Marilyn stepped very close and put both her hands on his biceps. He flexed as she touched him.
"Say ... that's sort of exciting. Do that again."
Harding dropped his arms around her narrow waist and pulled her hard against his chest. His mouth was searching for hers when she pushed him away. He was bewildered.
"Don't be a sap," she said quickly. "We're standing right out here in the open where anybody can see us."
"There's nobody around," he said.
"You never can tell," she replied. "The janitor will be making the rounds before long, and you never know when a teacher may be hanging around late. Come on, I know a place we can be alone."
She led him to a storeroom at the end of the gym, opened the door, and snapped on the light. The storeroom was small and crowded and smelled of sweat and leather.
"We'll be safe in here," she said. Harding grabbed her again, and this time she responded fiercely to his hungry mouth. He could feel her breasts flatten against his chest and his heart began to stroke violently. With one motion he swept her up into his arms and deposited her on a pile of mats.
CHAPTER ONE
Harding Hart opened the front door of his home and slipped very quietly inside. He put his books on the hall table and tiptoed toward the dining room. The spacious house was filled with the aroma of hot rolls coming from the kitchen. Ordinarily he was ravenously hungry by the time he got home from school, but today he was upset. He didn't feel like eating or speaking to any of his four sisters.
He slid past the kitchen, where his younger sister Daphne was busy preparing supper. Fortunately, her back was turned. She was only sixteen, the youngest member of the family. Since the death of their mother, she had been in charge of the kitchen. "Our Cinderella," Harding sometimes called her as she bustled about with her pots and pans. But he knew the comparison was limited. Daphne wore the latest teen-age fashions to accentuate her marvellous young body, and her radiantly blonde hair had the attention of the city's best hairdresser. The income of the Hart family was high, very high.
He could hear the voices of his three older sisters coming from the living room down the hall. Suddenly Coleen began to moan: "Oh, ohhh! Don't stop! That's it! Yes!"
"It still sounds a little phony," he heard Martha say soberly.
Coleen's moans ceased at once.
"There are times when you've just got to fake, honey," Martha went on. "There's just so many times a girl can make it in one night, and even if you're not feeling a thing the show's got to go on. The customer's got to be pleased, understand?"
"I understand," said Coleen. "Let me try again."
Harding heard the rhythmic moaning again. He figured there was no chance of getting past the living room unseen. But it was both embarrassing and dangerous to linger in the hallway listening to Coleen get her daily instruction in the arts of the family profession. Nothing enraged his sisters more than having their only brother see or hear them practicing. They were rigorously modest outside of working hours. Not one of the four even walked around in a slip when the man of the family was present.
"Man of the family," Harding snorted to himself. "Here I am about to graduate from high school in two weeks. I've got three sisters who are call girls, and I'm still a virgin!"
There was no help for it, he'd have to face his sisters. He cleared his throat noisily and stamped toward the living room. Coleen jumped hastily off the floor, blushing deeply.
"How many times have we told you not to go creeping around the house?" she said angrily. "Can't you learn to ring doorbells?"
"Sorry," he said. "I was thinking."
"You know we're always practicing at this hour," said Martha. "Can't we have any privacy?"
"Okay, okay," he grunted. "I said I was sorry."
All three girls were glaring at him. Coleen was twenty-one, Cathy twenty-four, and Martha twenty-six. Coleen had only recently been initiated into the profession. Cathy and Martha were by comparison old pros and had much to teach her. Harding sometimes wondered about the girls' dedication to perfecting their techniques with customers. They were all so beautiful they could get by just peddling their basic equipment.
"If you don't mind," Harding said, "I'll go up to my room. I feel a little tired."
"You all right?" asked Martha quickly. "You're not catching a cold or anything, are you?"
"For Chrissake!" Harding exploded. "Can't a guy feel a little tired without being treated like a baby? I'm eighteen years old, in case you forgot, and I don't need anybody to wipe my behind."
"No need for profanity, young man," said Martha.
"Oh, for Chrissake," Harding muttered again and clomped out of the room. He bounded up the stairs, slammed the door of his own room, and flung himself down on the bed.
They treat me like I was still in diapers or something, he thought. And I'm supposed to pimp for them someday! What a laugh! I'd probably be the only damn pimp in the whole universe that never got laid!
Harding rolled over on his stomach and groaned. Dammit, it would have to be Friday afternoon. Now he'd have to wait till Monday before seeing Marilyn again. On Monday, at long last, he wae going to get in. Hallelujah!
Marilyn was a bit of a dog, but what did that matter? She was solidly stacked, and he was in no position to be choosey. That was the crazy thing. Like all the members of the Hart family he was very good looking, and he'd built up his basically good physique by lifting weights. Girls were always giving him the eye, but for some reason he was always shy with them. They'd given him plenty of chances, but he'd never managed to get to the critical moment with a girl-thanks to his sisters and his own rotten luck.
Rotten luck, he thought, that's the story of my life. Like this afternoon....
Classes ended at four o'clock, but the building remained open till five. For a long time Harding had been in the habit of using the gymnasium to exercise. He'd get into sneakers and shorts and work out on the parallel bars, or lift weights.
That afternoon the gym had been deserted. He was in the midst of his daily thirty pushups when he heard a girl's voice say, "Quite a motion you've got there, Harding."
He blushed. He hated himself for showing embarrassment, but he couldn't help it. He recognized the girl-Marilyn Arnold-a senior like himself. According to the grapevine she was a pretty easy bang, but then, according to the same grapevine, practically every girl in the school was. And yet Harding was sure that probably half the guys had never done more than lay a hand on a girl.
