the square root of sex

THE SQUARE ROOT

OF SEX

Ted Mark

1967

THE SQUARE ROOT OF SEX

When the two scientists, Dr. Margaret Peerloin

and Professor Basil Woocheck, of the Venus Bio-

Erotic Research Observatory published their sen-

sational findings on human sexual behavior, they

took the world by storm. Part of the wide inter-

est in the book was due to their daring methods

of research-direct observation of the erotic act.

What actually went on behind the scenes in their

experiments?

How did they break through age-old sexual taboos

to study the most private of all human behavior?

Here is a hilarious novel about the book on sex,

one of the wildest, sexiest books you will ever

read, by the author of the “O.R.G.Y."series.

NOTE BY THE UPLOADER

This is a delicious spoof of the ground-breaking work and research into human sexual response undertaken by William H. Masters and Virginia E. Johnson and their team during the previous ten years (and ongoing).

The work of Masters and Johnson began in the Department of Obstetrics and Gynecology at Washington University in St. Louis in 1957 and was continued at the independent not-for-profit research institution they founded in St. Louis in 1964, originally called the Reproductive Biology Research Foundation and renamed the Masters and Johnson Institute in 1978.

In the initial phase of Masters and Johnson's studies, from 1957 until 1965, they recorded some of the first laboratory data on the anatomy and physiology of human sexual response based on direct observation of 382 women and 312 men in what they conservatively estimated to be "10,000 complete cycles of sexual response". Their findings, particularly on the nature of female sexual arousal (for example, describing the mechanisms of vaginal lubrication and debunking the earlier widely held notion that vaginal lubrication originated from the cervix) and orgasm (showing that the physiology of orgasmic response was identical whether stimulation was clitoral or vaginal, and proving that some women were capable of being multiorgasmic), dispelled many long-standing misconceptions.

They jointly wrote two classic texts in the field, Human Sexual Response and Human Sexual Inadequacy, published in 1966 and 1970, respectively.

CHAPTER ONE

“At a quite early stage in the program of investigation of anatomical and physiological techniques and responses of mammalian forms of life engaging in erotic activities it became apparent that observations of lower life-forms while so occupied would limit any pragmatic application of the research data obtained. The original team of investigators were agreed that science might only be served realistically if the scope of the program was extended to include intensive study of Homo sapiens of both genders engaging in coital activity. Indeed, it was further agreed that the major work efforts of the team should be concentrated on this area. Immediately, the researchers were faced with two problems: The first was the problem of inadequate research funding; the second was the question of obtaining a willing research-subject population. The first problem was easily solved. The second . . .”

Introduction to

Survey of Bio-Erotic Behavior — Patterns in Human Beings,

by Woocheck & Peerloin

“One million dollars!”

“One million dollars!” Dr. Margaret Peerloin’s voice was laced with disbelief as she repeated the figure just proclaimed by Professor Woocheck. Her eyes were blue saucers behind rimless glasses as her mind tried to grasp the amount. “It’s too good to be true!” One of her hands tugged at the knot of gray hair at the nape of her neck as if by pulling it she might open some crevice of her brain to a realization of such a large bequest. “One whole million dollars!” The laugh wrinkles of her face creased into prominence.

“And more if in the opinion of the administrators of the Venus Estate our researches prove deserving of it.” Professor Basil Woocheck cackled happily and strode over to the laboratory sink to wash his hands for perhaps the fourth time in the past half-hour. “It’s an open-end legacy. We’ve been endowed, Dr. Peerloin. Yes, Mr. Samuel Venus, by his philanthropic passing away, has made possible the realization of our most ambitious research dreams.” A crinkle of glee rippled up the back of the Professor’s shiny bald pate.

“Just who is—I mean was—Samuel Venus?” Mercy Bilkoo asked hesitantly. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“A multi-millionaire,” Professor Woocheck told her. “A multi-millionaire with a humanitarian conscience and a scientific orientation. One of the executors of his estate, the one who notified me about the bequest, read a portion of Mr. Venus’ last testament to me. Mr. Venus quoted the old saw: ‘Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody ever does anything about it.’ Then he went on to observe that with sex, from a scientific point of view, it was just the other way around: ‘Everybody acts sexually, but nobody talks much about it.’ His point was that there is a paucity of scientific reporting on the sex act itself. He granted the telling of dirty jokes and tittering bull-sessions in which most people engage, but commented on the lack of serious investigation. Kinsey, he felt, had done a good job from the sociological and psychological angles, but there were still no reliable data on the physical act itself. When it came to his attention that our little group was doing research along these lines, he decided to include us in his will.” Professor Woocheck dried his hands carefully as he finished his explanation to Mercy Bilkoo. “That seems to be all there is to it,” he told her.

He bestowed a benign look on Mercy. Dr. Peerloin also looked at her fondly. As a clinical psychologist doing graduate work, Mercy was officially an assistant to Dr. Peerloin. But her inherent sweetness, and a certain naiveté, elicited a tender, protective attitude from the Professor as well as from the famous female anthropologist. She drew a somewhat different response, however, from the fourth member of the team present, the young electro-cybernetics engineer, “Fig” Newton.

A bachelor with a built-in penchant for pretty girls, “Fig” had eyed Mercy appraisingly the first time he’d met her at the outset of the research program some ten months before. And he’d been eying her ever since, up to and including this particular afternoon. His was the kind of inevitable response from male bachelors in their twenties to which Mercy had never quite been able to accustom herself.

It was inevitable because Mercy was stacked like the proverbial rural brick lavatory. The bricks were piled to a five-foot four-inch height which tipped the scales at a compact and well-rounded one hundred sixteen pounds. Even in the white lab coat Mercy was wearing the curves of breasts, hips and derriere testified to the alluring results of twenty-three years of construction. And perched atop the impressive anatomical edifice was a face that contrived to be both shy and sensual at the same time. Her chin was firm, but softened by the delicate hollows of her cheeks. Her nose was small, pert, a trifle snub. Her mouth was small, the lips formed in a natural pout which was more like a circular question-mark of innocence than a sign of sullenness. Her eyes, however, were a deep smoldering green, oval-shaped and spaced wide apart, their depths seeming to hold an uncalculated invitation behind the rimless glasses she wore in admiring imitation of Dr. Peerloin. Tawny golden hair, a naturally dark blonde color, was also arranged in the style favored by Dr. Peerloin, pulled tight against the sides of Mercy's head and tied in a knot at the base of her neck.

Mercy’s appearance was a giveaway to the kind of person she was. Three facets, which sometimes conflicted, formed the major part of her character. The first was a naturally superior intellect, finely trained, which took itself and any project on which it embarked most seriously. The second was an equally natural depth of emotional and sexual feeling which she sometimes repressed, but which was never very far from the surface of her personality and which drew reactions from most men that elicited counter reactions from Mercy with which she frequently had diffìculty coping. The third was a timidity which made her ill-at-ease outside the confines of the laboratory or classroom, and particularly uncomfortable in social situations involving young men. Sometimes, even in the laboratory, as with “Fig” Newton, she found herself torn between an undeniably sexual interest and a fear of acting out fantasies she hardly dared admit to herself.

Now “Fig” turned off his own fantasies concerning Mercy and got back to business. “Wow!” he commented. “Think of the equipment we'll be able to get with a million bucks.” He ran his fingers over his blond crew cut and grinned a boyish grin. “Vascular recording instruments and cardiograph apparatus and movie cameras and tape recorders and olfactory measurement devices and-- yeah, most important of all -- a giant computer to correlate all our data, to keep track of the subjects, and match them up, and make comparisons under a variety of circumstances and using a variety of stimuli. Why, with a really good computer, we can reduce each subject to a punchcard with an almost infinite variety of physiological keys.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Mercy agreed. “But just where are we going to get our research-subject population from? I mean, if we want to study people during the actual sex act, even if we have money, how are we going to get people who are willing to be studied?”

“I never thought about that,” Professor Woocheck admitted. He pondered it now and absent-mindedly strolled over to the sink and began washing his hands again. “I suppose that we shall have to rely on volunteers,” he mused.

“But do you think people will be willing to volunteer to come to the laboratory and cohabit while we observe them?” Mercy wondered.

“Maybe if we paid them for their trouble . . .” Professor Woocheck suggested dubiously.

“Trouble? What trouble?” There was some slight indignation — or was it envy? — in “Fig” NeWton’s voice. “Nobody ever offered to pay me!”

“I think that's a wonderful idea,” Dr. Peerloin told the Professor. “Some trinkets, a few strings of beads -- that's all it took to elicit coital cooperation from the Indians in the Peruvian jungle."

“This,” “Fig” pointed out, “is not the Peruvian jungle."

“Sti1l,” the Professor countered, “the principle is the same. Once we've had a few volunteers, I suspect the word will spread."

“I'll just bet it will!” “Fig” hooted. “Hey, fellas, you want to go to an orgy? And get paid for it yet!”

“That’s not funny, Mr. Newton.” The scowl creasing Dr. Peerloin’s face stressed her sixty-six years. “One expects that certain elements of society at large will misunderstand one’s motivations and one’s modus operandi when one is dealing with human sexuality,” she continued coldly. “But one has the right to expect that one’s colleagues should not err in such judgments. Nor should they make light of one’s serious approach and dedication.”

“Now, now, Doctor.” Professor Woocheck poured oil on troubled waters. “I’m sure that Mr. Newton was only joshing. He’s as dedicated to our work as you and I are. Still, he has a point. The executors of the Venus Estate will certainly insist on certain proprieties being observed. I don’t see how we can exactly advertise for volunteers. The initial subject group is going to present certain recruiting problems.”

Dr. Peerloin nodded and thought about it a moment. “How about soliciting cooperation from doctors all over the country?” she suggested finally.

“But won’t that give us a highly slanted subject population?” Mercy interjected. “I mean, what may be sexually atypical of doctors may not be so of the population as a whole.”

“You misunderstand me, Mercy. I don’t mean that we should solicit the doctors themselves,” Dr. Peerloin explained. “Just their cooperation in getting volunteers for us.”

“If I know the medical profession, it will take a long time before that sort of recruitment brings any significant results,” “Fig” pointed out.

“That’s true,” Professor Woocheck agreed. “Nevertheless, it can be a productive means of recruitment for the long-range program and I shall arrange to take steps to get it started immediately. However, we’re going to have to enlist our initial subjects more directly.”

“What do you mean?” Mercy asked.

“I mean we’re going to have to operate on a personal level with people we know. Each of us will have to go over his or her list of friends and acquaintances and select those enlightened ones to be approached for participation in the program.”

“Well, I guess I’ve got a headstart.” “Fig” took a little black address book from his pocket and riffled the pages.

“Can’t you be serious?” Dr. Peerloin complained.

“I am serious!”

“Dr. Peerloin means that we must all maintain an air of scientific detachment in a project of such a delicate nature,” Professor Woocheck remonstrated. “Your flipness is really out of place, Mr. Newton.”

“Sorry,” “Fig” muttered.

“It’s just that undue levity might drive possible subject volunteers away,” Professor Woocheck told him in a kindly fashion. He glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late,” he observed. “I suggest we all go home and sleep on it for the night. Tomorrow we can discuss actual methods to be used in the recruitment phase of the program.”

Mercy, “Fig” and Dr. Peerloin started out of the lab. Dr. Peerloin paused in the doorway. “Aren’t you coming too, Professor?” she called. “I want to lock up the building for the night.”

“I’ll be along in a minute. I just want to wash my hands first.”

“Again?”

“In a minute.”

“Fig” Newton had left already, but Mercy was still in the hallway waiting for Dr. Peerloin. “Where’s the Professor?” she asked as the older woman emerged.

“Washing his hands.”

“Again?”

“We all have our idiosyncrasies.” Dr. Peerloin shrugged. “His is particularly understandable,” she added. “After all, thirty-odd years a practicing gynecologist —”

“Of course.” Mercy nodded her understanding.

“You just fun along,” Dr. Peerloin told Mercy. “I’ll lock up as soon as the Professor is ready to leave.”

“All right. I’ll see you in the morning then.” Mercy left.

A moment later Professor Woocheck emerged and he and Dr. Peerloin walked down the hall together. “You know,” he told her, “I didn’t want to discuss it in front of the others until you and I had a chance to talk it over privately, but there is one section of the population which might fall in very well with our subject needs.”

“What section is that, Professor?”

“The section composed of professional prostitutes.”

“Of course!” Dr. Peerloin’s face lit up. “Why didn’t I think of that? But how do we go about contacting them?”

“We don’t. I do,” the Professor told her. “This is strictly the sort of approach which must be made by a male.”

“That’s pure male chauvinism!” Dr. Peerloin was miffed. “Just like when they tried to tell me that no woman could go into the Peruvian jungle. I wish you would remember, Professor, that I am a social scientist first and a woman second. To imply such artificial barriers because of my sex is unworthy of you.”

“The barriers are not artificial. And I assure you that any slur on your gender is unintended. I am merely being practical. The mores of the red-light district demand that a male make the initial contact. Surely you can see that.”

“I suppose so,” Dr. Peerloin agreed reluctantly. “But do you think that you have the background and experience necessary to embark on such a venture, Professor?”

“I am not completely innocent in such matters,” he answered stiffly. “After all, I have been a widower for two years.”

“You don’t mean —” Dr. Peerloin blushed in spite of herself.

“I may be a scientist, but I am also a man.”

“But a man of your age!” Dr. Peerloin exclaimed.

“I’m only seventy!”

“You should be ashamed!”

“Well, I’m not. And I might ask you to maintain the same scientific detachment you requested of Mr. Newton before.”

“No wonder you’re always washing your hands!” Dr. Peerloin told him spitefully.

“That’s not the reason and you know it. Now let us stop discussing my personal life, Doctor. What I want to know from you as co-director of this project is if you agree that the prostitute population should be approached and a fee offered for their cooperation.”

“Oh, I agree. I’m sure we’ll get optimum cooperation with a man of your vast experience making the contacts.”

They were at the front door now. Dr. Peerloin locked it behind them, turned abruptly on her heel and walked down the street alone.

“Good night,” the Professor called after her, but she didn’t answer. As he started walking towards his own home, he thought about their conversation and her attitude. His years of dealing with women on the most intimate level had indeed made Professor Woocheck chauvinistic in the privacy of his own mind. Right now he felt that Dr. Margaret Peerloin had reacted in a typically feminine fashion to his implied confession of having engaged in illicit sexuality with prostitutes.

But Professor Woocheck was honest enough with himself to admit that if she had been typically feminine, he had been peculiarly masculine himself. Yes, his ego drive had certainly caused him to lie by implication. The truth was that since becoming a widower, Professor Woocheck had sublimated all his sex impulses to his work. Truly, in his whole life, he had never once gone to a prostitute. Yet his male ego had instantaneously pushed him into convincing Dr. Peerloin of the opposite. And he knew that now it would push him into making good the boast by recruiting prostitutes for the research program.

Well, that really shouldn’t be too difficult. Professor Woocheck had lived in Flintsburgh all his life and he knew the city fairly well. He knew the district which was devoted to catering to all sorts of human weaknesses. During his years of private practice as a gynecologist, he had had occasion to visit patients there from time to time. Indeed, some of this experience had been responsible for his decision to turn from private practice to research. It had added to his awareness of the lack of scientific knowledge about sex.

Still, he’d never approached the district as a prospective customer, let alone a bulk buyer. So he had certain qualms later that evening when he set out for the South Side of the city where it was located. As he drove further south, he was struck as always by the discrepancy between the neighborhoods he passed through and the North Side of Flintsburgh where he lived.

The residential areas of the North Side of the city had grown up around the sprawling grounds of Flintsburgh University where the Professor had taught graduate courses on a part-time basis for many years. The homes in that area ranged from the mansions of the very rich to the pleasant middle-class dwellings of college teachers and other professional people. A few luxury apartment houses had sprung up recently, but for the most part the North Side maintained a spacious suburban atmosphere.

As in most Mid-western cities with over a hundred thousand population, Flintsburgh was growing outward from a core which sometimes seemed on the verge of crumbling. Outlanders might think of it as a university town and carry away the image of the pleasant North Side, but residents knew better. It wasn’t the University, but the factory district which enabled Flintsburgh to maintain its status as a major city. This district, which produced farm machinery for the most part, took in a forty-square-block area in the upper central part of the city. Three-quarters of the residents of Flintsburgh were dependent on these factories for their income. Much of these incomes were spent in the lower central part of the city which was composed of block after block of shopping and amusement outlets. To the south of the downtown amusement area was the rundown residential neighborhood known as the red-light district.

To get to it the Professor had crossed through the factory district to the South Side and then headed downtown. This route took him through a large Negro ghetto area which bordered the vice district. Hopelessness seemed an overhanging cloud as he drove past the rundown tenements and other slum dwellings. The Negro Revolution was just beginning to be felt in Flintsburgh and the Professor’s sympathies were with it.

But he pushed consideration of this problem out of his mind as he reached the general area of his destination. The best procedure, he decided, would be to park his car on the outskirts and proceed deeper into the area on foot. It was a warm night for spring, and there was a sprinkling of people on the stoops of some of the old brownstone houses he passed as he started down the street. One or two of them grinned at each other knowingly as they eyed the tall, completely bald, quite dignified old gentleman setting out on a quest which was obvious to them.

It wasn’t quite that obvious to Professor Woocheck. Unsureness made him pass up quite a few opportunities to establish contact as he strolled slowly through the district. A more knowing man would have more readily interpreted the sloe-eyed glances bestowed upon him by the two girls leaning out of a ground-floor window. A more sophisticated man would not have misunderstood the remark of the girl leaning against the lamp post as the Professor did.

“Want to see some tricks, Grandpa?” she cooed at him as he passed her.

“I’m afraid I don’t have time at the moment,” the Professor replied as he continued around a corner to another lamp post which was similarly adorned.

“Looking for someone, old-timer?” The girl in front of the second lamp post wriggled her hips at him invitingly.

“Nobody specific.” The Professor kept walking.

“Hello, sweetie. Are you as hot as I am?” purred a third lady of the night.

“I thought it was really a very mild night,” he answered politely and kept walking.

Where do you find all these prostitutes they say are so common around here? the Professor wondered to himself. And how do you tell them apart from the respectable women? The best thing would be to find a house of assignation. But all these houses look alike to me, he told himself as he passed a whole row of houses from which sounds of laughter and music and raucous voices were emanating, a row of houses which was probably the most notorious line-up of vice structures in all Flintsburgh. It certainly wasn’t easy finding vice in the vice district.

Rounding another corner, the Professor almost bumped into a bearded old man squeezing an accordion as if bent on destroying it. He was singing in a high nasal wail almost as tuneless as the squeaks coming from the accordion itself. He blocked the Professor’s way and kept on singing:

"Poverty pockets in my pants-—

Circumstances force my chants

Of songs for money, ’cause I’m broke,

And you can see that that’s no joke.

So share with me your wallet’s wealth,

’Cause someday you’ll be old yourself!”

As he finished his song, the bearded troubadour let the accordion dangle from one hand like some corrugated creature tortured into limpness. He held his other hand out, palm open, as he continued to block the Professor’s path. “Help the needy,” he whined. “Someday you’ll be old yourself.” He repeated the refrain.

“I’m already older than you are,” the Professor pointed out.

“That’s irrelevant. Where’s your compassion?”

“Oh, all right.” The Professor fished a quarter out of his pocket and handed it to him.

Immediately, the troubadour struck up another song:

“Your gift is small,

But from the heart,

Erasmus thanks you,

You old-—”,

He broke off abruptly and grinned a semi-toothless grin at the Professor. “All in good fun,” he assured him. “No offense meant. Anything Erasmus can do to show his appreciation, he’ll be glad to do.”

