, but it will sway them towards approval of the Observatory.”
“All right.” Professor Woocheck handed her the envelope. “Now here is a letter signed by fifty-two members of the ‘International Cybernetics Institute,’ ” he continued. “These learned gentlemen seem to be laboring under a decided misapprehension. Somehow, they have gotten the idea that a part of our project is the mating of machines. They are objecting strongly to ‘the use of electronic computers and other mechanistic devices for purposes of procreating themselves’, ” the Professor quoted.
“Some nerve!” “Fig” Newton was indignant. “Why, my computer never—-! The very idea—!” he sputtered. “Let me have that one, Professor! It’ll be a pleasure to answer it!”
“Very well, Mr. Newton. But please be tactful.” The professor passed the letter over to him. “Now, here’s a joint query from the Urban League, the N.A.A.C.P., CORE, and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. Since we’re paying our subjects, they want reassurances that we’re not discriminating in our hiring practices.”
“Well, we aren’t,” Mercy said. “Shall I write and tell them that?”
“If you will. However, the matter is complicated by two other letters. The first is from the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee. They protest the participation of Negroes as being antithetical to ‘Black Power.’ And the second is from the White Citizens’ Councils of fourteen Southern and border states. They want reassurances that there will be no miscegenation in the project. The SNCC, incidentally, also says it agrees with the Black Muslims that our project defiles African blood. What can I tell these groups?”
“Tell them all the same thing,” Dr. Peerloin suggested. Tell them that we only use subjects with some percentile of Negro blood. It should reassure the Muslims and the Klux clucks, and besides, it’s true. Every Caucasian has some percentile of non-white ancestry.”
“A good point. I’ll have to consider how to phrase it for each of the opposing groups.” The Professor put the letters to one side and picked up the next one. “Now here’s a communication from the ‘Women’s League Against the Distribution of Salacious Films.’ They somehow got wind that we’re filming our experiments, and they want some reassurance from us that the films will be clearly identified as ‘For Adults Only’ when shown.”
“Give them their reassurance, by all means,” “Fig” chuckled.
“They also request ten tickets to all advance screenings. . . . Oh, well, I’ll simply tell them that we’ll contact them about such arrangements at the proper time. Now the next letter . . .”
Mercy’s attention drifted as the Professor’s voice droned on. It kept drifting on and off through the rest of the meeting, which seemed interminable to her. But it wasn’t interminable, and finally it ended.
Dr. Peerloin fell in alongside Mercy as they left the Professor’s oflice. “You are the most changeable girl,” she observed. “This morning you were singing like a bird and now you look like you’d just learned a Swiss scientist published the results of an experiment you’d been working on for four years just when you were ready to publish yourself. What’s the trouble?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m just so darned confused, I guess.”
“Well, why not come up to my place and have dinner with me tonight,” Dr. Peerloin offered. “We can talk and maybe that will make you feel better.”
“Thanks.” Mercy accepted sincerely. “I’d like that.”
Some twenty minutes later, Frank Pollener was making his own preparations for dinner. The conversation with Mercy had left him hurt and resentful earlier in the day. He couldn’t figure her out. The night before she’d been so warm. And then she’d all but told him to go to hell on the phone. Why?
The more he thought about it, the madder he got. It was a slap at his manhood, that’s what it was. Well, he’d show her!
Frank was so angry that for the first time since becoming a disciple of the Swami Rhee Va, he threw all the tenets of Causocratic Effectivism to the winds. Almost, the way in which he turned into a man of action without contemplation, constituted a betrayal of all the beliefs he’d embraced. Still, the All of am-ness moves in mysterious ways to look after fools and backsliders.
But Frank was past thinking about the All of am-ness in the aftermath of his phone conversation with Mercy. He’d show her! That’s what he’d decided. And that meant proving to her--or was it to himself?—that Mercy wasn’t the only caviar in the sex pool. He’d been out of touch, true, but now was the time to get back in touch, and the devil take the wrath of any old flames who might resent his cavalier call after such a long time.
The first number he fished out of his little black book was indeed wrathful. A few choice references to Frank’s ancestry and she hung up on him. His second call drew a recent husband, heavy with sarcasm which barely covered the threat of what he would do if Frank bothered his wife again. But the third call hit pay-dirt.
No, Amelia told him, she hadn’t forgotten him. No, she wasn’t busy that evening. Yes, she’d love to come up to his place for dinner and listen to some records and “or something.”
So Frank had gone home, straightened the place up, thrown on some steaks and was now tossing a salad while he waited for Amelia to arrive. The lights were low; his schmaltziest records were stacked on the turntable. Finally the doorbell rang and he went to admit Amelia.
A yard of bosom came through the door and Amelia followed it into the apartment. It waited for her in the living room while she exchanged greetings with Frank in the foyer. His eyes kept it company as he reflected that this was just the medicine his ego needed.
Dinner went down to the patter of reminiscences of the things they’d done together, the people they’d known, the good times they’d had, almost all of which Frank had forgotten. Still, he managed to parry with the left hand of his brain while figuring to the exact drop how much wine to give Amelia to weaken her resistance without having her pass out on him. As it turned out, he needn’t have bothered. Amelia’s resistance was nonexistent.
That became obvious almost as soon as dinner was over. Frank turned on the stereo and sat down on the couch beside her. Immediately Amelia snuggled up and looked at him soulfully. The effect was spoiled by a bit of spinach caught between her front teeth, but Frank managed to ignore it.
They danced. Dr. Peerloin would have appreciated the way they danced. It proved that the Peruvian Indians had no copyright on the movements used in their fertility rites. Spinach or no, Frank ended the dance with a kiss.
Their lips were still glued together as they sank to the couch. Amelia’s dress was low-cut and she guided Frank’s hands to her bodice as surely as a fruit store shill bent on touting tomatoes. Frank squeezed the tomatoes and was rewarded by an answering squeeze that worked a slight cramp out of his thigh muscles. An anticipatory thrill shot through him and he didn’t even stop to think how Swami Rhee Va would have disapproved of the way in which he and Amelia were progressing from one uncontemplated action to the next. The immediate result was that Amelia leaned back and pantingly asked, “Don’t you have a bedroom?”