Marilyn was standing no more than a yard away from him, smiling, hands on her broad hips, one eyebrow arched.
"Thanks," Harding grunted, and kept right on with his pushups. He didn't know quite what else to say, but he was thinking furiously.
"My, my, how your muscles do bulge," he heard her say.
Harding could see her slim ankles in front of him; and from his position, when his chest touched the sweaty mat, he could see a little way up her skirt. He suddenly realized he'd lost track of the count.
"I'll bet they must feel just like iron." Her voice was a little kittenish now.
"Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty," he counted, knowing that he was lying, then jumped up.
Her head came just about to the level of his shoulders. She was still smiling.
"I'll bet with those arms and shoulders you could break an itty bitty little girl like me in half, if you really wanted to."
"Why would I want to do a thing like that?" he replied.
"Oh, I don't know," she pouted. "You act as if you don't like me or something."
"That's crazy," said Harding. "I never even said two words to you."
"That's just what I mean."
Harding laced his fingers behind his neck and made his biceps dance. "I'm not showing off or anything," he said, "but you act like you'd like to feel my muscles. Go ahead. They're hard, but they're not like iron."
Marilyn stepped very close and put both her hands on his biceps. He flexed as she touched him.
"Say ... that's sort of exciting. Do that again."
Harding dropped his arms around her narrow waist and pulled her hard against his chest. His mouth was searching for hers when she pushed him away. He was bewildered.
"Don't be a sap," she said quickly. "We're standing right out here in the open where anybody can see us."
"There's nobody around," he said.
"You never can tell," she replied. "The janitor will be making the rounds before long, and you never know when a teacher may be hanging around late. Come on, I know a place we can be alone."
She led him to a storeroom at the end of the gym, opened the door, and snapped on the light. The storeroom was small and crowded and smelled of sweat and leather.
"We'll be safe in here," she said. Harding grabbed her again, and this time she responded fiercely to his hungry mouth. He could feel her breasts flatten against his chest and his heart began to stroke violently. With one motion he swept her up into his arms and deposited her on a pile of mats.
"Wait!" she said quickly as he threw himself on top of her.
"What's the matter now?" he gasped.
"You're all sweaty and I've got a freshly pressed dress on. Just take it easy, Harding. This'll only take a second."
Marilyn stood up and kicked off her shoes. Then she pulled her green dress over her head and hung it carefully on one of the wall hooks. Though it had all only taken a few seconds, the scene passed through Harding's mind as if it had taken place in slow motion. The way her full breasts rose when she lifted her arms over her head made him catch his breath. She was wearing a very short half slip and the way her shapely legs disappeared from view tantalized him.
"No sense getting your slip creased," he ventured.
She giggled. It was a pleasant sound, deep in her throat. "Aren't you the clever boy," she said. "But you're right." Fascinated by every motion of her shapely form, he watched her slide the garment down her legs. Harding's attention was now riveted on the garter belt holding up her stockings. For some reason, it was infinitely exciting.
"What with the price of nylons these days," he said, "why risk getting a run?"
She rolled the stockings off, her every movement sharply accentuated in the stark light thrown off by the tiny room's single naked light bulb.
"Next thing you know, you naughty boy, you'll be wanting me to take off everything!"
"Why not?"
"I can't think of any good reason why not, but every girl's got her limits, you know. I can't just strip off everything just as casual as taking a shower. But if I snap the light off it'll be all right."
You poor modest kid, Harding thought as she snapped the switch. But the room was not plunged into darkness. A gloomy light filtered down from the small, dusty window near the ceiling. She must have known that he could see her perfectly as she unhinged her brassiere and stepped out of her panties.
Harding's pulse jumped as she came toward him, her breasts bouncing heavily with each step. The nipples stuck straight out, as if she were cold. In the gloom he could not make out their color.
In an instant their bodies were straining together. Marilyn obviously knew the score, for her tongue was flicking expertly inside his mouth.
Her deftness roused him to an explosive pitch. Unable to restrain himself he got on top and began pressing her knees apart.
"Not so fast, Harding. C'mon, lover, give me a little time to warm up before the ball game starts."
There was an awkward pause. Harding, breathing heavily, felt that he was making a fool of himself. A disgrace to the name of Hart, merchants in sex!
"Say, you're not a rookie at this, are you?" she asked. "I mean, am I the first girl you've-"
"Are you kidding?" he bluffed. "I come from a family of pros."
"Good," she said. "Then let's tune up the instruments before we start the concert."
Relax, Harding told himself. Show this dame what you know. Though Harding had never had a woman, his theoretical knowledge of sex was amazingly broad. As sex was the family business, he had from his earliest years been absorbing quite an extraordinary education in all aspects of sex.
The Harts had always placed great store in education. His sisters, groomed from childhood to be call girls, were obliged to acquire the social polish and sophistication of debutantes. No life of the five-dollar a bang or fifteen-dollar a night whore for any of the Hart girls. They were trained to be fit companions for the most wealthy and powerful of men. In the Hart home was an enormous collection of books dealing with the refinements of sexual techniques, covering all countries and historical periods. These books Harding had pored over again and again, committing many pages to memory.
In his vivid imagination he had applied these techniques to a cross-section of the world's great beauties. Now, he thought, now's my chance to display what I know to a real girl.