“Erasmus? Oh. Is that your name?”

“That it is.” The street singer grabbed the Professor’s hand with a grimy paw and wrung it.

“I’m Professor Basil Woocheck,” the Professor responded politely.

“Happy to make your acquaintance, Professor. Say, you don’t suppose you could spare another quarter, do you?”

“I might. If you’d give me some information.”

“You name it. I’ll tell it.”

“I was just wondering-—” The Professor couldn’t help the stammer in his voice. “That is, I thought you might be able to direct me to a house of ill-repute.”

“A cat-house? Is that what you’re looking for? Well now, Professor, you surely are lucky that you ran into me. It just so happens that I have certain connections with such an establishment. For say two dollars, I would be happy to conduct you there and introduce you around.”

“All right,” the Professor agreed. “A dollar now and a dollar after we get there,” he promised cautiously.

Erasmus led the way. A few moments later he ushered the Professor up the front steps of one of the brownstones he’d passed before. A petite brunette girl in the short-skirted, tight-fitting outfit of a French maid admitted them to the foyer.

“Hi, Gertrude. How’s tricks?” Erasmus greeted her.

“How would I know? I ain’t eligible to turn any lately. Goddam travelin’ salesmen! Can’t trust any of ’em!”

“The sulfa drugs aren’t helping?”

“Oh, I guess so. But it takes so effin long. By the time I get back on my back again, I’ll be revirginized!”

“This is a friend of mine.” Erasmus indicated the Professor. “See that you mark down for the Madam that I brought him.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get your cut.” Gertrude flounced into an adjoining parlor, leading the way for them.

It was a large room with perhaps half-a-dozen girls and three men strewn about it. The girls wore a variety of garb ranging from a transparent negligee with bikini lingerie under it to a skin-tight silken evening gown with nothing underneath it. The Professor’s attention was distracted from them by a large sign covering more than half of one wall. “MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR!” the sign advised. The Professor looked from it to Erasmus questioningly.

“The Madam was brought up as a Quaker,” Erasmus explained. “She doesn’t work at it, but I guess some of those childhood influences die hard. Anyway, it sort of fits in with her profession, don’t you think?”

“That’s true,” the Professor granted. “By the way, which one of these ladies is the Madam?” He glanced around. “She’s really the one with whom I want to speak.”

“She ain’t here tonight,” Gertrude told him. “This is the night she takes off. It’s usually the slowest night in the week.”

“Well, who’s in charge?”

“Nobody really. Unless maybe Xenobia. She’s been here the longest.” Gertrude pointed out a tall brunette with classic Greek features who was wearing an opaque, toga-style white cocktail gown.

“Might I talk to her?” Professor Woocheck requested.

“It ain’t easy. She don’t talk too good English,” Gertrude told him.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Erasmus disagreed. “It’s basic, but adequate to the tasks she performs. And her physical vocabulary is extensive and universal.”

“You’re a dirty old man,” Gertrude told him.

“I suppose I am. But it’s too late to change now.” He turned to the Professor. “If you’re satisfied, how about my other buck?” he requested.

“Look at him!” Gertrude jeered. “Greedy old man! Collecting from both ends!”

“Don’t be so literal,” Erasmus advised her blithely as he accepted the dollar from the Professor. “I trust we’ll meet again, sir,” he told him as he started out the parlor doorway.

“The least you could do is spend it here!” Gertrude called after him.

“My tastes are more refined,” he called back.

“What did he mean by that?” the Professor wondered aloud.

“You kiddin’? That old faggot? He'll be swappin’ candy to little boys so they’ll let him pull their pants down, with that money you gave him. If all the men was like him, we’d be outa business. Come on. I’ll introduce you to Xenobia.”

“Very well.”

Gertrude led him over to the tall brunette. “Charlie, this is Xenobia. Xenobia, this here is Charlie.” Gertrude performed the introductions.

“My name isn’t—-” Professor Woocheck started to protest.

“We call all the customers Charlie,” Gertrude told him brusquely. “That way we don’t get ’em mixed up.” She turned on her heel and left him with Xenobia.

“Greets, Charlie. I loving to know you.” Xenobia held his hand between both of hers as if it was a very slippery captive fish she was afraid might escape. “You like clap-clap first, or in a hurry?”

“Clap-clap?” Naive as he was, the phrase made the Professor suspicious. “What do you mean?”

“Clap-clap! You know! If no, then upstairs rushing.”

“This clap-clap?” the Professor asked delicately. “Is it some sort of—umm-—venereal disorder?”

“Vene--what?” It was Xenobia’s turn to be perplexed.

“Are you sick? Do you have a rash?”

“Rash? Oh, very. I rash. I impetuous. I wild! You name, I do. But no clap-clap, right? Upstairs rushing, right?”

“Well, wait a minute. Let’s not hurry things. You see, I don’t actually-—-”

“Then you want clap-clap!” Xenobia was finding the language barrier exasperating.

“I guess so.” The Professor decided to chance it.

“Delighting!” Xenobia strode over to a corner of the room and put a record on the phonograph. there. Immediately the primitive beat of a Greek folk dance blared out over the room. The other girls and the three men looked up and watched as Xenobia swung into a wildly uninhibited dance. Her hands, clapping together over her head, established the beat. After a moment, she paused and looked at the Professor with an injured air. “Why you don’t clap-clap?” she demanded. Professor Woocheck finally realized what it was she meant and began clapping his hands in time to the music. She nodded, satisfied, and resumed her dance, her long black hair flying wildly in all directions.

With the crescendo of the finale, she threw herself at the Professor’s feet, head flung back, lips parted, breasts heaving against the skimpy white material of the gown she wore. The outline of the nipples stood out plainly like beckoning shadow-fingers. “Young-making, no?” she panted. “Up the stairs rushing now?”

“Well, I really just wanted to talk to you—” the Professor started to explain.

“No talk. Don’t be frightening,” she reassured him. “Xenobia a fogey expert. Young-making, All problem solve one-two-three. Aging mean ripening. I show you. Make little bigger than ever again. You see. Maybe even growing hair on skinhead. You see. Don’t be frightening.”

“I’m not afraid,” the Professor told her. “But I really just came to find out—”

“Upstairs finding out. Finding out like you never think. Come on.” She tugged at his sleeve.

Reluctantly, the Professor followed her up the stairs. She led him into a small bedroom at the top and closed the door behind him. “Here we finding, dolling. Twenty dollar, dolling. Madam insisting pay now play later, dolling. Twenty dollar take off twenty year and maybe thirty-forty year. Cheap. You got lot-some year to losing.”

“All right.” The Professor handed her the twenty dollars. “But I don’t want to—”

“Cold. I digging. Warming Xenobia’s specialty.” She wrapped her arms around the Professor and rubbed up against him. “Hey, what your name, Charlie?”

“Basil Woocheck. But—”

“Basil, hey. You know that some scientist-doctor-inventor name too? No kidding! I once take test call ‘Basil Metabotzankis’ or something, name after him. A Greek, too. Greeks invent lotsa things. They invent sex-making. You know that?”

“No, I didn’t.” The Professor edged away from her nervously. “I wonder if there’s some place I might wash my hands,” he asked nervously.

“Washing johnny there.” Xenobia pointed to a door.

The Professor entered a small bathroom and scrubbed his hands vigorously at the sink. Xenobia stood in the doorway watching him. “Sex hygiene,” she decided after a moment. “I liking that, Basil. You sweetness. Oldsters stir best, I saying always. But hands clean now. Why you keep scrubbing so?”

“Habit, I guess.” The Professor turned off the faucet and dried his hands energetically on a towel.

Xenobia went back into the bedroom. A moment later the Professor followed.“ She was standing in front of the bed unzipping the gown she wore. As the Professor entered, it fell away from her breasts.

“You liking, no?” She took a deep breath. The effect was of twin life preservers being rapidly inflated. “Young-making, no? Greeks invent bazooms, too. Carve out of rock first. But girl-flesh better, no?” She exhaled and then inhaled again rapidly. “Liking bazooms?” she asked again.

“Your mammarian development is really quite extraordinary,” Professor Woocheck assured her. “As a doctor, I can tell you that —”

“You doctoring? Ooh! Making me glad. I going to doctoring tomorrow. Little wart I have here on leg, see?” She pulled her dress up over her thighs to show him.

“That’s a little out of my line,” Professor Woocheck told her. “I’m a gynecologist.”

“A gyne——what?”

“A gynecologist. I specialize in internal female disorders. You know. Like when you have an internal examination.”

“Oh, sure. Doctoring come once a month checking over all the girls. Hey, that some fun specializing.” She giggled.

“Not at all,” the Professor told her sternly. “I never forget that I am a doctor. I always maintain my professional detachment.”

“Hey!” Something had just occurred to Xenobia. “You know we got lot in common working.”

“What do you mean?”

“You playing with women here—” she gestured “-- and getting pay for it. I playing with men same part and getting pay for it. We really almost in same business.”

“Not at all,” the Professor told her icily. “I am concerned only with female diseases—growths and malformations and such.”

“Hey, women get warts there?”

“Not in my experience.”

“Oh. Too bad. I figuring you take out wart there, mine on leg be ducking soup for you?” Xenobia brooded a moment. Then she brightened up. “Hey, I betcha see lotsa ladies’ winejugs your business.”

The Professor looked blank for a moment. Then he comprehended what she meant. “Well, yes. I guess I have,” he granted.

“How many so nicely as this.” With a flourish Xenobia removed her dress and stood before the Professor in the nude.

“It is a remarkably symmetrical pelvic structure,” the Professor granted.

“I training it long time,” Xenobia told him proudly. She Wriggled to demonstrate what she meant.

“Ah! Yes! Excellent vaginal muscular control.”

“No young-making?” Xenobia was disappointed.

“Well, it would be, but you see I really came here in my professional capacity. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but just now I’m not—-umm—in the market for your wares. My real reason for being here is to enlist the aid of you and your fellow workers in a research program.”

“Research programming? What is?”

“We’re doing a study on how people react during coitus.”

“Coitus? Is Greek word?”

“Lovemaking. We’re studying what happens to people’s bodies while they make love.”

“So when studying start?” Xenobia was getting bored.

“You don’t understand. I can’t be a subject in the program. I’m the co-director of the project. My job is to watch and then to evaluate.”

“Oh.” Xenobia nodded knowingly. “You one of those. Why you no telling me downstairs? I get circus put on for you.”

“No, no.” The Professor wiped his brow. “I mean to watch people making love in the laboratory.”

“Basil, man, you really all screwing up,” Xenobia said, not unsympathetically.

“We’re compiling data,” the Professor said desperately.

“Data? Like disa-and-data? Old gaming. Not many calls, but if you want-—”

“We’re trying to find answers to some very important questions about sex!”

“Ah!” A light broke over Xenobia’s face. “You meaning like Kinsey Report. I answering questions for one of them fellows few years back. Ooh! Things he asking! Blush-making! I don’t know who redder, him or me.”

“Well, it is something like the Kinsey Report,” the Professor granted. “Only we’re concerned with the physiological aspects of sex under test conditions, while Kinsey was concerned with—”

“You just wanting sit here and ask questions?”

“Well, no. I want you to agree to come to the Institute and let us observe you while you do what you always do. And I’d like you to help me persuade some of the other girls to do the same. You’ll be paid, of course.”

“Ah! Like private party.”

“Well, not exactly. But—”

“Why you no testing here with me first?” Xenobia wrapped her arms around him and blew in his ear suggestively.

“Well, there’s no apparatus to record--”

“Temperature up. You noting that? Taking clothes off keep cooler.” She tugged off the Professor’s jacket and began opening the buttons of his shirt.

“I’m really quite comfortable. Now, what I want to know is if you’ll—”

“Talking much. Frightening fogies always talking much. You noting that?” She tugged off his shirt and trailed her fingers over the Professor’s bare chest. “I don’t think you should—”

“Panting warm. Take off panting.” Xenobia undid his belt and pulled at his trousers.

“Please. Professional decorum demands —”

“Aha! No wonder panting warm. Long underwearing. No need summer. Very unhealthing. Pores no breath.”

Xenobia yanked until the Professor’s trousers and underwear were crumpled up around his ankles.

Making a fig-leaf out of his crossed hands, the Professor cowered under her determined onslaught. “This is terrible,” he protested. “I didn’t mean to—”

“What that?” Xenobia looked up and cocked her head. There were the sounds of a commotion coming from below. “I go seeing.” She stood up and opened the door. Then she strode to the banister and peered out over the stairs.

“Hold it right there, girlie!” A uniformed policeman with his gun drawn pointed it at Xenobia and took the stairs two at a time. “This is a raid!” he announced.

“This is a raid!” The policeman repeated it for the Professor’s benefit as he backed Xenobia through the bedroom door. “You’re under arrest! Pull up your pants and come along, old-timer.”

Dazed by the suddenness of it, the Professor did as he was told. Then he put on his shirt, tucked it in, and reached for his suit jacket. “Excuse me,” he said to the officer. “I wonder if —?”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“I wonder if I might wash my hands first?”

CHAPTER TWO

“Availability being the determining factor in selection of the subject group at the inception of the program, it was deemed pragmatic to enlist cooperation from females and males of the prostitute population. (The presumption was that cooperation among members of the non-prostitute population would not be forthcoming. Results of later recruitment drives were to demonstrate the fallacy of this presumption.) Obstacles too complex to detail here had to be overcome in establishing a working arrangement with the leaders in control of this societal sub-stratum. Help in this endeavor was elicited from a volunteer intermediary not directly employed by the project. His contribution was vital and commands our gratitude. He did not hesitate to set aside personal concerns and pleasures when his services were required . . .”

Introduction to Survey of Bio-Erotic

Behavior Patterns in Human Beings,

by Woocheck & Peerloin

“You twin.” The redheaded girl in the belted black cashmere coat stood in the hallway just outside the opened door to Frank Po1lener’s bachelor apartment and put an exclamation point to her statement with green eyes that melted into surrender as they gazed into his. “I can’t stand not seeing you. The past two months have been hell. I give up.” Her hands dropped to the belt of the coat and opened it. The folds of the coat fell away from her full-bodied figure. She was completely nude under the garment. “I’m yours,” she panted. “Take me!” she demanded.

Frank Pollener’s horn-rimmed reading glasses slid down to the tip of his nose. He was still holding the book he’d been reading when the door chimes sounded, but now, stunned by the impact of the charms so unexpectedly displayed before him, the opened tome slipped from his fingers to the floor. He let it lay there as he quickly peered up and down the hallway of the luxury apartment house, distressed at the thought of one of his neighbors being privy to the scene.

The hallway was empty, but his anxiety was only partly assuaged. Hastily, he grabbed the redhead by the arm and tugged her inside the apartment. It was only after he’d closed and locked the door behind her that he found the words to respond to her greeting.

“Gloria! What are you doing here?”

“You don’t sound very glad to see me.”

“Oh, I am. I am. Only maybe not quite so much of you. Would you mind -?” His gesture asked her to close the coat.

“Don’t you like it?” She made no move to comply.

“Yes. Of course. It’s lovely. Lovely. Only a wee bit disconcerting, know what I mean? Sort of makes it hard to keep my mind on the conversation.”

“I didn’t come to talk,” Gloria emphasized. “I came to surrender myself, all of me, holding nothing back, to your ardor.”

“That’s very nicely put, Gloria. And I appreciate your sacrifice more than I can say. Better than anybody, I know how you must have struggled with yourself before coming to this decision. But let’s not do anything hasty. You close your coat and come on inside and I’ll fix you a drink and we’ll talk first.” Frank tried to usher her from the foyer to the living room.

She balked. She craned her head forward and peered at him until the tip of her nose almost grazed“ the tip of his nose. “Frank Pollener?” It was a question. Then she turned around and opened the door to the outside hallway again. She studied the nameplate on the door. “Frank Pollener,” she repeated, reading it. “For a minute there,”. she added, “I thought maybe I had the wrong apartment. You don’t have a twin brother or anything, do you?”

“No,” Frank assured her, quickly closing the door again - “Now will you come inside?”

“All right.” Gloria followed him into the living room. “Then you are the same Frank Pollener who tried to tear my clothes off on alternate weekends during the months of January, February and March of this fiscal year, aren’t you?” she inquired, a slight edge to her voice.

“I’m afraid so.”

“The same Frank Pollener who ripped six pairs of my nylons and mangled three brassieres and mined my one and only pleated black cocktail dress because he was carried away by a passion to which I inspired him during each and every one of our bi-monthly encounters?”

“I remember.” Frank sighed.

“The same Frank Pollener, attorney-at-law, who pleaded his case with murmurs and moans in an all-out effort to have me set aside the precedent of three unfortunate amorous experiences and share his bed with him? A bed, I might point out, of which he was rarely the sole occupant during the interim periods of fourteen days each which separated our meetings. The same Frank Pollener famed throughout the legal world for winning more cases in bedchambers than judicial chambers, for being more successful courting than in court, for practicing more in the temples of Eros than ever in the temples of justice? The same Frank Pollener who told me that outlook was the determining factor in sex, that his outlook was healthy which was why his partners always received maximum gratification from him, such testimonials cited, I believe, to convince me that lovemaking with Frank Pollener would be to my three unfortunate past experiences as ambrosia is to vinegar? It is that same Frank Pollener before whom I now stand getting goose pimples, is it not?”

“Well yes, but--”

“I rest my case. Take me!”

“You are getting goose-pimply,” Frank observed. “If you’d just button up—”

“Button up! There’s only one answer then! It must be me!” Gloria cupped her hand under her mouth, exhaled and sniffed. “My best friends can’t get close enough to tell me,” she sighed.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gloria. There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s--”

“Maybe my depilatory let me down.” Gloria bent over and scrutinized one naked thigh.

“It’s -”

“Greasy kid stuff!” She snapped her fingers. “I’ll never buy another cheap lipstick.”

“Will you stop? Please!”

“Well let’s face it, Frank, something must be wrong. Or, is it that I just don’t appeal to you any more?”

“Of course you appeal to me,” he assured her. “You’re beautiful. You’re voluptuous. You’re sexy as hell—-”

“If you feel that way, then what are we talking about? The bedroom’s in there, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But-—”

“But what? Oh!” Gloria was struck by a sudden suspicion. “You have someone else in there!” she accused him. “Is that it?” "

“No.”

“Well, we’ll just see!” Gloria marched over to the bedroom door, flung it open and flicked the wall-switch, turning on the lights. The room was empty. “Oh—” she said. “Then why—?”

“I’m trying to explain. I will if you’ll just relax and give me a chance.”

“Have you had some kind of accident, Frank?” Gloria was genuinely concerned.

“No. I’m fine. It’s just--”

“I simply can’t believe I’m so unattractive that Frank Pollener, lecher-at-law, would turn his back on my naked offering of myself. You really are sure you’re Frank Pollener?”

“Don’t start that again!”

“Sorry. It’s just inconceivable to me that the Frank Pollener I know could—-”

“That’s just it. I’m Frank Pollener all right, but I’m not the Frank Pollener you know—or once knew.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with somebody else!”

“No. There’s nobody else. I know this is hard to believe, Gloria, but right now there isn’t one other woman in my life.”

“You mean you’re not sleeping with anybody?”

“That’s right.” Frank nodded earnestly. “And it’s been that way for more than a month now. I’ve maintained complete celibacy,” he told her proudly.

“I don’t get it. Have you got religion or something?”

“In a way. But it isn’t exactly religion. It’s moral conviction. Have you ever heard of Swami Rhee Va?”

“Way down upon the . . .” Gloria hummed morosely.