Calling on all his powers of self-restraint-for what he really wanted to do was plunge into her firm body at once-Harding decided to play the virtuoso, to tune up Marilyn's instrument until she begged for release.
"Just fold your hands behind your head and relax," he told her. "Make believe you're Queen Catherine of Russia and I'm one of the young lieutenants in your Army. Those boys'd really go out of their way to give the Queen a real charge."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. "But it sounds nice. Fire away, Lieutenant."
Harding began by kissing her toes and running his tongue along the soles of her feet while his fingers drew light circles on the inside of her thighs.
"That's nice," she breathed softly. "You're good, you know, very good."
Three minutes later she was panting deeply and her eyes were half rolling in her head, as if she were either drunk or drugged. It works, Harding thought, all those damn books really do work! Marilyn's arms suddenly clutched him tightly and she spread her thighs.
"I'm ready," she gasped. "Now, Harding. Please-"
"Not so fast," he said. It gave him a sense of power to be in complete command of the situation-now. "You may be ready, but I'm not. Let's see what you know."
Groggily, Marilyn sat up. In the small and close room they were both perspiring. Her breasts were glistening.
Harding rolled over on his back and closed his eyes. He could hardly believe what was happening. He, Harding Hart, was in the process of losing his virginity. The girl was kissing his chest, and now her warm wet mouth was smothering his navel. He felt her long hair falling over his groin.
Suddenly he heard a bell tolling. Marilyn leaped to her feet in a panic. "It-it's five o'clock!" she gasped. "We've got to get out of here! They've probably closed the building already!"
In their passion they had forgotten the passing of time. In what seemed like five seconds both of them had thrown on their clothes and had dashed wildly out of the gym. The corridors of the high school were deserted.
"C'mon," said Marilyn, grabbing him by the arm. "Let's not take any chances running into the janitor or clean-up men. Follow me."
They dashed down a back stairway and headed toward a rear door. No one was in sight. Marilyn pressed against the door. It opened.
"Thank God," she breathed. "We're in the clear."
It wasn't till that moment that Harding realized that he had forgotten to put on his street clothes.
"I can't go out like this," he said. "I'll have to go up to the lockers next to the gym where I left my clothes. You'd better beat it now. Can I see you tonight?"
"Not tonight, darn it," she said. "My family's going away for the week end. We'll have to take this up again on Monday. 'Bye, Harding, I've got to beat it."
She kissed him quickly and dashed out. Harding was still breathing heavily as he walked slowly up the stairs to get dressed. When he came back down again the door still hadn't been closed....
My lousy luck, he thought. If I hadn't been so damned fancy I wouldn't still be a virgin. And now she's gone for the week end. How'll I ever hold out till Monday?
Harding's reverie was shattered by three light taps at the door. He grunted and Martha came in.
When their father had died five years before, it had fallen to Martha to keep the Hart family together. This she had done with great success. Not only was Martha a beautiful girl, she was also very shrewd and warm-hearted.
"You all right, Harding?" she asked, sitting down at the edge of the bed.
"Sure, Sis," he said. "I'm sorry about the way I blew up before. I get a little edgy sometimes."
"We all do," she said, taking his hand.
"A guy does get a little tired of being treated like a kid all the time," he said.
"But you're the man in this family, Harding, don't forget that. Just because we love you so much doesn't mean we're babying you. Besides, what's wrong with sisters babying their only brother?"
"Oh ... nothing, I guess." He pursed his lips.
"Out with it, Harding. We have no secrets from each other."
"Okay," he said, suddenly making up his mind. "If you really want to know, I've got plenty of gripes. You say I'm the man in the family, but what responsibilities do I have? I've never earned a nickel in my life."
"Don't you get a big enough allowance?" Martha asked quickly.
"Sure, more than I can spend, but it's not like earning the dough by myself."
"Be reasonable, Harding. Why should you go out and get some crumby job when my earning capacity is first rate? I promised Mom and Dad you'd finish high school before taking up your responsibilities as our pimp."
It was useless to argue this point with Martha, he realized. She had all the arguments. He tried another tack.
"Okay, what about my clothes?" he said challengingly.
"What about them?" she responded. "You've got the most beautiful wardrobe of any boy your age on the eastern seaboard. At last count you had sixteen suits, nine sport jackets, and heaven knows how many shirts and ties-"
"I know, I know, and everything is tailor made. But I feel like a perfect jerk wearing a hundred dollar sport jacket to school when the other kids are wearing jeans. Furthermore, you pick out my clothes!"
"Now that's simply not true," said Martha firmly. "You have superb taste in clothes. It's true that over the years I've given you some guidance, but you always agreed with my judgment. As for the way your classmates dress, I see no reason to dress like a slob just to be one of the boys."
"But you and Cathy and Coleen do everything for me. The average kid learns how to fight by getting into street battles. But not Harding Hart. When he's thirteen years old his sisters get him an ex-pug to teach him how to handle himself. Remember when I wanted to go away to camp as a kid? Where did I finally wind up? In some goddamn fancy summer academy where we charged around on horses, played golf and tennis and wore uniforms. And you called up my counselor every day to find out how I was."
"Why, Harding, I'm truly shocked," said Martha, wearing a hurt expression. "I thought you enjoyed yourself that summer. If I'd known I'd have taken you home at once. We were all miserable with you away."
"That's just it. You always want me around. I don't get a chance to breathe on my own."
Martha's eyes filled with tears and she bit her lower lip. Harding suddenly felt terrible.