“No-no-no! I’m talking about the great Nepalese teacher who founded the school of passive insistence, or non-action violence as his disciples sometimes humorously call it among themselves. Swami Rhee Va is the prophet of Causocratic Effectivism, the philosophy which I now non-struggle to embrace.”

“Better you should non-struggle to embrace me,” Gloria suggested.

“You don’t understand. That’s the whole point. By not embracing you, I reaffirm that I am.”

“But you’re not.”

“I know. That’s why I am.”

“Am what?” Gloria wanted to know.

“Just am. You see, am-ness is all.”

“All what?”

“All there am.” Frank spoke with the certitude of the zealot.

“Who’s on first?” Gloria gave up.

“Look, let me try to explain. I’ll tell it to you in Swami Rhee Va’s own words which he spake to me when I had the great honor of meeting him personally.”

“Spake?”

“It’s the parlance of Causocratic Effectivism. I fall into it naturally when I’m talking about it. I forgot for a moment that you weren’t one of us. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t mention it. Go ahead with what you were saying. Spake up.”

“Yes. Well, to reduce it to its essentials, this is how the Swami put it: I do, therefore I am; I don’t, therefore I am.” Frank paused and looked at Gloria intently, allowing time for the full import of the words to sink in. “Do you grasp the all-encompassing significance?” he asked eagerly after a moment.

“I’m not sure. It sounds-—well—contradictory.”

“Of course! That’s it!” Frank clapped his hands together. “It is contradictory! But as the Swami says, that, after all, is the secret of life. (Everything has its opposite, every action its opposing reaction. Once you’ve grasped that, it’s easy to see why non-action is the only rational code to live by. Am-ness through non-action is the ultimate in beingness; it is at long last the realization of the sound of one hand clapping.”

“It is?”

“Yes. And that is the foundation upon which Causocratic Effectivism rests. Once that is accepted, everything else one does—-or doesn’t—follow naturally. You see, it’s simply a matter of subjugating one’s individuality to the universal all.”

“I see,” Gloria lied.

“You do? Good. Then of course you understand why I can’t possibly make love to-you.”

“Well now,” Gloria admitted, “I’m still the teensiest bit confused about that.”

“Don’t you see? The world is on the skids. Right?”

“I guess so.”

“It’s undeniable. Viet Nam. The Cold War. Civil Rights. Lynchings. Crime in the streets. High taxes. Promiscuity--”

“Look who’s talking!”

“Never mind that. I’m a changed man. I told you. The point is, why is the world in the mess it’s in?”

“God is dead,” Gloria guessed.

“Beside the point.” Frank waved the suggestion away. “The world is the way it is because of action!”

“So where’s the action?” Gloria wriggled suggestively.

“People act.” Frank ignored the wriggle. “And every action has its result. Obviously, the results are dire. All you have to do is look around you to see that. But here’s the crux of it: Usually when people act, they don’t intend their actions to have such results. Yet their intent doesn’t seem to influence the consequences. Only the action does that. Now, it follows that the only way to improve the world, if this is the case, is to abstain from taking action.”

“Couldn’t you abstain tomorrow?” Gloria murmured wistfully.

“If we don’t start now,” Frank told her with conviction, “tomorrow may never come. H-bombs, germ warfare, nuclear stockpiles . . .”

“Maybe I’m stupid, but I just don’t see how your making love to me is going to start World War Three.”

“Of course you don’t. Neither do I,” Frank admitted. “But people never see the consequences of their actions beforehand. That’s why we believers in Causocratic Effectivism have pledged ourselves to commit no action unless we have first seriously contemplated its effect on the world at large and honestly arrived at the conclusion that it will have a beneficent result.”

“But “making love to me when we’re both willing can’t possibly harm the world.”

“We can’t know that. As a follower of Swami Rhee-Va, I refrain from committing any acts which might seem to have neutral consequences. Such acts are the biggest pitfall we face. If we see negative consequences, all but fools refrain from action. It’s when we are blind to such results that we are most susceptible to acts which sow the seeds of folly. So I must be able to honestly foresee a positive result before I act at all.”

Gloria thought about it. “Isn’t the pleasure you’ll derive from making love to me a positive result?” she asked after a moment.

“Well yes. But that’s only a surface result. Swami Rhee-Va cautions us to look deeper.”

“So look.” Gloria stretched out on the couch provocatively. One hand toyed with her long red hair. One lissome leg, bent at the knee, swayed like a beckoning finger. The subdued lamplight rippled over the twin, seemingly translucent bubbles on her breasts to etch more clearly the quivering yearning of their long, ruby-colored tips. “Take a good look!” Her voice was husky.

“Umm . . .” Frank looked. He’d been celibate for a month. And a month is a long time. But he hadn’t forgotten. “Umm . . .”

“And it would make me so happy too,” Gloria cooed in a sultry fashion. “That would be another beneficent result. Wouldn’t it?”

“Well, yes. Still—”

“You’re muttering, Frank. Why don’t you come sit over here where I can hear you better.” Gloria patted the couch alongside one of her voluptuous hips. Her eyes smoldered as he hesitatingly accepted the invitation. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?” Her fingers patted his thigh as if to reassure him that it was indeed better.

Frank flinched at the heat of her touch. “Wait a minute!” he said. “I have the feeling that my am-ness is in jeopardy.”

“Don’t be afraid,” Gloria murmured. “I wouldn’t hurt your am-ness for anything in the world.” She let the fingers of her other hand trail over his ears and neck.

“I’d better move away from here,” Frank decided. “It’s hard for me to think when you’re so close, when you touch me that way.”

“Don’t do that.” Her nails dug into Frank as she restrained him. “That would be retreating. Worse, it would be an unconsidered action which might have all kinds of unforeseen consequences.”

“That’s true,” Frank admitted. He stayed put. “It wouldn’t be at all consistent with Causocratic Effectivism.” Gloria’s breath was hot in his ears as she spoke.

“That’s right. It wouldn’t. But don’t get the wrong idea. I’m committed not to act. I may be sitting here next to your naked body, but because of my convictions I can’t make a move.”

“You don’t have to,” she assured him. “Just relax and reflect like your Swami would tell you to.” Gloria’s hand slid under the waistband of his trousers. “I’ll do all the moving that’s necessary,” she panted as the tips of her fingers encountered their target sooner than she’d expected.

“Non-action!” Frank closed his eyes and repeated the phrase to himself like a litany. “Non-action! Non-action! Non-action!”

“Non-action! Non-action! Non-action!” Gloria picked up the rhythm of the words, repeating them in time to her caress. Her lips found Frank’s and burned a path for the fusing of their tongues. She clawed at his belly until she had his pants down around his knees, and then flung herself over him.

“Non-action! Non-action! Non-action!” The cadence imposed itself on Frank’s hips thrusting up to meet the pulsating tunnel of her womanhood.

Alas, he was detoured before he could enter it. The clanging of the telephone bell derailed the charging locomotive of his passion. Automatically, he turned over on his stomach to answer the phone which was on the end-table. Hair in wild disarray, Gloria perched atop his bared buttocks like some flame-topped Valkyrie who has conquered her opponent and can now afford to wait to claim the spoils of victory. The pressure of her weight made Frank grunt as he juggled the receiver and finally got the mouthpiece lined up with his lips.

“Oof! . . . Hello?”

“Hi, Frank?”

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“We met at the gates of Paris and I being the better man quickly overcame my adversary. I went to a nearby inn and told a man I killed a man.”

“Huh?”

“We met at the gates of Paris and I being the better man quickly overcame my adversary. I went to a nearby inn and told a man I killed a man.”

“Oh.” Frank considered it. Then—“Hello, Fig,” he said. . .

“Fra-a-a-ank! Don’t tell me you forgot!”

“Forgot what?”

“We met at the gates of Paris and I being the better man quickly overcame my adversary. I went to a nearby inn and told a man I killed a man.”

“Oh, all right,” Frank sighed. “What! You killed a man?”

Atop Frank’s backside the Valkyrie gasped and momentarily forgot her passion.

“Yes! I killed a man!”

“And what was this man’s name?”

“Zanzibar!”

“Not Zanzibar!”

“Yes, Zanzibar!”

“How do you spell Zanzibar?”

“Z-a-n-z-i-b-a-r.”

“Not Z-a-n-z-i-b-a-r!”

“Yes, Z-a-n-z-i-b-a-r!”

“Sir! You’ve killed my brother! I shall meet you at the gates of Paris in the morning.”

“So we met at the gates of Paris and I being the better man—”

“Fig! Enough already!” Frank protested. “What did you want? You caught me at sort of a bad time.”

“Bad time!” Indignation made Gloria pinch Frank harder than she’d intended.

“Ouch!” Frank reacted. “You could kill a man!” he said indignantly.

“And what was this man’s name?” The response over the phone was instantaneous.

“Damn it, Fig! “I will not go through that nonsense again!”

“Oh, all right.” “Fig’s” voice seemed to be coming through a nose that was slightly out of joint. “It still breaks me up though. Brother! The things we used to come up with at the old Kappa Rho house! And the stunts we pulled! Hey, remember the time we--”

“Yeah!” Frank broke in quickly. “I remember. I remember it all. Hell, why shouldn’t I. It was only eight years ago. I think about it constantly. Oof!” Frank reacted as Gloria impatiently shifted her weight.

“Best years of our lives.” The receiver in Frank’s ear grew sticky with the syrup of nostalgia. “The old clock tower, those ivy-covered walls, that old frat-house spirit …"

“Bull!” Frank poured acid on the sap.

“Yeah. The late-night bull sessions with the fellows . . .”

“I mean the way you remember it is bull. You, of all people, Fig. Don’t you remember the snobbery? How you were almost blackballed from pledging the frat when they found out your father had voted for Stevenson?”

“But I wasn’t blackballed. They were tolerant. And considerate too. It was never even mentioned again. I belonged. And in my heart I always will. Go ahead and be cynical if you want, Frank. Underneath you know that old school ties are the best.”

“Caveat emptor.” Frank gave up.

“Huh?”

“Skip it. Look, Fig, you didn’t call up to wallow in sophomore memories, did you?”

“No. I’ve got a problem, old buddy. I need your help. Your professional help.”

“Gee, I don’t know, Fig. You see, I’ve sort of evolved a new philosophy about my work. I don’t just take any case that comes my way any more. I know it may sound corny to you, but I weigh the ethics very carefully before I let myself become involved.”

“Now look, Frank, as one Kappa Rho to another-—”

“Umpf! You’re crushing my groin!”

“That’s a helluva—!”

“Not you, Fig. I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Oh. Well look, Frank, let me put it this way. You can do a frat brother a favor and still stay on the sunny side of whatever ethical standards you’re following when you’re not busy dragging some innocent chick or other between the percales. This Professor who runs the project I work on is in a mess, but so help me he’s innocent. Just see him for yourself and you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”

“Where is he?”

“At the moment he’s in the Drake Street jail waiting for night court to begin.”

“What’s the charge against him?”

“I’m not sure. He was very upset and confused when he called me. Something to do with being in a cat-house when it was raided.”

“Illicit copulation, aiding and abetting a public nuisance, Section 342A of the State Criminal Code,” Frank mused. “What makes you so sure he’s not guilty?”

“For one thing, he’s around seventy years old.”

“That may raise the question of the extent to which he was able to aid and abet. Outside of that it proves nothing.”

“All right. But he’s a dedicated scientist and I’m sure he was there for scientific reasons. He’s the soul of dignity, believe me. Please, Frank. You’ve got to help him. Honestly, by helping him, in a way you’ll be helping humanity.”

“Alternativism!” Frank snapped his fingers.

“What? What’s that?”

“When an action is committed and an unknown factor perverts the result, that is what we call evil. But-— But! When that unknown factor is activated early enough to prevent the result, to abort the insufficiently considered action, that’s alternativism! According to Swami Rhee Va, it’s a beneficent protective agent.”

“Swanee-—what’s Stephen Foster got to do with it?” “Fig” was confused.

“Nothing. It’s all right, Fig. Don’t worry. I’m going to help your friend. I’ll get down to the jail right away. And thanks. You’ve provided me with the alternativism to keep me from going through with an unthought-out action. What’s this Professor’s name?”

“Fig” told him, thanked him, and hung up. As Frank also put down the telephone, Gloria dropped the magazine she’d been leafing through and bounced up and down on his buttocks. “Hey, remember me?” she crooned.

“Sorry. There’s been a displacement.” Frank heaved upwards and she tumbled to the floor. "

“I’ll say there has!” She’d landed hard on her derriere, and now she rubbed a bruise there.

“I mean our proposed neutral action has been displaced by a positive action. I have to leave right away.”

“You have to-—? But what about me? You can’t just-—!”

“Sorry.” Having speedily adjusted his clothing, Frank paused in the archway leading to the foyer and apologized. “An important case. I have to run. See you around, Gloria.”

“But--” The sound of the front door slamming cut off her protest before she could voice it. Stunned, Gloria sat where she was on the floor for a moment. Then she got up, put on the black cashmere coat and tied the belt. She was just starting for the door when the phone rang again. She answered it.

Before Gloria could speak, the voice sounded in her ear. “Hi, Frank. It’s Fig again. I just wanted to—”

“Sony. He’s already left,” Gloria interrupted.

“Oh? Oh! Then who are—?”

“Just an old friend.”

“A friend, huh?”

“Not that kind of a friend.” Gloria responded to the innuendo in his voice. “A platonic friend. Believe me, you’ve no idea how platonic,” she added bitterly.

“Oh, sure. Well, I’m an old friend of Frank’s too. So I guess we’ve got something in common. By the way, my name’s Fig.”

“Frig?”

“No-no! No r. Just F-i-g.”

“Oh. Sorry about that. My name’s Gloria.”

“Glad to know you, Gloria. Say, don’t tell me old Frank hustled off and left you all alone.”

“Now that’s just what old Frank did. You must be psychic.”

“Gee, I feel responsible. I mean, I guess it was because of me that he had to rush away. Say, why not let me try to make it up to you? Why don’t you meet me and I’ll buy you a drink?”

“I wonder if old Frank appreciates just how friendly his old friends are,” Gloria said sarcastically.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. We’re frat brothers. Why, there was a time when we shared everything.”

“Are you sure Frank still feels that way?”

“Sure he does. Come on. Let me buy you a drink. It’s the least I can do for spoiling your evening. What do you say?”

“Well--” Gloria weakened. “But I’m not dressed,” she remembered.

“Good old platonic Frank!” It was “Fig’s” turn to be ironic.

“But I could go home and get dressed,” Gloria decided. “Could you pick me up at my place in about an hour?”

“Sure. What’s the address?”

Gloria gave it to him and hung up. He sure came on strong, she thought to herself as she left Frank’s apartment. On the make, all right. Well, it would just serve Counselor Frank Pollener right if she let his eager-beaver friend succeed. That would show him! Leaving her hung up! He’d deserve it if she made it with his buddy!

Born of resentment, it was only the glimmering of a plan. Yet it had drifted over the borderline of Causocratic Effectivism into the am-ness of insufficiently contemplated action by the time, a few hours later, that Frank Pollener emerged from the courthouse building adjacent to the Drake Street Jail. A still unnerved, but extremely grateful Professor Basil Woocheck was with him.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Pollener,” the Professor said, wringing his hands unthinkingly.

“That’s quite all right. I’m glad to have been of service. I really mean that. Your project strikes me as an extremely worthwhile endeavor. From a humanistic point of view, I mean. Lately I’ve been trying to direct my legal efforts in that direction. I’m grateful to you for the opportunity to do so. Don’t hesitate to call on me again any time I can help.”

“Thank you.” The Professor sighed. “I fear though, that for the time being our work has run into a bottleneck. I don’t seem to have been successful in my efforts to recruit subjects from the professionally erotic population.”

“Well, you went about it in the wrong way,” Frank told him. “You should have started at the top.”

“At the top?” The Professor’s face showed his puzzlement. “I don’t think I-—”

“What I mean is that even if you’d persuaded one girl to cooperate, Professor, you still would have run into trouble from the Syndicate when they found out she had something going on the side with your outfit.”

“The syndicate?”

“Sure. They control all the vice in Flintsburgh.”

“But who--? How—?”

“Look, everything’s organized on a very business-like basis. There’s no such thing as a girl operating free-lance in Flintsburgh any more. Prostitution, gambling, you name it — it’s all part of the same corporate enterprise. And the corporation’s run on a national--even an international—basis by the brotherhood.”

“The brotherhood? I don’t-—”

“The brotherhood. The Mafia,” Frank explained.

“You mean like the Cosa Nostra?”

“Well, here in Flintsburgh it’s a difierent family, but you’ve got the idea. Anyway, to get any kind of largescale cooperation, you’d have to make your deal with the head of the family here in Flintsburgh.”

“Who would that be? And how do I get in touch with him?” the Professor wanted to know.

Frank thought a moment. When he spoke, it was with a certain reluctance. “I guess I can probably help you out there,” he said. He glanced at his watch. “It’s late, but why don’t I try making a call?”

“I’d be very appreciative,” Professor Woocheck assured him.

“All right then. There’s an all-night drugstore a few blocks down. I’ll call from there.” Frank led the way.

When they reached it, Frank left the Professor at the counter having a Coke while he went to the phone booths at the back of the store. He dialed a number. Despite the lateness of the hour the voice that answered was crisp and businesslike. “Mr. Carrera, please,” Frank responded. “This is Frank Pollener calling.”

There was a pause before the second voice sounded in Frank’s ear. It was more genial than the first had been. “Hello there, Counselor. How very nice to hear from you. It’s been a long time.” The tone was very precise, the words accent-less, but each one spaced slightly apart the way speech sounds when spoken by one who has taken pains to improve his diction, or to overcome the slurs acquired by speaking another tongue in childhood. “What can I do for you?’

“You once mentioned that if I ever needed a favor I shouldn’t hesitate to ask you,” Frank reminded him. “Does that still go?”

“Of course. Anything. Anything within reason, that is. What’s the trouble, Counselor? Got a girl in trouble? I have a very superior sawbones with a real hospital setup. And you don’t have to worry about the fee. Just call-—”

“No, it’s not that,” Frank interrupted. He was annoyed and his denial had a slight edge to it.

“All right. All right. Don’t get miffed. It’s just that I know your rep for tomcatting around and so I naturally thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Frank told him firmly. “That’s all in the past. I’m a reformed character.”

“So what is it then? You need some business? Things slow? You know you can have all you want. I’ve told you that before. You went hoity-toity on me, remember? But I won’t hold that against you if you want to change your mind. I haven’t forgotten how you got Tony off for me. There’s no statute of limitations, or whatever you call it, on my gratitude for that. Hell, he’s the only brother I’ve got. I never have understood why you’d take that and turn your back on some of the easy corporate stuff where you could really make yourself a bundle. But if you’ve changed your mind now, the offer still holds.”

“I haven’t changed my mind. I took Tony’s case because I knew he really was innocent. I knew the cops were just trying to get at you through him. If I’d thought he was guilty, I either would have pleaded him guilty, or withdrawn. Nothing’s changed. I still don’t want to get involved in your operation.”

“For a fellow who wants a favor you’re pretty holier-than-thou!” Carrera sounded hurt.

“Sorry. I just didn’t want you to misunderstand. I want this favor without any strings attached. If I can’t have it that way, then forget it and we’ll still be friends.”

“Of course you get it that way. I don’t do favors for friends with strings on them. Now just what is this favor you want?”

“I want you to arrange for cooperation with some of your cat-houses.” Frank went on to explain about the research project.

“Okay,” Carrera agreed after hearing Frank out. “It sounds screwy, but if that’s what you want, okay. I’ll give you a name and address. This is the man the brotherhood has running the joy district. You be there in an hour. Meanwhile I’ll call and 'set it up so he’ll cooperate with you. You can work out the details with him.”