"I'm sorry, Sis," he stammered. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded. You know how much I love you and the others. But a guy's got to grow up. I'll let you in on a little secret. Do you realize I'm still a virgin?"
Martha flushed and stared at him, a baffled expression in her deep green eyes.
"That's right," Harding continued quickly. "Me, Harding Hart, pimp-to-be, brother of call girls, scion of a long line of pimps and prostitutes-I've never been laid!"
"I-I never realized," Martha stammered.
"Well, start realizing!" Harding shot back. "Look at the training Coleen is getting now. Even Daphne-and she's younger than I am-she's already learning the tricks of the trade. But what about me?"
Martha got up from the bed and began pacing the room in long strides. Harding watched her in silence for several moments. He could tell from her expression that she was coming to a decision about something important. At last she laid down beside him again and took both his hands.
"You're right," she said firmly. "In this matter we have been treating you like a child. It's high time you did get some experience. Now I happen to know a girl in the profession who owes me a favor or two who'd be more than glad to do this little thing for me. She's a very beautiful girl with a perfectly wonderful body. When Cathy, Coleen and myself are all tied up I send her customers we can't handle. I know that she's a clean girl and she can teach you plenty."
Harding sat bolt upright as Martha got up and began to pace the room again. He could see all the pieces falling into place in her brain.
"Yes, Rhonda will be just right for you," she went on, almost as if she were talking to herself, "but only as a start. She lacks real imagination. We may as well set up a regular series of lessons. Let me think now ... Rhonda will do for a session or two, then I think you should move on. Yes, definitely. Shirley Kwan-she's a cameo-like little beauty from Japan-plenty of training as a geisha. She knows plenty about oriental techniques. Then I think a girl like Yolanda Perez would be just right ... a very fiery Mexican temperament. Hmm, let me see now...."
Martha continued pacing, lost in thought, then the stream of ideas started again. "It's all clear now. After Yolanda you go on to Nancy Davis. She's a huge Negro girl, about six feet tall, with perfectly enormous breasts and colossal thighs and all sorts of Dixieland tricks. She'll be most important to your education. Then I think you'll be ready to appreciate a girl like Karen Herman. She's a fantastic Danish beauty who's one of the highest priced girls in the world. She'll cost a thousand or so a night, but it'll be worth it for your education."
"Damn it! Stop talking about my education!" Harding exploded. "And I don't want you doing me any favors!"
Martha looked at him incredulously. "But I-I thought-"
"I know what you thought, and don't think my mouth wasn't watering listening to you rattle on about all those girls. But I won't have you buying me my first piece, understand? Just let me get rid of my virginity on my own, okay? For Chris-sake, you give me room and board, buy me my clothes, give me an allowance-at least allow me to get a girl on my own."
"Now you are being childish," insisted Martha. "Why go hunting around for some little slut who may even give you a disease when I can make it possible for you to sleep with some of the most beautiful and sought after-"
"I know! I know! You can make it possible! But for a change I want to do something on my own. I don't want either you or Cathy or Coleen butting in. Is that clear?"
"All right, all right, Harding dear. For heaven's sake, don't get so excited. I was only trying to be helpful. We won't discuss it any more. Now please get washed. Dinner is almost ready."
CHAPTER TWO
The Hart family was unusually quiet at dinner that night. Not even Daphne's irrepressible spirits could rouse Harding out of his angry mood. Cathy suggested they all go out to a movie afterwards, but Harding refused to go along.
"All right, then," said Coleen. "We'll all stay home and chat."
"Just because I don't feel like going out is no reason for everybody to stay home," Harding snapped.
"What is the matter with you, Harding?" Daphne asked. "You're biting everybody's head off."
Harding didn't answer. He plunked himself down in a chair in the living room and started leafing through a copy of Life. Coleen and Daphne soon joined him, though not Martha and Cathy. Coleen played soothing Chopin waltzes on the piano while Daphne continued work on the red turtle-neck sweater she was knitting for Harding.
They just can't leave me alone, Harding thought. I know they love me and all that, but they are strangling me with their attention. I guess I'll never grow up till I get away from here and start living on my own.
But the moment he thought of leaving his sisters he felt a great rush of affection go out to them. He loved them all very deeply and they were each devoted to him. That was the trouble. They were too devoted, too protective.
After a while Martha and Cathy came into the room. Martha was wearing a very serious expression. "I want to talk to you, Harding," she said. "Alone."
"Look, if it's about that matter before, I'm not interested."
"This is quite another subject. It has to do with business."
Harding was instantly interested. Martha led him into the library and hi-fi room which adjoined. She carefully closed the door and motioned him to a chair.
"Anything wrong?" he asked, noticing the set of her mouth.
"Nothing serious, but I do have a little problem. Before very long you're going to have to take over our professional affairs. In view of our conversation before I think you ought to start learning something right now about the sort of situations a pimp has to confront.
Harding leaned forward eagerly in his chair.
"Remember my telling you before that I occasionally give some of our overflow business to girls in the profession? Well, when we refer a John to somebody else we get what you might call an agent's fee, fifteen per cent. Now in the last few weeks I've sent a certain girl three customers and she hasn't paid up. They were hundred-dollar Johns. Fifteen per cent of three hundred dollars is only forty-five dollars, but there's a business principle involved. This girl is simply a chiseler and a disgrace to our profession. I've called her about it several times but she keeps making excuses. Obviously, she doesn't intend to pay."
"You want me to collect?" Harding asked incredulously.
"Precisely. It's bad for the profession to let anybody get away with reneging."