“Right.” Frank took down the name and address Carrera gave him, thanked him and hung up the phone.

Exactly an hour later Frank and the Professor arrived at their destination by taxicab. It was a rather large house on the borderline between the Negro ghetto and the red-light district. In contrast to those around it, the house was well cared for, the grounds neatly landscaped and trimmed, the facade freshly painted. A light shone from behind the curtains of a ground-floor window and when they rang the bell the front door was opened quickly to admit them.

A tall, distinguished-looking Negro in his mid-forties ushered them inside. He was wearing a deep blue dressing gown—obviously expensive, but conservative-—and fur-lined carpet slippers. “I’m Hal Rockwell.” He introduced himself as he led the way to a front parlor.

Frank introduced himself and the Professor and Hal Rockwell shook hands with each of them in turn. “Sorry about its being so late,” Frank apologized.

“That’s all right. Carrera said I should help you any way I can. But first, would you gentlemen like a drink?”

“No thanks,” Frank told him. The Professor shook his head.

“Then I hope you’ll pardon me if I have a quick one. It’ll make me more alert.” Hal Rockwell poured three fingers of bourbon into a short glass. “Will you excuse me a minute? I just want to throw a few cubes in this. Can’t stand warm liquor.” He left them alone.

“I thought you said we’d be dealing with the Mafia?” The Professor was confused.

“That’s right. They run all the houses in Flintsburgh.”

“But Mr. Rockwell doesn’t look Italian.”

“Not hardly.”

“Still, isn’t his position with the-—ahh-Syndicate quite an important one?”

“Perhaps I can enlighten you, Professor.” Hal Rockwell was back and he didn’t bother to hide the fact that he’d overheard them.

“I didn’t mean to—-” The Professor was embarrassed.

“That’s all right. No offense meant, I’m sure, and none taken. You were wondering how it was that a Negro would hold such a high position in an organization known to be Sicilian. I understand that it must seem unusual to you and that you’re curious.”

“It’s really none of my business,” Professor Woocheck admitted.

“It’s really quite simple.” Rockwell ignored his demurrer. “The Mafia has integrated.”

“Integrated? Oh.” The Professor didn’t know what else to say.

“Yes.” Rockwell smiled politely, but without any particular warmth. “It really started with the Gallo brothers wanting to set an example.”

“The Gallo brothers?”

“They head a very important Mafia family in Brooklyn in New York City,” Frank explained to the Professor.

“That’s right,” Hal Rockwell continued. “Recently, you may remember, there was some interracial violence between the Italians and the Negroes and Puerto Ricans in the East New York section of Brooklyn. Mainly it boiled down to street gangs fighting over turf. The city administration enlisted the aid of the Gallos to help cool it. Their influence with the Italian street gangs was very high. They were very helpful in bringing about a truce. Only once they got involved it was sort of as if they’d made a commitment.”

“A commitment?”

“Yes. You know, almost like a social worker. They must have figured the Mafia should set a good example for the street gangs. Like if the Mafia was going to ask the neighborhoods to integrate peaceably, then it should lead the way. But then it wasn’t just the Gallos. All the heads of the families got together and decided it. I don’t know just how many Negroes have been taken into the brotherhood, but the eventual aim is to have them represented proportionate to the population. So you see, it isn’t tokenism.” Hal Rockwell grinned wryly. “Why, the day may even come when pizzerias serve chitlins and fried chicken and watermelon.”

“Very laudable,” the Professor had to agree. “First organized baseball, now organized—umm—now the Mafia. Why, at this rate, complete equality is just around the corner.”

“Which is better than having it move in right next door, hey?” Rockwell said sarcastically. “Pardon.” He held up his hand before the Professor could protest. “I’m afraid my cynicism busts through sometimes. Actually, I have nothing to complain about. The Mafia position is sincere. I mean, they might have just hired Negroes as gunsels, or numbers runners, and claimed they were integrated. But they didn’t just do that. They made a concerted effort to place them in executive positions. I’m fortunate enough to be one of the first. Oh, sure, some of those Black Power radicals sneer at me as an Uncle Tom and a front man for the white power structure. But they don’t realize what an important beginning this is. Mark my words, some day there will be a top Negro family in the brotherhood in a policy-making position.”

“Only in America!” Frank remarked.

“How right you are, paisan.” Hal Rockwell downed the last of his drink and set the glass down. “Well now, suppose we get down to business. From what Mr. Carrera told me, you want to make a deal for periodic bulk supply of the product. Now, I’m prepared to fulfill your needs as they arise and insure you a constant flow of goods. I’ll personallypass the word along so that you’ll only get prime stuff. You don’t have to worry about any venereals, or over-the-hills, or bad news types. Also, as per instructions, I’m going to keep the price way down for you. Now, how do you prefer to pay? Weekly? Monthly? By the gross?”

“‘Whatever’s convenient for you,” the Professor told him. “Only I wonder if it will be possible to pay by check—for tax purposes?”

“Negative. We can’t take the risk of having records. But why not have your accountant charge it off to equipment rental, or part-time help? We might be able to help you out with a receipt to cover something like that.”

“I’ll speak to him about it,” the Professor promised. “Thank you for the suggestion.”

“My pleasure. Now, I suppose we’d best be getting down to specifics. Will you be requiring any virgins? And if so, how many?”

“None at first,” the Professor said thoughtfully. “But if the need arises, will it be all right to contact you?”

“Sure. Anything special you want —Lesbos, sadists, masochists, trick acts-—just give me a ring. Now, as to the time, spacing and place of delivery . . .”

It was almost dawn by the time they worked all the details out and Frank and the Professor bid Hal Rockwell farewell and left his place. Out on the street it took a few minutes for them to find a cruising cab. The Professor dropped Frank off at his apartment and then went back to pick up his car where he’d left it at the beginning of his night of adventure. By the time he drove home, there was barely time to shave and change his clothes before returning to the lab to meet with Dr. Peerloin.

“Good morning.” Her greeting was frosty.

“Good morning, Doctor. You slept well, I trust.”

“I did. And you, Professor?”

“I didn’t get much sleep, I’m afraid. I was busy attending to that matter we discussed.”

“Oh.” She peered at him over the top of her glasses as if seeking evidences of depravity. “And did you accomplish anything?” Her voice, dripping icicles now, said very clearly that she would be satisfied — if not gratified—-only by a negative answer.

However, Dr. Peerloin was due to be disappointed. And Professor Woocheck was human enough to be just a bit smug about that. “I accomplished everything I set out to accomplish,” he told her. “I have made arrangements for the steady and continuous flow of a more than adequate subject population drawn from the ranks of professionals.”

“And just how did you manage that?” Dr. Peerloin asked through locked dentures.

“Experience,” the Professor told her airily. He reached over and condescendingly patted her hand. “It was really very simple for a man of experience.” She snatched her hand away. “Where are you going?” Professor Woocheck added as she started towards the door

“To wash my hands,” she told him haughtily. “To wash my hands!”

CHAPTER THREE

“Scientific exactitude combined with a desire not to alarm the public determined the nomenclature of the project premises: ‘VENUS BIO-EROTIC RESEARCH OBSERVATORY.” Eventually over one hundred skilled technicians, observers and carefully trained interviewers would be employed there. But the initial staff consisted of only two people in addition to the authors. Their dedication»during those early days enabled the study to be inaugurated while the authors were still busy formulating the over-all program. Thus we would now like to express gratitude to F. G. Newton, the project engineer responsible for setting up and operating the complex recording mechanisms used, and to Mercedes Bilkoo, who interviewed the initial subject volunteers and compiled the data used for selectivity and assignment. It was Miss Bilkoo who first noted the semantic difficulties of communicating with members of a societal sub-stratum having a parlance peculiar to its environs . . .”

Chapter One, Survey of Bio-Erotic

Behavior Patterns in Human Beings,

by Woocheck & Peerloin

“On the average, how much intercourse do you have during a seven-day period?” Mercy Bilkoo asked the overly made-up young woman sitting across from her.

“Gee, I dunno. Tell the truth, I’m not much of a one for talking.”

“I wasn’t referring to verbal intercourse.”

“I ain’t much for writing letters neither.”

Mercy took a deep breath and tried again. “Let me put it another way. How many men have carnal knowledge of you in the course of a week?”

“Most of them don’t ask no questions.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, they ain’t interested in getting no knowledge about me. Most times they just wanna screw and get along home.”

“But how many of them a week?” Mercy carefully kept the irritation she was feeling out of her voice.

“Oh! You mean like how many tricks do I turn! Why didn’t you say so? I guess maybe forty-fifty a week.”

“Forty to fifty over a seven-day period.” Mercy made a notation.

“Nope. Only six days.”

"Oh?"

“Yeah. Wednesdays I don’t work.”

“I see. Well, what do you do on Wednesdays?”

“Go to Confession. Haven’t missed a Wednesday night in four years,” the girl said proudly.

“And after that? How do you spend the rest of the evening?”

“Usually with Harold. He’s my steady.”

“He takes you out? Dinner and a movie? Dancing? Things like that?”

“Nah! You kidding? I just pick up a bottle and hightail it over to his place so’s we can shack up all night.”

“You mean after working at your—umm—profession all week you turn a trick with Harold on your night off?”

Mercy was proud of herself for having found an opportunity to use the expression so quickly. It would help establish rapport during the remainder of the interview.

Her pride was misplaced. The interviewee was indignant. “Whaddaya mean turn a trick with Harold? We never!”

“But didn’t you say—?”

“I said we shacked up. But that ain’t turnin’ no trick. He don’t pay. I’m really ape for Harold. We go all night long. But that ain’t no trick! What kinda girl you think I am anyways?”

“I’m sorry,” Mercy apologized hastily. “Believe me, I meant no offense. I just didn’t understand.”

“Yeah?” The girl looked skeptical. “Where you been all your life?”

“Much too sheltered, I’m afraid,” Mercy admitted candidly. “But I’m truly sorry. Now, if you’ll forgive me, let’s get on to the next question, shall we? From which socio-economic bracket do you draw your clientele?”

“Talk English, will ya!”

“I mean what sort of men take advantage of your services? Rich? Poor? Middle-class?”

“Oh. Well, mostly I get the guys offa the factory swing-shifts.”

“I see.” Mercy jotted down “working class” on the indicated space on her questionnaire. “Now I wonder if we can break down the type of erotic service they require of you? Oral? Anal? Masturbatory? Sadistic? Masochistic? Voyeuristic? I mean as pre-coital techniques, or as sources of satisfaction in and of themselves.”

“Huh?”

“Sorry. I guess I’m going too fast. Let’s take it one at a time. Do many of your customers request fellatio?”

“Nah. They don’t dig that long-hair stuff. Sinatra’s their speed. But I once had this guy was hipped on it. Used to play it all the time while we was makin’ it.”

“Play what all the time?” Mercy was bewildered.

“Fidelio. The Beethoven thing. Alla time them trumpets blarin’ an’ him poundin’ away.”

“Not Fidelio,” Mercy told her patiently. “Fellatio.”

“Who’s he?”

“It’s not a ‘he’; it’s an act.”

“I guess I never caught it.”

“No, no. A sex act.” Her professional demeanor ruffled, Mercy couldn’t help blushing as she explained exactly what the term meant.

“Oh, sure,” the prostitute said when Mercy had finished explaining. “Lotsa guys dig that ’cause they can’t get it at home. So I give ’em what they want. Why not? It’s natural they should want a change.”

“Sees oral moral,” Mercy jotted down in the shorthand she would later translate. “What about anal relations?” she asked aloud.

“I don’t getcha.”

Again Mercy explained.

“Oh. Yeah. Once in a while. But not too often. I try to steer ’em off it ’cause it always gives me the hiccups. Now how do you figure that? I asked the doc about it once, but he couldn’t explain it. Anyways, like it’s a drag. Boring, know what I mean?”

“Anal banal,” Mercy jotted down. “Do you use many masturbatory techniques?” she asked. She quickly explained what she meant.

“Nah. No hands. They dig that, whadda they need me at ten bucks a flop for?”

Mercy quickly covered the rest of the list and went on to the next series of questions. “What techniques do you employ if the client is impotent?”

“I treat ’em all the same no matter what kinda big-shots they are!” the girl replied, motivated by an innate instinct for democracy . . .

By the time the interview was over and the girl had left, Mercy was nursing a dull headache. She was leaning back and kneading her temples with the tips of her fingers when “Fig” Newton stuck his head into the interview room.

“You look harassed,” he observed.

“Just feeling the effects of man’s inability to communicate with man,” Mercy answered. “Or, rather, woman, as happens to be the case. Not that the gender engenders any noticeable improvement.”

“You’re even beginning to talk like Peerloin,” “Fig” told her. “But you’re not the only one with problems.”

“So tell me yours. Maybe it’ll take my mind off mine.”

“I don’t know where to start. Just when I was congratulating myself on solving the problem of how to get micromeasures of the increase in penile circumference at the coronal ridge in total darkness—during both the excitement and plateau phases, mind you—-Woocheck springs another lulu on me.”

“Wait a minute. One at a time. Why do you have to get the measurements in total darkness?”

“Woocheck wants to measure the diflerence in tumescence between when a man is visually stimulated and when the visual stimulation is lacking. I’ve got a photographic measuring device that gives us an accurate measurement based on light refraction from the coronal ridge of the penis, but it’s too delicate to work in the dark. I spent half the day trying it out with infra-red rays, but no go.”

“How could you test it out?” Mercy wondered. “You don’t have a male subject.”

“I experimented on myself.”

“Now that’s what I call dedication to research. But how did you manage to--?”

“I thought of you all the time, baby.” “Fig” leered.

“Skip it.” Mercy was used to his verbal passes. “If infra-red didn’t work, how did you solve the problem?”

“Phosphorescent paint!” “Fig” was triumphant. “We coat the area in advance. It glows in the dark and my gismo picks up the light refraction the same as if it was lit up like a Christmas tree.”

“Now wait a minute.” Mercy was concerned. “Dr. Peerloin is going to want to know what psychological effects this is likely to have on the female subject. It might be frightening. A disembodied male organ coming at a girl in the dark like that.”

“You’re projecting,” “Fig” accused her.

“Maybe I am. But then look at it the other way. It’s so bizarre that it might heighten her excitement phase, or even extend her plateau phase. It could throw all our calculations off.”

“You’re still projecting!”

“I am not!” Mercy was indignant. “I’m just looking at it scientifically.”

“Well, stop looking. You’ll get warts on your eyelids. Anyway, that’s not what’s bugging me now. Woocheck’s come up with a new one that makes that seem like duck soup by comparison. He wants to measure the contractions of the male’s rectal sphincter during the orgasmic phase.”

“Well, that shouldn’t be so tough. Can’t you rig up a small measuring device—a transistor recorder, or something—-that could be inserted prior to the pre-coital phase?”

“Yeah. Except for one thing. Woocheck wants to measure any differences in sphincter response during coitus in the whole gamut of positions. My problem is that every gadget I’ve devised has to protrude a little. Put the male’s weight on it—not to mention the female’s—and what you’ll have is one bed-rabbit all ready for barbecuing. He’ll impale himself!”

“Oh. Well, that is a problem. But you’ll think of something, Fig. Why don’t you just sleep on it.”

“I’d a damn sight rather sleep on your snowy, pillow-like mammaries.”

“Sorry. I’m taking my mammaries home and putting them to bed.”

“Maybe they’d like some company,” he suggested.

“Nope. They keep each other company, thank you. And they need their rest. I’m going to have a busy day tomorrow.”

“What’s up?”

“Going out into the field. I think maybe I can establish more rapport if I meet with the interviewees on their own home grounds. Anyway, I’m going to give it a try.”

'“Well, rotsa ruck.”

“Thanks. I may need it.”

Just how much luck she did need was something Mercy found out the next day. It was mid-morning when she arrived at the downtown brownstone to keep her first appointment. Two flights up she found the door she was seeking, and knocked.

The man who answered was young, barefoot and tan of cheek. He wore very tight chinos and a white T-shirt that bragged about his muscles. He had a lot of them and they seemed to be constantly rippling intimidatingly. His hair was jet-black, straight and rather long. His face was square-cut, clean-cut and cut by a razor while shaving that morning. The cut was covered by a white Band-aid which called attention to the deep tan around it. It was almost as white as his teeth, which were large, even, and formed into a perpetually capped smile. His eyes crinkled with the smile. They were black and flashing and slashed the clothes from Mercy’s body as he greeted her. “Hello there.” His voice was syrupy Tchaikowsky. “Been expecting you. Come on in.”

Mercy entered and he closed the door behind her.

“Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Take off your shoes.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Take off your shoes. Mine are off. See?” He held one foot out towards Mercy and wiggled the toes. “Lets the sole breathe. Go on. Try it.”

“No thank you,” Mercy declined. “Umm, I’m here to see Bunny Dawson. I think she was expecting me.”

“She who?”

“What?”

“Who she?”

“I don’t think I—” Mercy was confused.

“What she?” He explained. “Bunny Dawson’s a he. Me. I’m Bunny Dawson.”

“Oh.” Mercy’s brain whirred to make the adjustment.

“Oh! But I was expecting-—-”

“I know what you’re expecting, lady. Lots of women come up here. Don’t be afraid. They all go away satisfied. Now why don’t you just relax and take off your shoes.”

“I don’t feel like taking off my shoes.”

“Oh.” He considered it. “Well, they wouldn’t hold much anyway. You have pretty small feet, you know. Nice and small and delicate. Patrician. Like royalty.”

“Wouldn’t hold much?”

“Your shoes I mean.”

“Wouldn’t hold much what?”

“Champagne of course. What else would I be drinking from a 1ady’s slipper?”

“It’s not a slipper. It’s an Oxford. Very sturdy. And why on earth would you want to drink champagne out of it?”

“Part of the service. Romantic, you know. But I can see you’re past such foolishness. So be it. Let’s get down to business.” He crossed over to her, pulled her to her feet, caught her in the vise of his arms and started to kiss her.

“No! Wait!” Somehow Mercy managed to push him away.

“All right.” Bunny backed off, obedient, but puzzled.

“Didn’t they tell you why I was coming and who I am?” Mercy asked breathlessly.

“That wouldn’t be ethical. They never give out any personal information about clients.”

“But I’m not a client,” Mercy protested. “I’m here to interview you prior to your participation in a special project being run by the Venus Bio-Erotic Research Observatory. Didn’t they tell you that?”

“No.” Bunny shook his head. “They just said this lady was coming and I should cooperate with whatever she wanted. You mean you don’t want to love it up?”

“I most certainly do not!” Mercy smoothed the jacket to the suit she was wearing. “I just want to get some preliminary data. I have some questions here to ask you.” She took some forms out of her briefcase, sat down and spread them out on her knees. “They’re rather intimate in nature,” she explained. “I hope you won’t mind.”

“Everybody gets their kicks different ways.” Bunny shrugged. “Shoot.”

“Very well. Now, how long have you been engaged in your present occupation?”

“I’ve been a stud about four years.”

" ‘A stud’? Oh, I see. And what is your age?”

Bunny answered that question and the ones which followed with an increasing air of boredom. Mercy’s cool professionalism and noncommittal attitude obviously annoyed him. He wasn’t used to women being indifferent to his charms. Something told him she wasn’t as indifferent as she seemed. Then came the question which opened the way for him to put this feeling to the test.

“All previous studies have shown us that the female is capable of more sustained and repetitive release,” Mercy told him. “This being so, we’re anxious to determine how a male functions as a prostitute. How does he contrive to meet the demands made of him? In other words, how do you provide satisfaction if you’re faced with three or four female customers in a row?”

“That’s no problem. I just do it. That’s all.”

“But physiologically you can’t fake the way a female prostitute can. How do you summon up the necessary tumescence?”

“The necessary what?”

Mercy explained.

“Oh.” Bunny grinned. “I never have any problem that way. It does what I tell it.”

“Well, let’s try and break it down. How long would you say it takes to achieve tumescence the first time you’re called upon to render your services?”

“No time at all. Nor the second, third or fourth times. I just snap my fingers and I’m ready for business.” Bunny snapped his fingers.

“I see!”

“You’ve dropped your papers. Here, let me help you pick them up.” Bunny stood up, which put the topic under discussion on a level with Mercy’s eyes.

“No! No, that’s all right. I’ve got them.” Mercy averted her eyes and scrambled about to pick up the papers. Bunny was still standing across from her when she’d finished. She couldn’t stop her eyes from refocusing on the impressive bulge stretching the chinos. “Please sit down,” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Sure.” Bunny sprawled in a chair and the chino material reformed into a pyramid. “This doesn’t bother you, does it?” he asked maliciously.

“Not at all!” Mercy snapped. “Let’s get on with the interview.”

“Okay.” The pyramid nodded to Mercy.

“You seem to have remarkable muscular control,” she said shakily. “Can you explain how you were able to condition the penile reflexes?”

“Practice, lady, practice!” The tip of the pyramid described a neat, wide circle.

“What-—” Mercy’s voice came out in a high squeak.

She brought it under control. “What stimulus—mental, I mean—do you use to maintain a state of excitation?”

“At the moment, lady, you.” Bunny leered.

“You fantasize what you are going to do with your partner before you do it and this helps maintain tumescence?” Mercy proceeded desperately.

“You must be reading my mind!” Bunny rolled his eyes.

“Is there any strain or pain connected with maintaining prolonged tumescence without release?”

“Well, now, at the moment there is a sort of rubbing friction which is very, very irritating. But I can relieve that.” Bunny’s hand traveled quickly to the zipper of the chinos. As it moved away there was an audible twanging sound and the imposing tool of his trade sprang into view.

“Oh, my!” Mercy jumped to her feet and backed away, shedding her papers like moulting feathers as she retreated.

“Oh your what?” Bunny asked smugly.

“I—I--I--” Mercy turned and bolted for the door.

“Another appointment,” she stammered hysterically over her shoulder. “I just remembered. You’ll be contacted to finish the interview. Thank you for your cooperation.” The door slammed behind her.

“ ‘Thank you for your cooperation’!” Bunny snorted and snapped his fingers. “Now what did you want to frighten the lady like that for?” He zipped up his zipper. “The more they want it, the easier they panic!”

Mercy went through the rest of the day’s interviews in a daze. That night she took two sleeping pills before retiring. They put her body to sleep, but her mind remained active. All night long she dreamed about what she’d seen so briefly. When she woke up in the morning, she still felt as if she was on fire.

A cold shower quenched the flames, but not the embers. They were still glowing uncomfortably when she arrived at the laboratory. She passed “Fig” Newton in the hall and greeted him. He didn’t return the greeting. He was muttering to himself incoherently and seemed not to see her. Momentarily Mercy wondered what was bothering him. Then she shrugged it off; she had her own problems.

So did “Fig.” And the particular one concerning him at the moment seemed overwhelming. Partly because he was exhausted. But then his exhaustion was a direct result of the problem itself.

“We must, of course, devise some means of keeping a constant check on the sensitivity and reactions of the female’s erogenous zones,” Professor Woocheck had remarked to “Fig” as they were leaving the laboratory together the previous evening.

“Sure,” he had agreed. “But just where are the erogenous zones?”

“Oops! I forgot to wash my hands.” The Professor had scooted back into the building and left “Fig” standing on the sidewalk. “Don’t bother waiting,” he called as he went. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

The question had stayed with “Fig” during the evening. It was still with him when he climbed into bed. His preoccupation with it was obvious.

“Hey,” Gloria asked, “remember me? You just going to lie there and stare into space?”

“Sorry.” “Fig” returned his attention to the voluptuous redhead. “Its just that this problem Woocheck brought up tonight is bugging me.”

“Never bring the office home with you,” Gloria crooned, running her fingers over his body.

“I don’t work in an office.”

“The lab then. Never mix business with pleasure.” Her red hair tickled his chest as she snuggled up to him.

“In my line the two are inextricably entwined,” he pointed out. He caught the lobe of her ear between two fingers and played with it. “Is that an erogenous zone?” he inquired.

“Is that a what?”

“Does that excite you?” He rephrased the question.

“Ummm. Yes indeedy. It makes me tingle all over.” She dug her nails into his shoulder.

“How about this?” “Fig” stroked her neck.

“Oh, yes.” She responded by biting his shoulder.

“And this?” “Fig” squeezed her left breast.

“Yes-yes-yes!” Gloria exclaimed, writhing,

“How about this one?” He switched to her right breast.

“Ooh-ooh-ooh!”

“Which is the more stimulating?” He switched back.

“Oh-oh-oh! I don’t know. Both the same, I guess.”

“How does this make you feel?” He stroked the inner surface of her thigh.

“Like I can’t wait! Stop teasing me! Come on, darling! Hurry up! Now-now-now!”

“Fig” complied.

A half-hour later he snuffed out his cigarette and caressed the left globe of her derriere. “Does this have any effect?” he wanted to know.

“Yes-yes-yes! Again, darling! Do it again!”

“Fig” did it again.

An hour or so after that he crawled down to the foot of the bed and tickled the soles of her feet. “Is that sexy?” he asked.

“I’ll say! Are you ready? Are you? Are you?”

And so “Fig” had passed the night. Now it was morning and he was exhausted. Somehow he’d managed to drag himself into the lab. Wearily, he trudged down the hallway to Professor Woocheck’s office. The Professor looked up questioningly as he entered.

“About the excitability of the erogenous zones -” “Fig” began.

“Ah, yes. It will be necessary to pinpoint them as you suggested. Now I wonder which particular areas -?”

“No particular areas,” “Fig” interrupted.

“Pardon?”

“They’re all over.”

“I don’t think I--”

“The human female’s body is one mass erogenous zone!”

“But all the available evidence on the subject indicates-—”

“Scrap it! Believe me, I know!”

“But how could you know?” The Professor asked logically.

“Never mind. I know, I tell you. I know! I know! I know!” “Fig’s” voice rose hysterically.

“There, there. Calm yourself. You’ve been working too hard Mr. Newton. You need some rest.”

“You’re right.” “Fig” got hold of himself.

“Take the rest of the day off. Go home. Get some sleep.”

“Okay. I will.”

But when “Fig” woke up in the early evening, the problem still weighed heavily on him. If the entire female body was an erogenous zone, then it must be broken down into specific areas to measure the effects of stimulation during pre-coital activity. But how?

It was only after Gloria arrived later that night that the glimmering of an answer began to come to “Fig.” He was watching her apply her lipstick when the inspiration came.

“Eureka!” He snapped his fingers.

“Are you all right?” She looked at him anxiously. .

“Fine-fine-fine!” He grabbed the lipstick out of her hand. “Take off your dress!” he commanded.

“I thought we were going out.”

“I changed my mind. Go on. Take off your dress.”

“Oh, darling, you’re such an impulsive little boy sometimes,” the redhead murmured.

“Now your slip. Hurry up!”

“My! You are impatient.”

“Good. Now lie down on your back.”

“Ooh! I love it when you’re like this. So masterful! Like a caveman.” Gloria stretched out on the couch.

“Fig” knelt beside her, pushed her panties halfway down and drew a series of vertical lines on her midriff with the lipstick.

“Hey! That tickles!”

He ignored her and crisscrossed the vertical lines with several horizontal lines so that a series of boxes was formed. Then he leaned back, rocked on his knees and studied the area.

“What the he-—!”

“Shush!” He cut.G1oria off with a wave of his hand. “I’m thinking. Don’t distract me!”

Obediently, she was quiet. Time dragged by. Bored, Gloria picked up the lipstick from the side of the couch where “Fig” had set it down. Idly, she drew a circle in one of the boxes on her midriff. She put the lipstick down. Abstractedly, “Fig” picked it up. He was still concentrating intently on the problem. Unthinkingly, he drew an X in a box adjacent to the one in which Gloria had inscribed a circle.

Gloria took the lipstick from him, etched another circle and handed it back to him. When he’d drawn another X, she took it from him again. The exchange was repeated a few times. Then Gloria drew one final circle and clapped her hands triumphantly. “I win!” she crowed.

“Shut up!” “Fig” stared at the scarlet tick-tack-toe on her belly. “That’s it!” he exclaimed. “Don’t say anything! I think I’m getting it! Yeah! I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”

“Got what?” Gloria wanted to know. “Will you please tell me--”

“Super-imposed radar patterns with a crisscross scanner!” “Fig” was jubilant.

“Will you please explain-—-”

“Fig” explained.

He repeated the explanation to Professor Woocheck the following morning. “The body is divided up into small squares,” he told the Professor. “A different radar pattern is imposed on each square. The screen is crisscrossed and whenever there’s an erotic reaction in any of the zones, a little green blip will pinpoint it. The blip will expand and contract according to the intensity of the reaction. We can photograph the screen and study the erotic waves at our leisure. If there’s any pattern to the erogenous zones, we’ll be able to pinpoint it and measure its significance. And the best part is that the initial crisscrossing of the female body can be done with invisible radar waves from about four projectors. The subject won’t even be aware of them!”

Jubilation had “Fig” shouting now. His voice carried down the hall to the interview room where Mercy was sitting across the table from a very young prostitute named Lana. Mercy frowned and got up and closed the door, shutting off the sound of “Fig’s” voice.

“You were telling me how you happened to get started in your profession,” she prompted Lana as she returned to her seat.

“Yes, ma’am. Well, after the bank foreclosed, there wasn’t anything Daddy could do but take us to the city and move in with my uncle and aunt.”

“How old were you then?”

“Eleven, ma’am. I remember ’cause I just became a woman, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean. Go on.”

“Well, Daddy’s leprosy got worse around then and it was right clear he wasn’t going to last long. He couldn’t work, and my uncle was talking how he was going to put us out, so there wasn’t nothing to do but for Maw to go out to work.”

“What sort of work did your mother do?”

“She got took on as a scrublady. It didn’t pay much, but it was nights and that left her free to clean the house in the daytime. That was the only reason my aunt agreed to let us stay there, her cleaning the house.”

“How awful for your mother,” Mercy clucked. “The poor woman.”

“Yeah. She worked like a dog all right. Anyway, Daddy died and right after that things really got bad. For me, anyway.”

“Bad how?”

“Well, I was developing real good and early, you know. And my uncle, he took notice. One night just a few days after Daddy’s funeral, with Maw out working, and my aunt I don’t know where, he cornered me in the cellar and busted me.”

“You mean he raped you?”

“Yeah. And that wasn’t the only time either. He used to grab me once, twice a week, just pull up my skirt and do it with my clothes on, you know. Rough too. He hurt me. It went on like that for about a year.”

“Why didn’t you tell your mother?”

“I figured she had enough troubles. She was mighty poorly and I could tell she was on her way out just like Daddy. The night she was lying there dying, my uncle, he made me do it with my mouth—you know—-down the cellar.”

“That’s disgusting! That’s awful! You poor child!” Mercy’s professional composure vanished in an outpouring off sympathy. Finally she fought back her tears, blew her nose and nodded for Lana to continue.

“Well, soon as Maw was gone, I figured there was no percentage hanging around and giving it away to my uncle and cleaning their house for them. I mean, all my aunt wanted was a maid, and all my uncle wanted was to keep busting me. So I just took off. Only thing I felt bad about was Bobby.”

“Bobby?”

“My kid brother. I’ll tell you about him in a little. Anyway, I just left with the clothes on my back, nothing else.”

“Where did you go?”

“The street. Where else?”

“What did you do? How did you live?”

“I picked up men. Charged them half a buck, plus they had to pay for the room. If I was lucky, they’d just do it once and leave. That way I’d have a room to sleep in for the night. What a jerk I was! I was practic’ly giving it away. Not only that, but I was taking an awful chance, too.”

“What kind of a chance?”

“Undercutting all the other girls on the street that way. I’m lucky they didn’t cut me up and put me out of commission. Or when they complained to the Syndicate; I’m lucky the bosses didn’t just have me dropped in the river.”

“What did happen?”

“Oh, they were real nice about it. A fella came around and explained the economics of the situation to me. He let me know how the Syndicate couldn’t afford to have freelancers coming around and price-cutting and how the next time I did it, the cops would pick me up and put me away for a long time. I saw his point all right. And I was damn glad to say yes when he asked me if I’d like to work for them. The very next night I moved into a house.”

“You mean a bordello?”

“Yeah. A cat-house. And don’t let anybody tell you a house ain’t a home. That house is the only home I ever knew. Six years I been there, and it’s still home to me.”

“But you’re grown up now, Lana. You , know what you’re doing. You must have some money saved. You could get out, start over. It’s not too late,” Mercy told her earnestly. “You’re still young.”

“Yeah. But I can’t quit now. On accounta my kid brother Bobby, see?”

“Your brother? What does he have to do with it?”

“I’m putting him through medical school. He’s a fine straight upstanding kid. Smart as a whip.”

“He must be.” Mercy did some rapid figuring. “Isn’t he a little young to be in medical school?” she asked. “I mean, if he’s younger than you are—?”

“Oh, it’s not really med school. Not yet. It’s pre-med. He’s got a long way to go. That’s why I gotta keep turning tricks.”

“But surely if he knew of the sacrifice you're making-—”

“Oh, I’d die if he ever found out about what I really do. He thinks I’m a hat designer for a fancy firm. See, he’s out of town, and I had this phoney stationery made up so he’ll never know. He’s gonna have all the breaks. I’ll see to that. But he mustn’t ever find out about me!”

“You’re a very noble girl,” Mercy told her sincerely. She couldn’t help it; Lana’s story had her all choked up. Before she could bring herself to continue, the telephone rang. “Miss Bilkoo here,” Mercy answered it.

“Mercy, this is Dr. Peerloin. Will you come into my office, please?”

“I’m right in the middle of an interview, Dr. Peerloin.”

“I know. But this is important. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to break it off.”

“All right.” Mercy hung up and made an excuse to Lana. Then she went down the hallway and knocked at the door to Dr. Peerloin’s office.

“Come in.”

Mercy entered.

“Hello, Mercy. Sit down. This is Mrs. -”

“Miss!” The rather blowzy, middle-aged woman sitting across the desk from Dr. Peerloin corrected her. “And never mind the name. Like they say, no names please.”

“Of course.” Dr. Peerloin took the implied rebuke in her stride. “It seems that there’s been an error in the initial selectivity of the subject population,” she told Mercy. “This lady will explain.”

“It’s that Lana!” the woman said huffily. “I never figured when I sent her here, or I never would have.”

“Are you Lana’s employer?” Mercy asked.

“Yeah. She works for me all right. But I never woulda sent her if I’d know’d. Mr. Rockwell would skin me alive. He was real firm on the girls to send you and what kind not to.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Mercy said. “What’s the trouble with Lana? I haven’t completed the interview, but she seems a qualified subject volunteer for the project.”

“Nix! I can’t let you use her. She’s got the-—” The woman clapped her hands twice.

“She means that this girl has contracted a venereal disease,” Dr. Peerloin translated for Mercy.

“Oh, no! Oh, the poor child!” Mercy was distraught. “On top of everything else!”

“Huh?” The woman looked puzzled.

“I mean the awful life she’s had—-and is still having. I know it’s outside of my scientific prerogative, but I just have to say that I think an effort should be made to help that girl give up the life of la prostitute. Common humanity -”

“Lana quit the life? You gotta be kidding, lady. She’s a whore what loves her work if there ever was one!”

“She just doesn’t know any better.” Mercy defended Lana. “How could she? The awful things that have happened to her! The brutality of her childhood. The poverty. The—”

“Whoa!” The woman held up her hand. “What are you talking about, honey? You trying to make out like Lana had a crummy, cruddy environment or something?”

“Well, didn’t she?”

“You social workers are all the same.” The woman shook her head sadly.

“I’m not a social worker. It’s true that environmental science plays a part in my work, but—”

“But me no buts. There just ain’t no way to make a childhood hardship case outa Lana.”

“What do you mean? The bank foreclosing on her; father’s farm, and then his dying—-”

“Where did you ever get that? Lana never lived on no farm. And her father isn’t no farmer. He’s a stockbroker. From what I hear, he’s damn successful at it too.”

“But -” Mercy’s jaw hung open. “Didn’t her mother work as a scrubwoman?” she asked weakly.

“You kiddin’? Her mother’s a big clubwoman, head the local League of Woman Voters, or something. The only time she ever gets on her knees is to pray her kids don’t get the family name in the papers.”

“Her kid brother?” Mercy grasped at the straw. “Isn’t she working to keep him in pre-med school?”

“Reform school, you mean. He’s upstate doing three-to-five for car theft.”

“But I don’t understand. If her family’s well off, why is she a prostitute? Oh!” Mercy remembered. “It must be because her uncle raped her.”

“What uncle? Oh, never mind. Whoever he is, he wouldn’t have had to rape Lana. That kid’s been a flaming nympho since she was eleven years old. She was thrown outa three high schools for’ settin’ herself up for gang-shags during school hours. Her parents only kicked her out after her third abortion. You think it’s any hardship for Lana to be a pro, you’re outa your cotton-picking gray cells. That girl loves her work like nobody I ever met. She prob’ly picked up her dose moonlighting. If she wasn’t a pro, she’d be knocking guys over to give it away. I seen her take on ten drunk Legionnaires and come up beggin’ for more.”

“But-— But--” Mercy’s voice almost failed her. “Why did she tell me all those things?”

“Did you maybe ask her how a nice girl like her happened to get into the life?” the madam guessed.

“Well, yes—”

“Then there’s your answer. Two outa three guys spend time with a girl ask that question. So they all cook up a heartrending answer that’ll maybe squeeze a nice, juicy tip outa the mark. Lana just gave you her stock story.”

“It’s all right, Mercy.” Dr. Peerloin’s voice was kindly, almost motherly, as she looked at her crestfallen assistant.

“We’ll run a cross-check on the background material you’ve been compiling. Don’t worry about it.”

Mercy didn’t worry. What was past was past. But in the interviews she conducted after that, she guarded carefully against her gullibility. She learned to recognize when she was being put on; she learned how to let the subject know she knew and to extract the truth.

It was about three weeks later that she completed the last of the initial set of interviews. The following morning Professor Woocheck called a staff meeting. It was attended by personnel which had swelled from the original foursome to two dozen. More would be added as the project proceeded. Professor Woocheck called on “Fig” Newton to address the meeting first.

“The Brain is ready,” he announced dramatically.

“The Brain?” one of the new staff members asked.

“Yes.” Professor Woocheck started to explain. “The giant computer which will correlate and evaluate all the data we compile as the project goes along. It—”

“It’s fantastic!” “Fig” interrupted. “There are over one million transistors built into it. It could retain the entire Carnegie Library in its memory banks and all the books in the British Museum to boot. It’s been tested and retested, checked and rechecked. And now it’s ready to perform its first task!”

“What will that be?” another of the newcomers wondered.

“We will feed the interview information compiled by Miss Bilkoo into the computer,” Dr. Peerloin explained “And from this it will select the first two subjects to be matched. We’ll contact them and arrange to have them here tomorrow morning.”

“This is a memorable moment in the history of science,” Professor Woocheck added. “The very first survey of bio-erotic behavior patterns in human beings about to begin!”

A subdued murmur of awe swept over the group.