"What if she refuses?"
"You disappoint me, Harding," said Martha with some exasperation. He'd never seen quite such hard lines around her mouth. "A pimp's work is sometimes a little ... rough, shall we say? If she gives you a hard time, slap her around a little. If she still refuses, threaten to press a lighted cigarette into her creamy white navel. For forty-five dollars she's not likely to put up too much resistance. That's why I'm giving you this job. It shouldn't be too hard, and it'll give you some experience."
Harding suddenly felt a foot taller.
"Gosh, Sis," he said. "I-I really appreciate your confidence in me. When do you want me to do this job?"
"Tonight," Martha snapped. "The girl's name is Terry Arden. She's got an apartment in the Whitman Hotel. Get into a dark blue suit and take a cab over there."
"But how do you know she'll be in?" asked Harding, a little puzzled. "Won't she beer-working?"
"It's all arranged," said Martha. "I called her up a little while ago and told her I had a John we couldn't handle and that this was the last customer I'd ever send her if she didn't pay up immediately. She put on a big grateful act, but I could tell it was phony. She expects to collect a hundred bucks and keep it all. You're the John tonight, Harding. She's expecting you. So you shouldn't have any trouble collecting the debt."
Harding looked at his sister with increased respect for her efficiency and determination. No wonder she'd been able to take care of the whole Hart family since she was barely twenty.
"Don't worry, Martha," Harding said decisively. "I'll collect that dough if I have to break both her arms."
An hour later Harding Hart, dressed in a dark blue serge suit, white shirt and maroon tie, entered the spacious lobby of the luxurious Whitman Hotel. He walked quickly to the house phones and called room 913. A sultry voice answered at the second ring.
"Yes? Who is this?"
"William Blake," Harding answered. "Is this Terry Arden?"
"That's me. Come right up, Mister Blake. I've been expecting you."
Harding took the elevator up to the ninth floor, fighting to keep his emotions under control. This had been a big day for him already. What had happened in the storeroom in the gym that afternoon had been great, but what was about to happen was in a way far more important. For this was his first assignment in the work at which he fully expected to spend his life. Martha had at long last shown some confidence in him. He was finally being treated like an adult.
He rang the buzzer at room 913 and the door was opened almost at once. The girl was about Martha's age and one of the flashiest beauties he had ever seen.
"Come in, Mister Blake," she said quickly.
Terry Arden closed the door and bolted it. Then she smiled radiantly, showing a perfect set of teeth, and motioned him to a couch.
"Can I fix you a drink? Scotch? Bourbon?"
"Er ... Make it a beer," he said quickly. He knew he had to keep his head about him for the work ahead.
"Beer it is," said Terry. "I'm a beer drinker myself, you know. I come from a long line of Pennsylvania coal miners myself. My old man had me drinking beer before I was twelve."
"You don't look like a coal miner's daughter."
"Thanks," said Terry gaily. "I've come a long way in the last few years."
There was an awkward pause as she went into the kitchen. The room was only dimly illuminated and it had taken a few moments for Harding to begin noticing the furnishings. Everything seemed very expensive and very garish. The couch he was sitting on was a bright purple and the two deep easy-chairs were turquoise and fuchsia.
"Here we are," Terry said brightly, carrying a tray containing several bottles of beer and two glasses. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable, Mister Blake? Mind if I call you Bill? Take off your shoes and relax."
Terry hopped up on the couch beside him and folded her long tanned legs under her. She smiled and they clicked their beer glasses together.
"Bottoms up," she said, and drained her glass in a series of long smooth gulps.
"Comfy?" she asked.
By now Harding felt very uncomfortable. The girl's nearness was arousing him. He wished that he were in fact a customer and not here to collect a debt. As these thoughts raced through his mind Terry pulled the bow at the top of her gauzy kimono. The garment fell open just enough to reveal the deep cleavage between her breasts. She leaned forward so that her mop of flaming red hair touched his face and the scent of her perfume reached him.
"You're an awfully good looking guy, Bill," she said. "If these weren't my working hours I'd be glad to give away a free sample. You know what I mean?"
All at once a bold idea struck him. Why not hit the sack with this girl and then collect the forty-five-dollar debt? It would serve the little chiseler right. Instead of the century note she expected, she'd wind up having given it away and she'd still have to cough up the forty-five. Otherwise he'd rough her up a little. The thought excited him. Yes, he'd bang her first. That would be a sort of interest on the debt. Harding drained off the rest of his beer and took a deep breath. He felt very self-confident now, very much in control of the situation. This girl thought she was getting paid for her work. Okay, he'd make her earn it.
"Free samples are never as good as what you pay for," said Harding, trying to sound as tough as possible. "When I pay for a piece I expect first-rate merchandise. Let's see if what you're selling is worth a hundred bucks. On your feet and start stripping."
Terry looked a little startled. It seemed as if she wanted to say something but then thought better of it. Harding knew that call girls had to cater to different tastes in customers. He'd make this one cater as she never had before.
He lifted a fresh glass of beer to his lips and tried to sip calmly as Terry went into her strip act. Be the picture of nonchalance, he told himself. Don't let this dame know it's the first time for you. Terry was out of her filmy garments in seconds and stood brazenly before him, one hand on her hip, the other behind her neck, in a theatrical pose.
"You like?" she purred.
"Turn around," he snapped. "When I buy merchandise I like to see the whole cloth."
A slightly quizzical expression passed over Terry's face, but she obeyed. When Harding saw the high, firm buttocks above the long full thighs he was glad the girl couldn't see him. His hand trembled and the glass of beer almost slipped from his grasp.
"Worth a hundred bucks?" Terry asked, turning to face him.
"The equipment's okay. I'll let you know about the price when I road-test it."
"Well, then, let's get this show on the road. Will the couch do as a proving ground?"
"I like to spread out. You got a bedroom in this dump?"
"This way, your highness."
Harding figured he was overdoing the tough act, but he was enjoying the role. As he followed Terry his eyes remained riveted on her gently rolling hams. For some reason they excited him more than her perfect breasts.
An enormous king-size bed occupied almost the entire bedroom. The sheets were a flaming red.
"I like to match my hair," Terry said at once.
She sat down in the middle, her back resting against the headboard, and drew her knees up to her chest in a coy attitude.
Harding felt his nonchalance dribbling away.
"Better change into your birthday suit," she said as he came toward her.
For an instant he lost his composure, then got a grip on himself. Take your time, he kept urging himself, timing is everything.
Not a word passed between them as Harding undressed. The girl had lit a cigarette and was watching him intently, taking deep drags and blowing smoke out of her nostrils.
"Talk about equipment!" Terry said admiringly. "You don't do so bad yourself. You a weight lifter or something?"
"I keep in shape. Okay, now, douse the cigarette and spread out. I'm ready."
"That I can see for myself," she said, crushing the butt out quickly. "And so am I."
Harding took her into his arms and gave her a long, deep, passionate kiss, slowly pressing her head back into the pillow. This time there would be no tolling bells to interrupt, he thought. It was actually going to happen! Terry's arms had tightened around his shoulders and she was rubbing his leg with her toes in a maddeningly exciting way. A little moan of pleasure escaped him.
"You like that?" Terry asked. "Not bad."
"Listen," Terry said abruptly, pulling away from him. "Tonight I'm as hot as that two-dollar pistol you keep hearing about. Suppose we forget that you're paying for it and make out like we were lovers or something. It's better that way, believe me. I guarantee you won't be sorry."
"I'm game," sad Harding.
"Good. So let's start out from scratch. Do you dance?"
"Sure, but-"
Terry hopped out of bed and turned on a phonograph. A Cole Porter foxtrot filled the room.
"Dance with me, sweetheart," Terry said, extending her arms.
Naked, their bodies pressed tightly together, they glided around the room. She laid her head against his shoulder dreamily.
"Just for the hell of it," she mumured. "Tell me you love me."
"I love you, honey," he said, after only an instant's pause. He didn't mind playing the game.
"I love you, too," she replied, pressing her lips against his collar bone. "You're a wonderful dancer, Harding, you're as smooth as silk."
His body went suddenly rigid. For an instant their eyes met. Terry bit her lip and Harding's face filled with rage. With one motion he swept her up and flung her violently down on the bed so that she bounced six inches.
"You little bitch!" he exploded. "How the hell did you know my real name?"
"I-I-"
"Martha put you up to this, didn't she? Spit it out or I'll belt you one!"
"Take it easy, kid. Jesus, if Martha finds out I let the cat out of the bag-"
Harding was pacing around the room like a madman. Everything was perfectly clear to him now.
"This business about you owing forty-five bucks-that was just baloney, wasn't it? Martha wanted me to come up here and collect a phony debt, right? You were to pay up but get me to hop into bed with you. As a favor to my sister, right?"
"Okay, okay, so you figured it out. But why get so sore? Your sister was just trying to break you in with somebody she could trust. Listen, most guys never make a girl like me, so what's your beef? I was all set to teach you a thing or two. I'm still ready to."
Harding was speechless with rage. Furiously, he flung into his clothes, muttering curses.
"Come on, now, Harding," Terry said cajolingly. "Cool off. If it'll make you feel any better, I want you to know that I'd put out for a guy like you for free even if I didn't know your sister."
Without saying a word, Harding strode toward the door. A look of panic came over Terry's face.
"Look, kid," she yelled. "You've put me in a tough spot. I promised Martha I'd take care of you good. I owe her lots of favors."
"Don't worry about Martha," Harding snarled. "I'll take care of her, but good!"
Harding banged the door of the Hart home behind him with a crash. His four sisters looked startled as he entered the living room, his face still livid.
"I want to talk to you, Martha!" he spat out. "Alone!"
Martha's face turned white, but she said nothing. As soon as they were alone in the library, Harding exploded.
"I'm warning you," he said grimly. "I want you to stop interfering in my life. You made a fool out of me tonight."
"You-you found out?" she stammered.
"You bet I did. Once and for all, stop interfering! Allow me to get into my first girl on my own, will you? That's all I ask, butt out of it!"
"Now, Harding, honey, aren't you being a bit ridiculous? Terry is not only a beautiful girl, she's an expert in bed, a real pro. I was only trying-"
"I know what you were trying, and I want you to stop. Is that clear? What am I, a creep or something? Don't you think I have any self-respect?"
"For heaven's sake, Harding, is there any harm in my trying to help you-"
"I don't need your help, dammit! I can get all the girls I want on my own. When I want your help I'll ask for it."
"All right, if that's how you feel," Martha said, blinking back tears.
"That's exactly how I feel," Harding snarled. With that he pounded out of the room and went up to bed.
* * *
The following Monday was a complete disaster. The week end had dragged by interminably. Harding was like a bear at home. Not only Martha, but all his sisters kept out of his way. His mind was riveted on one thing: Marilyn. Compared to Terry, of course, she was nothing, but at least she was a girl he would be making without his family's assistance. Better to catch a sparrow on your own, he thought, than be handed a peacock.