“But where,” “Fig” Newton muttered to himself when it subsided, “will it all end?”

CHAPTER FOUR

“Phase One of the Survey, utilizing prostitute subjects exclusively, lasted approximately three months. At the end of that period, such exclusivity was brought into question by evidence which seemed to indicate either developed or innate differences between the prostitute population and the population as a whole. Such discrepancies, we suspected, might be both anatomical (later evidence bore out the pathological variance of the reproductive organs of prostitutes as opposed to non-prostitutes) and in the area of performance (this too was later borne out as regards erotic longevity and techniques of stimulus). Thus it was decided to inaugurate Phase Two utilizing volunteer married couples. However, during Phase Two, evidence came to the investigators’ attention which indicated that our subject population still did not constitute a wide enough baseline to establish standards of anatomic normalcy . . .”

Chapter Two, Survey of Bio-Erotic

Behavior Patterns in Human Beings,

by Woocheck & Peerloin

Professor Woocheck pressed the button signaling the projectionist and a moment later the screening room of the Venus Bio-Erotic Research Observatory was darkened. Instinctively, “Fig” Newton edged closer to Mercy. Instinctively, she edged away from him towards Dr. Peerloin on her other side. A moment later the case number and date of the filmed “experiment” they were about to see appeared on the screen. It was replaced by a Technicolor shot of a small room with a bed and various apparatus arranged around the walls. The clinical feel of the room was relieved by the voluptuous appearance of the girl in the bed. She was wearing la transparent gold nightgown. She looked up as a man in pajamas entered and greeted her.

“Hi, Rosie. I didn’t know you were slated for today Long time no see.”

“Oh, hi, Al. Yeah. What was it, six months ago we worked together last? That job for that Argentine porny peddler, wasn’t it?”

“Right. Boy, that was a pistol, that one was. All those retakes! I was sore for a week.”

“You’re telling me.” Rosie chuckled. “I had to cancel two high-price steadies. And how I ever cursed you! Thought I’d never get back on my back again!”

“Yeah. Well, I guess we better get to work. You want me to come in the door again so you can scream?”

“Nah. What is this, your first time here, Al?"

“That’s right. I’m only doing it as a favor to Rockwell; The pay is peanuts.”

“It’s all for science,” Rosie told him. “I been at it since they started. About three months. Anyway, you don't have to do any acting. No phoney screams and rapes and all that. What they want today is straight stuff in the four basic positions.”

“Okay. By the way, where’s the camera? I always like to keep my right side to it if I can. The profile’s better.”

“Forget it. They got cameras all over the place. Hidden. And these pix aren’t for release. So don’t be vain. Just do your stuff.”

“I’m ready.” Al pulled off his pajamas.

“Man-oh-man!” Rosie sighed. “You haven’t gotten any smaller, have you? Take it easy, huh? I have a convention party tonight.”

“I’ll be gentle as a 1amb.”

“Yeah. An Oriental lamb.”

“Huh?”

“A ram! All right, let’s go.”

Al pushed her nightgown up over her hips and clambered over her. A moment later their bodies were moving together rhythmically. They bounced awhile and then Al changed the rhythm, rotating his hips. Rosie responded with her own rotary motion.

“You catch that TV special on NBC last night?” Al asked casually.

“No.” Rosie turned slightly on her side and the camera zoomed in for a close-up of the whirling juncture of their bodies. “What was it about?”

“Teen-age morals. I tell you, these kids today--” Al let his arms drop and grabbed the side of the bed for leverage. His body rose high in the air and came down hard. He repeated the movement three times. “That too rough?” he asked.

“A little to the left. You’re off-center.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Al shifted position, then lunged again. “Better?”

“Yes. That’s fine.”

“Good.” He kept at it with the vigor of a man used to doing push-ups. “Anyway,” he resumed, “I. tell you these kids today got no shame. I ever admitted kissing and petting with a girl the way some of them they interviewed did, my old man would have knocked my block off.”

“Yeah. Kids got no respect for anything today,” Rosie agreed.“I’m ready when you are,” she added.

“Now?”

“Now.”

“According to our instruments it measured almost half an ounce,” “Fig” whispered to Mercy.

“Remarkable,” she replied. “And look! It doesn’t seem to have lessened tumescence at all.”

“Kind of exciting, hey?” “Fig” moved closer.

“Not at all.” Mercy moved further away. “I only mentioned it as a scientific fact.” Pointedly, she returned her attention to the screen.

Al was flat on his back now. Rosie straddled him on her knees, rose up and then lowered herself gently.

“Okay?” she asked.

“Like a glove.” Al rocked gently from side to side. “Say, Al, you know anything about cars?” she asked as she rocked with him.

“A little. Why?” He gripped her buttocks and speeded up the rocking motion.

“I’m in the market for one. I can’t make up my mind between a Volks and a Buick Special.”

“Buick’ll give you a better ride.” Al shifted gears and turned the rocking motion into a side-thrust-back, side-thrust-back movement. “But you’ll get better mileage out of the Volks.”

“Yeah. That’s what everybody tells me. I just can’t make up my mind.” Rosie stopped moving, then began slowly lifting up and down on her haunches.

“Let’s hurry it up, huh?” Al glanced at the small clock on the nightstand beside the bed. “I got a date to play pool.”

“Okay. Now?”

“Check.”

There was a close-up from behind Rosie as she bent forward to match Al’s timing.

“Remarkable control,” Professor Woocheck observed.

“Yes.” Dr. Peerloin agreed. “We’ll have to run it again and stop the camera at this point. You’ll want to observe the learned reflexes of the vaginal muscles.”

“You’re right,” Professor Woocheck told her. “I think we’ve seen enough for now anyway. The points I wished to call to everybody’s attention have been amply demonstrated.” He pushed the button signaling the projectionist, and the film ground to a halt. Then the screen went blank and the lights went on again. “We have reached the point where we must make certain evaluations concerning our subject population,” Professor Woocheck told the others.

“I think we all agree with that,” Dr. Peerloin chimed in. “After three months I think we can say that we’ve arrived at certain general conclusions which must be taken into consideration where the future of the project is concerned. I, for one, have increasing doubt as to whether we can justify saying that what has been atypical of our prostitute subjects sexually can validly be extrapolated to apply to the general population.”

“I’m sure we all have those doubts,” Professor Woocheck said. “That’s why we should, in a general way, try to break down just what we have learned. Now, on the positive side, our prostitute subjects have demonstrated many techniques which may prove helpful in cases of male impotency and female frigidity. They have been able to perform under laboratory conditions without undue psychological strain. In laying the foundation for our work—I can’t imagine what you find so amusing, Mr. Newton — their cooperation has been invaluable. However, we must also consider the negative aspects of that cooperation.”

“The negative quality which most strikes me is their lack of emotional involvement,” Mercy pointed out. “The film we’ve just run is typical of what we’ve seen happen‘ again and again. Sex is simply a job to be done to these people. We have as yet no concrete evidence to support this, but my guess is that this is uncommon among the population as a whole. I don’t think ordinary people separate the emotional and the physical during sexual activity the way our prostitute subjects have.”

“Are you talking from personal experience?” “Fig” wondered. He was ignored.

“From my own previous researches in Peru and elsewhere, I think Mercy is right.” Dr. Peerloin backed up her assistant. “The more highly developed the civilization, the more emotional involvement in the sex act. But prostitutes, of course, would be an exception to this.”

“I suspect physiological discrepancies as well,” Professor Woocheck said. “Particularly in the male. Both size and ability to sustain the erection may well be beyond the powers of the non-prostitute male.”

“Thank goodness,” “Fig” said. “I was beginning to get an inferiority complex. Back in college we used to call it the ‘Locker Room Syndrome.’ ”

“It would be interesting to determine,” Professor Woocheck continued, “whether this superior sexuality is due solely to the development of professional expertise, or if-—as with other professions—-our prostitute subjects chose their profession because of some innate talent or inborn physical characteristic of size and musculature. But right now that doesn’t fall within the scope of our project.”

“What you’ve just said about the male,” Dr. Peerloin remarked, “also applies to the female. Not only is the prostitute’s technique superior, but also her control over her reactions during coitus. Sociologically, this is very interesting. It may be one reason why men go to prostitutes. Her superior muscular control and sense of timing heighten the male’s enjoyment. However, the very fact. that men do go to them should indicate to us that prostitutes aren’t typical of the general female population. If they were, most men would be satisfied with their wives.”

“Exactly.” Professor Woocheck picked up the ball. “we doubtless still have much to learn from prostitutes, and I think you’ll agree we should continue to make use of their services. However, we should not enlarge our subject population in that direction. It would weight our survey unfairly. Therefore, I propose we swing into Phase Two of our program and utilize non-prostitute volunteers. Now, as we discussed at the inception of the project, I have been in contact with a number of doctors who are willing to recommend certain of their patients willing to cooperate with the study. I refer to married couples, of course. Some of these will participate out of humanitarian concerns. Others will wish to be paid, just as we pay our prostitute subject population. I have taken the liberty of establishing a fee structure with cooperating physicians.”

“What about the legal aspects?” Mercy was concerned;

“That’s all taken care of. We’ve been fortunate in having an excellent lawyer—a‘ friend of Mr. Newton’s-- donate his services to the Observatory. I’ve taken the matter up with him and he assures me that so long as the couples are married, we’re breaking no laws which have been enforced in the last fifty or so years. There are, of course, archaic laws on the books which could be used against us, but that is a most unlikely eventuality.” Professor Woocheck looked at the others. “Then we’re agreed that Phase Two of the project should be inaugurated,” he said.

There was a general murmur of agreement. It was a murmur which was even then drawing strange echoes in doctors’ offices throughout the city and in the surrounding countryside. In one such office, in a middle-class suburb not far from Flintsburgh University, for instance, the echoes went something like this:

“I guess we could use the money,” the man admitted.

“That’s what he always says.” His wife sighed.

“I can assure you that it won’t hurt a bit.” Jovially, the doctor made his little joke.

“And that’s what he always says too!” It was no joke to the wife. “But it always does!”

“I over-react when I’m excited is all,” the husband whined. “Can I help it if I have an enlarged condition?”

“Permanently enlarged!” the woman snorted.

“These are just the individualistic factors which the Observatory is interested in observing,” the doctor said hastily. “Now, if you’ll be there at two o’clock on. . .”

About two miles away, in a wealthier section where the mansions of the rich perched on the hills overlooking the campus, another physician was meeting with a slightly different reaction:

“Sex!” the youngish man in the polo outfit tapped his mallet on the patio beside the swimming pool and repeated the word. “Sex!”

“With my own husband?” The beautiful young woman in the bikini pulled the mink lap-robe up over her knees against the chill of the late afternoon air and signaled to the butler to bring her another martini.

“With my own wife?”

“What a drag!” she said with disdain.

“Well, it’s different,” he pointed out. It’ll be a change. You have to admit that.”

“Yes,” she admitted slowly. “It might be a kick at that,” she decided.

The society doctor leaned back on his chaise-longue and beamed at the couple. “Fine. I’m glad you’re willing to cooperate. Now the preliminary interview will take place at . . .”

Some distance away, in the farmlands to the east of Flintsburgh, a beat-up old Ford with MD license plates stood in front of a farmhouse and attested to the fact that the country doctor is not quite yet an anachronism. The doctor himself, almost as creaky as the Ford, had just finished telling the farmer and his wife about the Venus Observatory project. Now he sat back in the rocking chair in the parlor and listened to their reaction.

“I don’t want to!” The voice of the farmer’s wife was flat.

“She never wants to,” the farmer complained.

“You can’t blame me, Doc,” she reminded the physician. “We been married ten years. Nine kids in ten years!”

The doctor puffed on his pipe. “I don’t seem to remember,” he mused. “What happened ?”

“That was the year we got the TV.” She refreshed his memory. “Nine kids in ten years . . .”

“Nine times in ten years!” the farmer protested. “You think that’s right, Doc?”

“Your husband has a point there, Emma,” the doctor agreed. “Why not make it an even ten?”

“You can say that! You’re a man! You’re all the same! I say nine kids is enough for any woman!” She scowled.

“I didn’t mean conceive another child,” the doctor explained. “I meant--umm— Well— The Observatory will see to it that you don’t become pregnant.”

“I don’t care,” she whispered. “I don’t really like it anyhow.”

“Just one more time, Emma,” the doctor wheedled.

“You sound just like him after the spring plowing!” She thought a moment and then gave in with a sigh. “Oh, all right.”

“Thanks.” The doctor knew it would give his prestige a boost and he was truly grateful. “It’s for science, you know. I’ll notify them to expect you next . . .”

Quite different concerns were voiced in the doctor’s office located in the area just below the amusement district of Flintsburgh, the area inhabited by hip musicians and beat poets, far-out artists and swinging models, pseudo-Bohemians and over-age rebels, the area over which hung the aura of the permanent high. Here, the doctor stared across his desk at the young man in short pants and long hair and his recent bride in long jeans and short hair, and listened to their reaction to the proposition he had just outlined.

“Hey, crazy, man!” the male beatnik reacted succinctly.

“Yes-yes-yes!” his mate agreed. “Will they shoot us some LSD, Doc?”

“No drugs are used in these experiments,” the doctor told them. “

“No drugs?” ‘The hubby-nik pouted his disappointment.

“Not even a little pot?” the wife-nik asked.

“Just a stick of tea, maybe?”

“No drugs of any kind!” The doctor was firm.

“That’s like strictly a nowhere scene,” the male decided.

“You’ll be paid for your cooperation.” the doctor reminded him.

“That’s a very cogent point, uncle.” He reconsidered.

“And we never made it that way before,” his spouse trilled.

“Check! Hey, it’s a new gas! Let’s give it a go-go!” He swung over to enthusiasm.

“It might even be existential!” She caught his enthusiasm. “Okay. Let’s.”

“Then if you’re willing,” the doctor instructed them “be at the Venus Bio-Erotic Research Observatory at . . .”

A few hours later, in yet another doctor’s office located in a new suburban development on the outskirts of Flints burgh, the physician confronted a couple who had heard rumors of the project and had come in to find out how to go about volunteering their services. Their eagerness to participate had made the doctor curious. Now he put curiosity into words.

“Of course I think your cooperation is quite laudable Mr. and Mrs. Jones,” he said, “but may I ask why you’re so anxious to be the first married couple to-umm-have relations in this new phase of the Venus program?

Mr. Jones started to reply. “It’s Bill Johnson. He got a new car. One of those sporty foreign jobs and--”

“I don’t see-—” The doctor was puzzled.

“I drive one of the low-priced three,” Mr. Jones explained.

“It’s really simple.” Mrs. Jones came to her husband’s aid. “Bill and Ethel-—the Johnsons, that is-—they were interviewed by the Kinsey people. They never stop talking about it.”

“And Marty Smathers, on the other side of us,” Mr. Jones added, “his wife goes to an analyst—met Wilhelm Reich personally once. She’s frigid.”

“Also,” his wife remembered, “down the block is a couple swears they got written up anonymously in the Psycho-Sexual Review just on the basis of their pre-marital techniques.”

“He was overseas at the time and they claim they used to make it by telepathy.” Mr. Jones was skeptical and indignant. “You believe that? I don’t believe it. But they show us the magazine and swear it’s them, we can’t call them a liar to their faces, right?”

“I see.” The doctor nodded. “And so you feel you want to cooperate because—”

“Status!” Mrs. Jones admitted. “We’ll be able to hold our head up in the neighborhood!”

“All right then,” the doctor told them. “I’ll set up an appointment for next Thursday at two o’clock.”

The Joneses were at the Observatory right on time. Mercy Bilkoo was ready and waiting to interview them. They were to have their wish. They would be the first married couple to participate in the Venus project. The interview was about twenty minutes old when Mercy raised a question which, as a single girl, she had long wondered about in connection with married people.

“Mr. Jones,” she asked, “what is the first thing you do when you get into bed with your wife?”

“He falls asleep.” Mrs. Jones replied quickly before her husband could.

“I work hard all day.” Mr. Jones defended himself. “You think it’s easy selling those crummy houses?”

“I mean on those nights when you don’t fall asleep,” Mercy explained delicately. “What’s the first thing you do on those nights, Mr. Jones?”

“He turns on the television.” Mrs. Jones beat her husband to the punch again.

“I see.” Mercy tried to smooth things over. “And this stimulates you, Mr. Jones?”

“It puts him to sleep.” Mrs. Jones scored again.

“We seem to be having a communication problem,” Mercy observed. “What I want to know, Mr. Jones, is how you approach your wife when you’re—ahh—in the mood, so to speak.”

“I just grab her is all.” Mr. Jones was sullen.

“The ‘physical approach’.” Mercy jotted down some notes. “I understand. And how do you respond, Mrs. Jones?”

“She gives me a shot in the ribs and tells me I should keep my hands to myself.” Mr. Jones was becoming even more sullen.

'“A physical response.” Mercy made another note. “And what happens after this exchange of love taps?”

“I get up and go for the liniment.” Mrs. Jones cackled maliciously. “Paunchy here bruises easy.”

“She’s got a touch! Light like a hippopotamus!” Mr. Jones glared at Mrs. Jones.

“But finally you must embrace.” Mercy managed to distract them from their anger. “What sort of caresses do you exchange in this pre-coital stage?”

“Caresses!” Mr. Jones snarled. “Hah! That’s a laugh!” He went on to describe what he meant.

Mercy took notes and went on to the next series of questions. Some two hours later she concluded the interview, told the Joneses they’d be hearing from her in the next day or two and bid them goodbye. After they’d left she went into Dr. Peerloin’s office to consult with the woman scientist.

“It shakes me up a little to admit it,” Mercy told her, “but from all the non-sexual data I’ve compiled on them, the Joneses may be our typical American couple.”

“And the sexual data?” Dr. Peerloin asked shrewdly.

“I don’t know,” Mercy confessed. “I just don’t know.”

“Of course you don’t.” Dr. Peerloin reassured her. “Nobody does. That’s the purpose of this survey. You must learn not to prejudge, Mercy. And you must set any romantic notions you have aside. Only actual experimentation will give us facts in this area. I suggest you have the Joneses back as soon as is convenient, explain the procedures to them, let them spend some time on their own in our “rehearsal room,” and then set up another appointment for the actual experiment. It’s time, as they say, that we got this show on the road.”

“All right,” Mercy agreed.

So it was that two days later the Joneses returned to the Observatory. Mercy took them on a tour of the premises, finally arriving at the actual room in which the experiments were conducted. Here she started to explain the setup to them.

“This bed can be adjusted to any position,” she began. “However, we would prefer if you just follow the same procedures you use in the privacy of your own bedroom. A color movie projector—or, rather, four such projectors—- will film your activities from every angle and—”

“You mean we have to take our clothes off?” Mrs. Jones interrupted.

“If that’s the way you usually have relations, yes. Just do everything as you normally would.”

“Nobody mentioned before I’d have to take my clothes off,” Mrs. Jones complained. “If I knew that, I’d have waited ’til after I finish the diet I’m on before we volunteered."

“Boy, Tubby, you floor me!” Mr. Jones chortled. “Taking pictures in the hay doesn’t bother you, but they should take them without you’ve got your girdle on, that’s a real trauma!”

“I was thinking more of you,” Mrs. Jones replied sweetly. “Don’t you think I know I can’t get you into a bathing-suit on the beach because you’re so self-conscious about the lard you’re toting around?”

“As I was saying,” Mercy said hastily before they could get into the full swing of the argument, “there will also be a tape recorder to catch whatever sounds you make and an olfactory perception instrument to record any scents. Wires will be attached to your temples and to various other parts of your bodies to record your physical responses during the act and -”

“How can we do everything the way we usually do if there’s all those wires and stuff to trip us up?” Mr. Jones wanted to know.