Immediately after classes he went up to the gym and waited. Marilyn showed up promptly, wearing a tight yellow sweater in which her breasts bulged. Harding grabbed her immediately and kissed her so hard she winced.
"Say, she gasped. "What are you trying to do, squeeze me to death?"
He pulled her into the storeroom and closed the door.
"Come on," he said urgently. "Off with your clothes. I'm burning up."
But no sooner were they lying nude on the mats when the worst happened. They were caught by the principal of the school, Mr. Havemeyer, who was making his routine monthly inspection of the gym.
It was agony, telling the story to Martha later, but there was no help for it. As his legal guardian, Martha had been summoned by the principal to be in his office at 10:30 the following morning.
"It was horrible," said Harding. "That poor kid Marilyn nearly died on the spot. Havemeyer was yelling and yammering like an idiot. 'Degenerates!' he kept raving. 'My school is riddled with degenerates!' Marilyn was bawling all over the place, begging old Havemeyer not to tell her parents. But of course the old bastard will."
"Never mind about the girl," said Martha. "What did he say he was going to do to you?"
"He was all for calling the police on the spot. He acts like he wants to put me away in some reformatory for about ten years. You'd think I'd committed a murder or something."
"Were you actually in the act when he caught you?"
"No, dammit. We were just getting set to."
"Good. Then there's no real case against you. Petting isn't against the law, even in the nude."
"He says he's going to expel me-even though it's just two weeks till graduation. I'd led this innocent girl astray. If you ask me, he was drooling at the sight of Marilyn's boobs. He would not even turn around while she got dressed."
"I see. That's interesting."
"He's the degenerate one, if you ask me. Martha, he's out for my scalp. You think he's really going to call the police in on this?"
"Maybe. Since he hasn't done so already, then there's a chance he can be persuaded not to. Did you tell him your parents were dead?"
"I had to. He kept yelling he wanted to see my father and mother in his office tomorrow. When I told him that my older sister was my legal guardian he said he'd speak to you. I wanted to poke him one. I could tell that the old bastard was enjoying every second of having me under his thumb. But I'll be damned if I'll crawl to him."
"Let me handle this," said Martha. "Don't worry, Harding. I won't let Mr. Havemeyer or anybody else harm one little hair on my kid brother's head."
* * *
Harding's first class the following morning was at nine o'clock. In the corridors just before the first class bell rang, he saw Marilyn. She was wearing a simple, dark dress and had no makeup on. The difference in her appearance was astounding. Harding dashed up to her.
"Did Havemeyer ask your parents to come to school?" he asked.
"No," she replied. "He said he was going to give me a chance to prove I was a decent girl. But one false move, he said, and he'd have the juvenile authorities on my neck. So keep out of my way, Harding Hart. If my parents find out they'll kill me."
"How come he's giving you this break? I don't get it."
"Neither do I," Marilyn said. "I think maybe he's hot for me."
"Could be. You going to let him get in?"
"If that old creep lays a hand on me I'll scream so loud they'll hear me in the next state. Boy, wouldn't I love to hang a rap on him. I just hope he gives me the chance. Now beat it, Harding, I'm not supposed to be talking to you."
Harding didn't hear a thing during his first class.
At ten o'clock he dutifully went off to his mathematics lesson. As the minutes ticked away toward ten-thirty he felt his heart beginning to pound. As the fatal moment came the hands of the clock seemed to blur for an instant. The minute hand moved on as Harding stared. The class ended and still he had not been summoned to Mr. Havemeyer's office.
By the end of his history class, at 12, there was still no word. The lunch hour had arrived. Harding could stand it no more. Instead of going to the school cafeteria he marched up to the principal's office.
"May I see Mr. Havemeyer?" he asked.
The ancient secretary stared at him coldly.
Just at that moment the principal emerged from his office. He saw Harding at once and his long face creased into a wide smile.
"Ah, there, my boy!" he boomed, draping a skinny arm around Harding's shoulder. "I was just about to send for you. Step into my office."
Harding could scarcely believe his ears. Mr. Havemeyer seemed in ebullient spirits.
"Sit down there, Harding, my lad," the principal continued. "No need for excessive formality, I always say."
"Was ... was my sister here?" Harding ventured.
"Yes, yes, left a while ago. Charming young lady, absolutely charming. One rarely encounters such breeding these days. A pleasure to talk to."
"About yesterday, Mister Havemeyer-"
"Tut, tut, my lad, let's hear no more of that. A momentary aberration, nothing more. Mere overstimulation of the glands. Youthful exuberance. I've decided to forget the entire matter. I'm quite sure a young man like yourself, coming from such an excellent home, of such fine American stock, is utterly incapable of a genuinely immoral act. Your charming sister made that quite clear."
"Well, thanks, Mister Havemeyer. I appreciate-"
"Think nothing of it. I do hope we'll become friends, Harding. This little incident may prove to have had a silver lining."
Harding got away as soon as he could. He could hardly wait to get home and talk to Martha. Silver lining, Mr. Havemeyer had said. Harding was sure that the silver lining for the principal had been Martha's satin panties!
And he was not far wrong.
Over dinner that night Martha told the whole story. The merriment in the Hart family was enormous.