“Just try to ignore them. Now over here -”

“Just try!” he muttered.

“—is the giant computer which has been especially created for this project,” Mercy continued doggedly. “After the other machines have recorded everything, the data will be fed into the computer and correlated.” Mercy went on to describe the functions of the other instruments in the room. When she had finished, she conducted the Joneses down the hall to another room which was similar to the “experiment room,” but which lacked most of its apparatus. This was the “rehearsal room.” She explained its function to the Joneses. “I’m going to leave you alone here for a while,” she concluded. “Everything is much as it will be during the actual experiment, except that none of the instruments will be operative and you will not be watched. The idea is for you to accustom yourselves to the clinical environment. We want you to look upon this room as your own bedroom. Behave here just as you would there.”

“Can’t,” Mr. Jones told her succinctly.

“Well, I realize there are difficulties in adjustment, but-—”

“That isn’t what I mean,” Mr. Jones interrupted.

“Can’t behave like it’s our bedroom because there’s no TV.”

“You see! You see!” Mrs. Jones said excitedly. “Now is this the husband to inspire a wife to romance, I ask you? Is this—?”

“Do the best you can,” Mercy told them. “I’ll see you later.” She left, closing the door behind her.

When she returned an hour later, Mrs. Jones jumped up to greet her. “How much longer do we have to stay here?” she demanded.

“Why, you’re free to leave at any time,” Mercy told her. “We just wanted you to see if you were able to function in these surroundings, or if they’d be too inhibiting to you without further orientation.”

“We can function,” Mrs. Jones said. “That took five minutes tops. So what were we supposed to be doing the rest of the time?”

“I see.” Mercy ignored the question. “Well, then, you’re free to go.”

“Harry!” Mrs. Jones called to her husband. “Harry, for God’s sake wake up and let’s go home. I’ve been cooped up with him snoring like that long enough,” she told Mercy. “Harry! Harry, wake up!”

“Huh? Wazzit? How-—?” Slowly, Harry Jones came awake.

Mercy made an appointment for them to return the following day and saw the Joneses out of the Observatory. Then she went to check with the others on the staff to make sure that everything was in readiness for their first experiment with non-prostitute subjects. Equipment and procedures were checked out as thoroughly as if the event being prepared for was a manned space flight. It was late in the evening before the staff finally closed up the Observatory and went home to catch some sleep.

They were back and waiting when the Joneses arrived at eleven sharp the next morning. Professor Woocheck, Dr. Peerloin, Mercy and “Fig” Newton met in the observation room to oversee the experiment. The Joneses had already been conducted to the “experiment room.” Dr. Peerloin and Mercy took seats directly in front of the tele-viewer which would enable them to see and hear everything as it was occurring. The Professor and “Fig” sat directly behind them.

“Fig” glanced at the second-hand on his watch and slowly began the countdown. “Ten . . . Nine . . . Eight ... Seven... Six... Five... Four... Three... Two . . . One . . . Blast off!” He chopped the air with his hand, signaling to the Professor.

Immediately the Professor picked up the mouthpiece of the tape-recorder at his side and spoke into it: “Experiment number 8463A. First experiment, Second Phase, Bio-Erotic Project. Subjects Mr. and Mrs. J. Correlate interview data computer card number P7932.” The Professor glanced at the screen. “Note silence as clothes removed.” There was a long pause. “Clothes removed,” the Professor said finally. A shorter pause, then - “All instruments connected. Activate for start of experiment.”

“Fig” checked the control board beside him. “All instruments activated,” he confirmed.

The four of them settled back to watch the tele-screen and to listen.

“What are you lying on your stomach for?” Mr. Jones was saying.

“With that damned camera who knows where, you think I’m going to lie on my back?” his wife complained‘.

“You always have to make things difficult.”

“Oh, all right. I’ll turn over. . . . Is that better?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Mr. Jones fondled her, Mrs. Jones fondled back. Both were silent for a short while. Then Mrs. Jones broke the silence, her voice indignant. “Stop that yawning! What’s the matter with you? You’re not home now. There are people watching!”

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“You want to attract attention?”

“Absolutely not!” Mr. Jones’ voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Well, I suppose we might as well get on with it.” He slapped her hard on her naked buttocks.

“Ouch!” She retaliated with a punch to the stomach.

“Oof!” Mr. Jones bit her shoulder.

“Aggh!” Mrs. Jones pummeled his kidneys.

“Umpf!” He twisted her left breast.

“Aggh!”

He twisted her right breast.

“Aggh!”

He twisted them both at the same time.

“Aggh! . . . Abh!”

“Yeah!”

“Ahhh! Ahhh!”

“Yeah! Yeah!”

“I do believe the experiment is going to work.” Professor Woocheck leaned over and whispered into Dr. Peerloin’s ear.

Mercy’s eyes were glued to the TV screen. “Oh, the poor woman,” she murmured.

“That was a real good close-up,” “Fig” remarked. On the screen the Joneses were thrashing about and the sound of their panting was pronounced. It was becoming more difficult for the viewers to make out what was actually transpiring between the two entangled bodies. Suddenly Mrs. Jones pulled slightly away and there was a hint of panic in her voice.

“Be careful! You’re getting the wires all tangled!”

“God damn it! . . . I knew . . . How do they expect—?”

“Fig” moved fast. He grabbed up a microphone hooked to the instrument board and flicked the switch which activated it. His voice boomed out over the loudspeaker in the “experiment room.” “Wait! Don’t move!” he commanded. “You might damage some highly sensitive equipment!”

“What about my highly sensitive equipment?” Jones yelled back.

“Just stay still. I’ll be right there. I’ll untangle you.”

“Fig” dropped the mike and started for the “experiment room” on the run. The other three observed his arrival there on the tele-screen.

“Fig” stood over the Joneses and peered, studying the situation. “My, you certainly are an active man, Mr. Jones,” he observed. “You really have things tangled up.”

“He tosses in his sleep, too,” Mrs. Jones told “Fig” “You ought to see what he does to the bedclothes. It’s like sleeping with a cement mixer.”

“Ah, there we are!” Deftly, “Fig” rearranged a few wires and removed a rheostat which had become tangled in Mr. Jones’ pubic hair. “Now just let me reconnect this relay, wire and you can resume the experiment.”

“Good show,” Professor Woocheck congratulated “Fig” when he returned to the observation room. “Well done Mr. Newton.”

“Like with anything new, there’s still a few bugs have to be gotten out,” “Fig” admitted. Along with the others he resumed watching the TV screen as the Joneses picket up where they had left off. Once again the sounds the made were relayed to the observation room.

“Ow!” Mrs. Jones reacted.

“Oof!” Mr. Jones grunted.

“Yi-eee!”

“Ugh-agh-ugh!”

“Ahh!”

“Yeah!”

“Ahh! Ahh!”

“Yeah! Yeah!”

“Ahh! Ahh! Ahh!”

“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!”

There was frenetic action followed by the sounds of heavy breathing as they struggled to catch their breath. Then—-

“Are you through already?” Mrs. Jones asked.

“Yeah.” Mr. Jones yawned.

“Just like home!” Her voice was accusing.

“Why should it be any different?”

“You might make a little extra effort. It’s for the movies after all.”

“Movies or no movies, I’m tired,” Mr. Jones told her. “Put on your clothes and let’s go home. We hurry, we can still catch ‘To Tell The Truth.’ ”

Professor Woocheck spoke a few formal words into the tape recorder to the effect that the first experiment of Phase Two of the research program had been completed. Then he and the others retired to his office where they discussed the scheduling of subsequent experiments. A program was worked out and finalized. Two days later it was put into effect. It continued apace during the ensuing weeks.

Certain patterns which seemed to be peculiar to the abilities and habits of married couples began to emerge as the program progressed. In a general way, the staff began to draw some unofficial conclusions. Admittedly there was still insufficient evidence to work out statistical likelihoods, but they would have been less than human had they failed to note to themselves that certain behavior seemed constant among the married subject population. Then one day something happened which threw their calculations into a cocked hat.

The Professor, Dr. Peerloin, “Fig” and Mercy had just run the film of the latest “experiment.” When the lights came up in the screening room, they looked at each other with dazed eyes and startled expressions.

“What do you make of that?” Dr. Peerloin was the first to pose the question in all their minds.

“I have all the initial interview material here,” Mercy said, indicating the manila folder in her lap. “I just went over it this morning. There’s nothing there to indicate any reasons for what we’ve just seen.”

“Yet all the instruments bear it out,” “Fig” said. “And the over-all computer rating surpasses anything we’ve ever seen before.”

“When you first fed the interview and other background data into the computer,” Dr. Peerloin wondered, “was there anything to indicate we’d get results like this?”

“Negative,” “Fig” told her.

“Well then,” Professor Woocheck mused, “either our whole concept of erotic cause and effect is out of line, or the subjects lied to us initially.”

The others nodded agreement.

“On a one-to-one-hundred scale,” “Fig” reflected, “this couple’s sexuality would rate ninety-three-point-six. Our average married subjects rate thirty-point-two. And the highest rating scored among the prostitute population was in the sixties. There’s certainly something fluky somewhere.”

“Then they certainly must have lied in the initial interview,” Dr. Peerloin concluded. “The only thing to do is to confront the couple with the evidence and try to get them to tell us the truth.”

“That lies directly in your area of concern, Doctor,” Professor Woocheck pointed out. “Will you handle it?”

“Of course.”

So it was that later that afternoon Dr. Margaret Peerloin met with the couple in question. She explained to them quite frankly about the discrepancies in their performance as compared to other subjects’. At first they assumed an air of innocence and disclaimed knowledge of any possible reasons for the discrepancy. Dr. Peerloin was gentle, but firm. She hammered away at them with all the sociological techniques she had perfected in Peru and other places where she had done studies. Finally they stopped protesting and agreed to level with her. It was the man who told her the story.

“It started about six months ago,” he told Dr. Peerloin, “the first time we went to Dr. Farndheit’s office.”

“That was the doctor who recommended you to the project?” Dr. Peerloin quickly checked the case history folder.

“Yes, ma’am. It was after his office hours that night, but he was still in his office checking bills. I could see the light. That’s how come we went in.”

“You were patients of Dr. Farndheit’s prior to this visit?”

“No. He never seen us before. So when we came in, he tells us right away his office hours is over. But I say like this is an emergency and finally he sort of sighs and says all right, we should sit down. We do, and he wants to know what’s the trouble. I guess I sort of hemmed and hawed a little. And Marsha here—-” He indicated his silent subject partner to Dr. Peerloin. “—she turned brick red. Well, Dr. Farndheit takes a shot in the dark and says lots of people have sex problems and there’s nothing to be embarrassed about, he’s a doctor. It’s a relief to have him come out with it like that. But then he goes off on a wrong track, like telling Marsha she shouldn’t be ashamed of anything we do, and while I’m telling him that isn’t it, he’s off again on maybe there’s a physical problem and he’ll examine her and by the time I tell him no, that ain’t it either, he’s talking about marriage adjustments and a whole lot of things like that. Well, finally he runs down and I get it across to him that he’s all wet. So then, natch, he wants to know what the hell is the problem. I tell him like it’s awful hard to put into words. He gets a little miffed-—I couldn’t blame him—and says how can he help if I won’t tell him what’s bothering us. So I tell him how he can help.”

“You explained your problem,” Dr. Peerloin surmised.

“Not exactly. What I explained was how since we couldn’t quite put it into words, maybe if he’d let us use his examining room and watch while we did it, he could see for himself what the problem was.”

“And he agreed to this?” In spite of herself, Dr. Peerloin’s eyebrows shot up.

“Not at first. When I suggested it the first time, he gave us a lot of talk about ethics and the state medical board and all that jazz. But I pleaded, and Marsha rinsed her eyeballs a little, and after a while I managed to talk him into it. So Marsha and me go into the examining room and we get out of our clothes. Then we call him in and we have a go while he watches. After which he tells us to get dressed, he’ll speak to us in his office. Well, we do, and he does. He tells us like he doesn’t see anything wrong, that he thinks we do just fine. I say maybe it looks that way but appearances can be deceiving. I tell him I can see how it might be hard for him to see it the first time out maybe we can come back next week same time. Again it takes a little talking, but finally he agrees. Then I pay him and we leave.”

“Did you come back the following week? Dr. Peerloin prompted.

“You betcha. And the week after that. And the week after that too. We keep coming back every week for three-four months, Marsha and me. And each time we’d— you know—while the Doc watched us. Then one night, after 'we’re through, we get dressed like usual and go into his office. Only this night he lights into us. He’s had enough, he says. There ain’t nothing wrong with our lovemaking, he says. We got it better than nine-tenths of the other married couples he knows, he says. He wishes he, himself, and his ever-loving had it so good, he says. Twenty years of marriage, he never made it so good with his wife as Marsha and I make it every time he watches us, he says. Even when he was a young man full of ginger, fresh out of med school and making it with the nurses, he never had it so good, he says. So now — and he’s having trouble not shouting—the Doc wants to know what the hell this is all about. Why do we come to him anyway?”

“I’m wondering the same thing myself,” Dr. Peerloin confessed. “And I’m wondering what it has to do with your high performance level and the project.”

“I’m coming to that. It all ties in. You’ll see.”

“Very well. Please continue. What did you tell Dr. Farndheit?”

“Well, what happens is I look at Marsha and say it looks like the jig is up, so should I level with the Doc? She says he’s been so nice that’s just what I should do ’cause we sort of owe it to him. So I level.” He took a deep breath.

“It was embarrassing,” Marsha remembered, speaking for the first time and shooting Dr. Peerloin a look that asked for understanding.

“That’s all right,” Dr. Peerloin assured her. “You don’t have to feel embarrassed with me. What was it you said when you leveled with Dr. Farndheit?” she added to the young man.

“Look, I told him, in the first place, were married, me and Marsha, but not to each other. In the second place, I tell him, the motels around here charge twelve bucks for a room and you only charge us five a visit. And in the last place, I say to the Doc, I get three of the five back from Blue Cross, and the other two I knock off my income tax!”

“What did Dr. Farndheit do then?” Dr. Peerloin asked.

“He sort of mulled it over a few minutes, and then he allowed as how he was going to have to raise his price for office visits. Seven bucks, he said. A few weeks later, he upped it to ten.”

“You mean that even after being informed of the circumstances, he continued to-—umm—treat you?”

“Sure.”

“How unethical!” Dr. Peerloin was shocked.

“Maybe. But I still come out ahead on what a motel would of cost.”

“The fact remains that he put his fee ahead of professional ethics.”

“I suppose so. And you don’t know yet how much of a money-grubber he was. See, when he got wind of this project here, he arranged for us to come here instead of his office. I come out even further ahead on the money end, but it sure does gripe me to have to kick back half of what you pay us to that bum!”

“Kick back—-!” Dr. ‘Peerloin was agitated. “I’ve heard of fee-splitting before,” she admitted, “but this is ridiculous!”

Later in the day, when Dr Peerloin had finished telling the story to Professor Woocheck, she repeated, that sentiment indignantly. “Ridiculous!” she summed up. “Unethical and ridiculous!”

“You are missing the point, Doctor,” the Professor told her. “We are scientists, not policemen. Our laboratory is no place for moral judgments. Dr. Famdheit’s actions in this matter really needn’t concern us. What is important is that you have uncovered the one factor which explains the discrepancy in performance. The couple is not married.”

“But they are! They’re just not married to each other!”

“That too is a factor which will bear investigation. But for the moment, we must consider the factor that subjects who are not married to each other seem to perform at a much higher level than subjects who are. If our survey is to have any validity, we must obtain a great deal more data in this area. It is time, I believe, to inaugurate Phase Three of the Venus Bio-Erotic Survey and to recruit volunteers to participate in it.”

“Phase Three?”

“Yes.” The Professor’s face was alight with zeal. “Copulation between subjects who are unmarried!”

CHAPTER FIVE

“With the decision to incorporate unmarried persons into the subject population of the program, there was an immediate and almost overwhelming increase in the number of volunteers. This was followed by reactions on the part of various segments of the community at large which hindered progress of the study. Yet this very reaction constituted a sociological phenomenon well within our purlieu as scientific observers. On the one hand it reflected the inherent selfishness of certain special interest groups. On the other it brought into focus the mores of the larger community. The reaction became so pronounced, however, that it interfered with our pragmatic detachment. To counteract this, the Observatory once again utilized the services of the intermediary who had been of assistance in the past. . .”

-Chapter Four, Survey of Bio-Erotic

Behavior Patterns in Human Beings,

by Woocheck & Peerloin

“Who,” Professor Woocheck wondered aloud, “is Jerome?

“He was a millionaire who allegedly staged and filmed sex orgies with children,” Frank Pollener "told him. “When the cops caught up with him he skipped the country. Why do you ask?”

“This newspaper editorial calls me the Ivan Jerome of the medical profession,” the Professor explained. His voice was tired; his face showed the strain of the harassment he was under.

“You shouldn’t be upset.” Dr. Peerloin tried to soothe him. “Where’s your perspective? It’s really quite funny.”

“I’m glad you see it that way,” Professor'Woocheck told her drily. “They call you the Polly Adler of sociology‘”

“Polly Adler?” Dr. Peerloin was unfamiliar with the name.

“A notorious madam of the thirties.” Frank enlightened her.

“Well of all the-! I’ll sue!” she sputtered. “I’ll sue them for every penny -”

“Where’s your perspective?” Professor Woocheck reminded her. “It’s really quite funny.”

“I don’t have the time to hang around playing ping-pong with petards,” she replied frostily. “I only hope that Mr. Pollener can help us alleviate the situation.” She got to her feet and started for the door. “If you’ll excuse me, there are some statistics I have to go over.”

“I’m glad to have met you, Dr. Peerloin,” Frank said.

“And I you.” She nodded to him politely and closed the door behind her.

“If only you’d contacted me when you first made the decision to recruit unmarried subjects,” Frank told the Professor when they were alone, “I could have warned you of the legal ramifications involved.”

“But the legal aspect hadn’t come up until just recently.” Professor Woocheck sighed. “It’s all of these other events which have begun snowballing until I seem to be spending all of my time trying to cope with them instead of on the project itself. We certainly never expected the furor which seems to be sweeping over the project.”

“What you need is a good public relations man,” Frank suggested. “The kind who specializes in squelching attention rather than getting publicity.”

“We thought of that. I contacted several reputable firms. None of them would have anything to do with us. Believe me, Mr. Pollener, I didn’t want to impose on you again, but there was nobody else to whom I could turn.”

“It’s all right. I just wish you’d consulted me sooner. Then maybe some of this could have been averted. But you didn’t, so now we’ll have to deal with the situation as it is. I know you feel overwhelmed by it, but perhaps if you just start at the beginning and we look at your difficulties one at a time, that would be the simplest way of coming to grips with them. Now, what was the first trouble you encountered when you started recruiting unmarried subjects?”

“Well,” the Professor began, “I already told you of the case which inadvertently led us to seek such volunteers.”

“Yes. And let me caution you right now not to mention it to anyone else. Those people were committing adultery. That happens to be a crime in this state. And that makes you and the Observatory accessories to the crime.”

“But we didn’t know they were married to two other people. We thought they were married to each other.”

“That might be a mitigating circumstance, but it wouldn’t get you completely off the hook. Ignorance of a felony is no excuse for aiding in the committing of it. Still, no charges have been brought, so there’s no point in worrying about it. Unless, of course, one of their mates happens to sue for divorce. In that case, the whole thing would come out and we’d have our hands full of trouble. It could be an interesting case,” Frank mused. “Might even set a precedent. I must admit that as a lawyer I’d like to handle it if it ever does come up. Prestige, you know. I could even write it up for the Law Journal. Still,” he sighed, “the best thing will be if it’s just forgotten.”

“I certainly hope it is,” the Professor agreed fervently. “We’ve got enough trouble as it is.”

“That’s true. Tell me about the trouble. How did it start?”

“Well, the first thing that happened was that word spread of how we were looking for unmarried subjects and we began to be deluged with volunteers. By the end of that first week there were lines all the way around the block of people waiting to be interviewed. We put on fifty extra interviewers and still it wasn’t enough to handle the volume. Now we have almost a hundred, but they can’t keep up with the demand.”

“Did they volunteer by twos?” Frank asked.

“Some did. But the majority didn’t. Somehow they seemed to have gotten the idea that we were some sort of dating service for single people who wanted to get together for erotic purposes.”

“Were there more men than women?”

“On the contrary; the women who applied outnumbered the men almost two to one.”

“Hmm. Interesting.”

“Yes. I’ve made notes on that phenomenon. I plan to comment upon it in the book. Anyway, it became obvious that we’d have to use some very strict screening techniques. So the first thing we did was issue a statement that we’d only consider applicants over eighteen years of age and that proof of age would have to be submitted. Well, right away, the lines outside shrank by almost half. There was some protesting at setting an arbitrary age limit, but nothing to what came later.”

“Tell me about that.”

“Yes.” The Professor took a deep breath. “Well, when we saw how the age limit had cut down the number of applicants, we decided to raise it. Twenty-one seemed logical. But we never anticipated the reaction this decision brought about. It seemed to be organized almost overnight. Hordes of students from the University descended upon us with signs and chants. ‘OLD ENOUGH TO FIGHT; OLD ENOUGH TO—’ Well, they used the euphemism. They picketed and they sat-in and some of them actually defied the decision and copulated in the corridors at random. You can imagine that all serious research at the Observatory was halted by this confusion.”

“I was out of town then,” Frank remembered. “At a retreat with Swami Rhee Va. Or I would have come over.”

“Yes. I know. I tried to contact you. Anyway, there was nothing we could do but rescind the order. We set the age limit back at eighteen and the students stopped picketing us. We thought that was the end of it, but of course we were wrong.”

“What happened?”

“Evidently the parents of the students learned of the lowering of the age limit and objected. A committee was formed and it began exerting pressure on the administration of the college. The college has been threatening to ask for an injunction to stop our work unless we re-raise the age limit. And the students say that if we do, they’ll picket again. Meanwhile, a ‘Mother’s March for Morality’ has been organized and they’re picketing us. They’re not nearly as bad as the students were, though. At least they knock off at two every afternoon to play mah-jongg. Anyway, that’s where the situation stands now.”

Frank had been jotting down notes. Now he drew a neat line underneath what he‘d written. “I think I have an idea about how to resolve that problem,” he said. “Now what else?”

“Just listen.” Professor Woocheck nodded towards the window.

Frank cocked his head and the chant from outside reached his ears: “VENUS UNFAIR TO UNION LABOR! PASS THEM BY! PASS THEM BY!” The voices were mostly high-pitched and feminine, but Frank could distinguish a few deeper, more masculine-sounding ones among them: “ORGANIZED LABOR DEMANDS CLOSED SHOP!” they chorused. “PASS THEM BY! PASS THEM BY!” A moment later the voices were raised in fury and the sounds of a commotion drew Frank to the window. “SCAB! SCAB!” The cry had spread like wildfire through the marchers. Frank watched as half a dozen overly-painted girls in low-cut blouses and tight skirts rushed from the line of march and fell upon a pair of clean-cut, collegiate-type girls who were entering the Observatory. Immediately a platoon of police rushed to break up the melee before it could develop into a riot.

“You see,” the Professor explained, “when we started using married couples, we still used as many prostitutes as ever; and while some of them grumbled, they let it pass. But when we started cutting back on the prostitute subjects as non-prostitute single volunteers became more available—not to save money, you understand; we pay the non-prostitutes the same fee, but rather because we felt they would be more typical of the population as a whole—- anyway, when we took this step, the prostitutes protested. Now they claim we’re cutting into their outside business as well, and besides claiming that we’re employing scabs, they’re accusing us of unfair competition.”

“Have you tried talking to Hal Rockwell about this?” Frank asked.

“Yes. He says there’s nothing he can do. The girls are taking matters into their own hands. The madams are backing them. And the Syndicate claims the girls are right and they’re feeling the pinch.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Frank promised.

“Thank you. And do you think you can do anything about the editorials in the papers like the one that referred so unflatteringly to Dr. Peerloin and myself? I’m afraid that if there are any more of them, the public outcry may shut us down altogether. Believe me, it was never our intention to operate in the glare of such a publicity spotlight.”

“I know some of the editors. I’ll talk to them,” Frank told the Professor. “Is there anything else?”

“One other thing. A sort of two-sided situation that hasn’t really exploded yet. If it could be stopped before it does, I’d be eternally grateful. It concerns the Observatory’s relationship with minority groups. Some of them have contacted us and I can see an impossible situation developing if something isn’t done about it.”

“Who’s contacted you?”

“Well, the B’nai Brith for one.”

“What did they want?”

“They’re concerned about the matter of proportionate representation of Jewish subjects in the survey. I assured them that I’d do my best to see to it that there would be such representation and said there was absolutely no discrimination as far as I knew. That seemed to satisfy them, but the very next day I got a call from a different branch of the B’nai Brith, the Anti-Defamation League. They were concerned about the image that might be created if Jewish subjects should number more than they do in proportion to the general population. I promised to try to keep the representation as proportionate as possible.”

“Didn’t that satisfy them?”

“It satisfied the Anti-Defamation branch, but then the next day after that, the first B’nai Brith people were calling back again to complain.”

“What were they complaining about?”

“They said that what I’d proposed constituted a quota system and that it was their duty to their members to oppose such a system.”

“I’ll talk to them too,” Frank promised.-

“I’m afraid some of the Negro groups may raise similar objections about discrimination,” the Professor said anxiously.

“Are you discriminating against Negroes?”

“Absolutely not!” Professor Woocheck was indignant.

“Then let’s deal with that when and if it comes up,” Frank decided. “I think I’ve got enough concrete problems to cope with for a while.” He got to his feet. “I’ll let you know how I make out,” he told the Professor. “Try not to worry. Try to keep your mind on your work. Remember, Pasteur and Ehrlich had to buck the public too. That’s how it is with those in the vanguard of science.”

“I can’t tell you how much your faith in the project means to me,” Professor Woocheck replied sincerely. “To know that at least one layman is capable of appreciating the value of our work—”

“You’re not just in the forefront of science,” Frank told him earnestly. “You’re also carrying forward the philosophy of Swami Rhee Va, the tenets of Causocratic Effectivism. As a true believer, I’m only being true to myself in helping you.” With those zealous words, Frank bid the Professor good day and departed.

It was still early in the afternoon when he arrived back at his office. He sat down at his desk and mulled over the problems of the Observatory. Then, having weighed possible consequences in keeping with his beliefs, Frank made several telephone calls and arranged a series of appointments.

He arrived at the headquarters of the Flintsburgh B’nal Brith to keep the first of them at ten the following morning. Mr. Birnbaum, head of the local chapter, greeted him affably. He was just as affable as Frank explained the situation; and when he finished listening, he summoned two other members of the organization to his office.

“Mr. Pollener,” he introduced Frank, “this is Mr. Levy, head of our local Anti-Defamation League, and Mr. Klein, in charge of investigating discrimination in employment.” When they’d shaken hands all around and seated themselves, Mr. Birnbaum repeated what Frank had told him to the other two. “We seem to have trapped Science in a squeeze-play it would take a Talmudic scholar to extricate it from,” he summed up.

“Well, we can’t have an image of Jewish promiscuity circulated,” Mr. Levy pointed out.

“Nor can we have Jews discriminated against in the hiring practices of an organization which is, after all, tax-free because of its scientific researches, and therefore, in a sense, subsidized by the public, some of whom are Jewish,” Mr. Klein retorted, becoming a little short of breath as he hacked his way out of the sentence.

“But it’s impossible for the Observatory to comply with both your stipulations,” Frank reasoned. “Can’t we work out some sort of compromise?"

They could. And they did. Later that afternoon, calling to relieve Professor Woocheck’s mind about at least one of the Observatory’s problems, Frank explained the compromise solution.

“First of all, in any published work resulting from the study, you’re pledged not to give statistics separating Jews from non-Jews.”

“We intended no such breakdown,” Professor Woocheck assured him. “Unlike the Kinsey study, ours is to be weighted on the biological, rather than the sociological side.”

“Good. Secondly,” Frank continued, “there is to be no quota limiting the number of male Jewish subjects. On the other hand, an effort is to be made to limit the number of female Jewish subjects so that the total of male and female shall not total more than the proportion of Jews to the population as a whole.”

“But won’t that mean we’ll have many more male Jews participating than female Jews?”

“Exactly. It has to do with an unstated ethnic ethic. Traditionally, the Jewish young man sows his wild oats with non-Jewish girls. This is winked at. But the Jewish girl sows no oats—at least in theory. You see, the Anti-Defamation branch isn’t worried about creating a stereotype of a promiscuous male, but they don’t want even the glimmering of such a picture of the Jewish female.”

“All right. What else?”

“No Jewish subjects of either gender are to participate in the program on Saturdays. The B’nai Brith wants to avoid any friction with Orthodox synagogues.”

“Suppose the subjects are Reformed Jews?”

“It still applies. It’s a matter of tradition, rather than belief.”

“I’ll see that we stick to it,” Professor Woocheck promised. “Is there anything else?”

“Well, one thing that they didn’t really ask for, but I sort of volunteered. To cement good relations, so to speak.”

“What’s that?”

“For every ten Jewish volunteers you use, you plant a tree in Israel.”

“Agreed,” Professor said. “I think you’ve straightened the situation out admirably, Mr. Pollener. Many thanks!’

“You’re welcome,” Frank told him. “I only hope I have as much success with your other problems. I’ll be in touch,” he added. “Goodbye.” He hung up the phone.

Frank left the telephone booth from which he’d called, stopped off in a cocktail lounge for a drink, lingered over it, then decided to have an early dinner and catch up on his sleep. It was still early when he arrived back at his apartment, so he got into his pajamas, propped himself up in bed, and read from The Handbook of Causocratic Effectivism and other writings of the Swami Rhee Va for a while. He was staring off into space and mumbling a particularly meaningful sentence to himself a while later when the telephone rang. He got out of bed and went into the living room to answer it.

“A-B-C-D-L-F-N.”

“M-N-O-L-F-N,” Frank obediently replied.

“S-E-S-N-L-F-N!”

“Memory fails me,” Frank confessed wearily. “What do you want, Fig?”

“Gee, how could you forget a thing like that? The times the old frat-house rang out with the L-F-N cries! I get nostalgic just looking back at—”

“Look, Fig, if you called up just to reminisce, let’s forget it, huh? Make it some other time. I’m hushed tonight and I was just about to sack down. I’ll call you in a few days. Okay?” Frank started to hang up.

“Wait! That’s not why I called. This is an emergency. All hell’s breaking loose with the Observatory!”

“Well, why didn’t you say so instead of starting with that juvenile nonsense?”

“You know what your trouble is, Frank? You have no sense of tradition, that’s what!”

“Yeah, I know. Now suppose you tell me what’s happened?”

“I’m not too clear on it myself. I just got a call from Dr. Peerloin. She’s in jail. It seems the Vice Squad raided the Observatory.”

“Oh, no! Why would they do that? Are they holding Professor Woocheck too?”

“No. Only Dr. Peerloin and some of the new staff members. She was conducting a training session with them and a few of our more experienced subjects. You know, so they could get an on-the-spot idea of how things work.”

“Fig” went on to give Frank the details of where Dr. Peerloin and the others were being held.

“I’ll get right down there,” Frank promised and hung up on “Fig.” Then he dialed the number of the precinct station and spoke to the desk sergeant.

“That bunch is already on their way down to Night Court,” the desk sergeant informed Frank. “They should come up before the judge in about an hour.”

“What’s the charge?” Frank demanded.

“Soliciting for immoral purposes.”

“But they weren’t soliciting anyone! It was all volunteer participation. Whose bright idea was it to raid them anyway?” "

“Search me. You’ll have to talk to the Vice Squad lieutenant. I guess you can catch up with him down at Night Court too.”

Frank muttered a “Thanks,” hung up and scrambled into his clothes.

Twenty minutes later he paid off the driver of the cab, which had dropped him in front of the Criminal Court Building where Night Court was held. An experienced attorney, he didn’t go directly to the hearing room. First he stopped off and made arrangements with a bondsman he knew to post bail for as many clients as he should find himself called upon to handle. When he and the bondsman finally did arrive at Night Court, the Venus BioErotic Observatory case was just being called. Frank went through the formalities of entering a blanket “Not Guilty” plea, arranging a trial date convenient to the judge, the prosecutor and himself, the establishing and providing of bail so that his clients wouldn’t have to spend the night in jail. Then Frank spoke a few reassuring words to Dr. Peerloin and the others, sent them along home and finally got down to the real business of their defense.

The first thing he did was to look up the Vice Squad lieutenant who’d been in charge of the raid. “Why?” Frank asked him. “Off the record, why? With all the honest-to-badness cat-houses operating more or less openly in Flintsburgh, for Pete’s sake, why pick on an honest-to-Hippocrates scientific project to bust?”

“Search me.” The lieutenant shrugged. “I only take orders. I do know there’s been a few squawks from some biddies call themselves ‘Mothers for Morality.’ A few other bluenose outfits too. Maybe they put on more pressure than it looked like. I don’t know. I just know I got orders to bust the joint.”

“Orders from who?”

“Captain of the precinct. That’s who I always get my orders from.”

“You sure it wasn’t your own idea?” His years of practice had made Frank cynical and suspicious. “Like maybe the Observatory forgot to pay off.”

“Why, Counselor, you shock me. Are you suggesting that I’d be on the take?”

“Wouldn’t think of it. But suppose my clients kick in a little something for the Vice Squad Benevolent Society? A charitable donation, you understand. Could you maybe see your way clear to finding you don’t have sufficient evidence to support the charges?”

“Gee, I’d like to cooperate, Frank. You know I’m a softy and you can always work with me. Particularly on a first offense. But, honest, this one’s out of my hands. The precinct captain ordered the raid and no ifs, ands or buts about it. You want to make a donation, I guess you have to, talk to him first.”

“Will do.” Frank went to the nearest phone booth and dialed the precinct.

“Well, hello there, Counselor,” the precinct captain greeted Frank after the switchboard shunted the call to his office. “What can I do for you?”

“The Venus Observatory case.” Frank minced no words. “My clients want to contribute to the Welfare Fund.”

“Now you wouldn’t be trying to bribe an officer of the law, would you, Counselor?” the captain asked jovially.

“Never! You think I want to be disbarred? I just thought you might want to consider the extenuating circumstances, the genuine humanitarian purposes behind my clients activities, and drop the charges.”

“I’d like to, Counselor, but this one’s too big. The raid wasn’t my idea. The chief himself ordered it.”

“But why?” Frank wondered.

“You’ll have to be asking him that.”

“I will.” Frank said goodbye, jiggled the receiver, fumbled another dime into the slot, consulted his little black book, and dialed the private home number of the chief of police.

“Frank Pollener here,” he identified himself when the chief answered.

“Do you know what time it is?” The chief sounded angry and sleepy.

“I just wanted to congratulate you on your cousin Oscar’s coming up with the low bid on that sewer contract,” Frank said smoothly.

“How did you know—?”

“Oscar drinks too much. And when he drinks too much he talks too much. Particularly since the bids aren’t due to be opened until day after tomorrow. Wouldn’t it be embarrassing if the papers came up with the exact difference between Oscar’s bid and the next lowest?”

“I’ll have a talk with Oscar,” the chief promised. “And thank you, Frank. I do appreciate your concern for my family. Any time I can return the favor—”

“How about like right now?”

“Ahh,” the chiefs voice was syrupy. “Somehow I thought you might have something in mind. Now what is it?”

Frank explained the Venus situation.

“Laddy,” the chief said earnestly, “if there was anything I could do, I would. Believe me. But this wasn’t my doing. The order for this raid came right from His Honor himself.”

“But why?”

“I’m not sure. Some of those bluenose pressure groups maybe. But believe me, it’s out of my hands. You want to square this beef, you’ll have to talk to His Honor.”

When Frank hung up he looked at his watch. It was too late to reach the Mayor. It would have to wait until morning. He went home and back to bed.

His conversation with the Mayor the next morning was roundabout. “The gubernatorial election comes up next fall,” Frank mentioned. “I hear your name’s been mentioned as a possible candidate.”

“I am most actively" not actively seeking the nomination,” the Mayor assured him. “My sole concern is the welfare of the city whose government the electorate has seen fit to entrust me with running. On the other hand, if the will of the delegates should express itself in so overwhelming a favoritism for my candidacy as to constitute a draft call to run for the position, then I—”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Frank interrupted. “Because the talk is that even if the party ran you, you could never get the support of the Better Government League.”

“Why not?” the Mayor sputtered. “I’ve always had their support!”

“Well, you know those eggheads. They’d never support a politician who persecuted a humanitarian scientific institution.”

“What do you mean? I never—”

“Come now, Your Honor. Didn’t you order the raid on the Venus Observatory last night?”

“Oh. That. . .”

“Yes. That. Now the question is, why?” Frank wanted to know.

“Protests from the mothers of our fair city, other groups concerned with maintaining a high moral climate, even an anti-vivisectionist group. . .”

“All that may be true,” Frank conceded. “But somehow, I don’t believe that’s all there is to it, Come on now, Your Honor, you don’t want me to start organizing the opposition against your candidacy for the governorship, do you? Level with me and maybe we can find a way out of this situation that could save you the egghead vote. What’s the real reason you cracked down on the Observatory?”

“Mr. X.” The Mayor’s voice was a hushed whisper.

“You mean the brotherhood’s mixed up in this?” Frank was beginning to see the light. “That’s where the order originated?”

The Mayor’s silence was confirmation in itself.

“So long, Your Honor. It’s always a pleasure to talk to an honest politician.” Frank put the receiver back on the hook.

He thought a moment, then dialed Carrera’s number. After a moment he was put through to him. Frank came straight to the point. “I want to reach Mr. X,” he told him.

“You been watching too many Bogart movies on the Late Show or something, Counselor? What Mr. X? There is no Mr. X.”

“What happened? Did the statute of limitations run out on favors?” Frank asked.

“Anything you want.” Carrera was genial as always.

“I told you. I want to talk to Mr. X.”

“Don’t know anybody by that name.”

“Look, I don’t have time to play cat-and-mouse,” Frank told him. “I need this favor real bad.”

“If there was such a gentleman and I knew him, I’d put you in touch with him. But then if there was a Mr. X and I knew him, who knows? Maybe he’d call you. If there was a Mr. X and it was within my power to arrange such a call, my advice to you would be to stay close to your telephone. But there is no Mr. X. Sorry, Counselor.” The receiver clicked in Frank’s ear.

Confused, Frank stayed close to his phone. There was nothing else he could do. An hour went by. Another. A third. It was getting dark outside before the telephone finally rang.

“Hello!” Frank snatched it up on the first ring.

“Do you know a man with a power?”

“Look, Fig, get the hell off the phone and stay off!”

“You’re supposed to say ‘What power?’ ”

“I haven’t got time for childish--!”

“I only wanted to know if you’d like to have dinner together tonight, talk over old times—”

“Screw old times!” Frank shouted. He slammed the phone back on the cradle.