"A man is a man," Martha was saying, "And I knew this Mister Havemeyer would be no different. He started to drool the minute he saw me. As soon as we were alone in his office I turned on the charm, told him that as a man of the world he surely understood that adolescents were occasoinally given to excess. Meanwhile I let my skirt ride above my knees as I crossed my legs. His eyes practically popped out of his head. I went on about how justice must be tempered with understanding, and I leaned over earnestly, far enough for him to get a good deep look at my cleavage. Meanwhile I let the skirt creep a little higher.
"The old boy was actually drooling. He didn't say a word, just kept staring. Before he knew what had happened, I was talking about the Hart family troubles, how we had all been left orphans, without the hand of a strong, older man to guide us. I let my eyes grow misty. Sure enough, he took my hands and patted them. He was just full of the milk of human kindness. Then I burst into tears and rested my head on his shoulder-ugh!-meanwhile pressing my boobs against him.
"I could feel his old heart pumping away. I told him how comforting it was even to be in the presence of a strong and understanding man, how much I needed guidance. I told him I hoped we would get to know each other better, much better. By the time I left he was really straining at the bit."
The girls roared with laughter. So did Harding. "Then you didn't hop onto his couch?" he asked. "Of course not. As long as he has hopes for the future, he'll be very good to you, Harding. You can never tell with old lechers like him. If I'd put out, he just might not be. I'll keep dangling it for him until you graduate. I can assure you that from now on he'll be most co-operative."
Mr. Havemeyer proved indeed to be co-operative, too co-operative, and for Harding the rest of the week was pure hell. The principal visited one of the classes where Harding was present.
After Harding answered a question put by the teacher, the principal interrupted to say, "An excellent answer, Mister Hart. In fact, brilliant. You are a credit to the school. Wouldn't you say so, Mrs. Chapman?"
Harding's teacher stood there dumbfounded.
"Yes, yes, of course, Mister Havemeyer," she stammered. "A first-rate answer."
During the daily assembly in the school auditorium, the principal called upon Harding to hold the American flag while the pledge of allegiance was said, and afterward, in a booming voice, complimented him. When Harding sat down in his seat, he felt as if every pair of eyes in the auditorium was staring at him. He heard someone whisper, "Jeez, the principal acts like he's in love with Harding or something."
At that moment, Harding made a major decision about his future.
* * *
He waited till after dinner the following Saturday to break the news. Martha, Coleen, Cathy, and Daphne were busily discussing a recent book on the art of sex when Harding spoke.
"I've made a big decision," he said slowly and firmly. "One that can't be reversed. I've decided that I've got to make a life of my own. I've got to go where you girls can't help me. I'm going to make my own money, and my own women, all by my own self."
"What do you mean?" the four chorused.
"I joined the Navy this afternoon. I leave for boot camp as soon as I graduate from high school next week. I won't even be around to pick up my diploma. You'll have to do that for me."
"We can't," Martha said.
"Why not?"
"When you leave, we leave. I'll turn the house over to a real estate agency and let them rent it out. We promised Mom and Dad we'd stick together as a family-and by George, we're going to do it!"
"You can't, Sis," he said. "You just can't. Don't you understand? I'll be on a Navy base, living in a barracks, or on a ship at sea. You can't live either of those places."
"No, but we can live in the nearest town so you can come home when you're off duty. If they send you to sea, we'll settle down in your home port to be there when your ship comes in."
"Are you serious?" he asked.
"Of course I am. We figured this out long ago, honey. We knew you were growing up, and that some day, whether you volunteered or waited to be drafted, you'd be going off to the service. So now the time has come. You're going off, and we are going with you."
"Yes," echoed Daphne. "You're not getting away from us. What would we do without a man in the family?"
His only reply was a thoroughly defeated shake of the head.
CHAPTER THREE
It was visitor's day at Harding's boot camp. He had not seen his sisters for four weeks, although they had rented a house in the little town outside the main gate. It would be still another two weeks before he was permitted to go on his first weekend liberty.
I've certainly missed them, he thought, getting into his dress blue uniform.
"Christ, what a slob of a sailor you make, Hart. I ought not to let you go over to the visitor's area at all in that potato sack."
The voice belonged to Jergens, the seaman 'boot'-pusher-the straw boss who assisted the recruit company commander.
"It's the uniform they issued me, sir," Harding replied.
"They issued you a needle and thread, too, didn't they? You ought to do something about that potato sack."
"Yessir, I'll try, first thing after chow tonight."
Jergens walked off growling angrily. Several of the other recruits walked over to Harding.
"I'd like to punch that punk in the nose," one of them said.
"It burns my tail to have to say 'sir' to a frigging seaman," said another.
"Well, he's King Tut to us boots. We just have to open our mouths and take it," still another said. "But Jeez, it's a shame the way he picks on Hart all the time. What did you ever do to him?"
"Nothing," Harding said. "I didn't do anything to him."
"He's just jealous," the first said. "Always bragging about what a skirt slayer he was, until he saw Hart here in the shower and nearly dropped his teeth. You notice he hasn't been bragging any since then? Whenever the subject comes up he just mutters, 'It ain't what you got, it's how you use it that counts.' That didn't use to be his tune."
"We ought to do something about the way he takes it out on Hart," the second said.
"Lay off, fellows. All my life I've had someone looking out for me. Now that I've finally gotten off on my own, don't you guys try that stuff. I can take all the crap Jergens dishes out. Just let me worry about my problems myself."
"Okay, Mac," the third one said. "If that's the way you want it, that's the way it'll be."
There were a hundred and twenty men in Harding's company, but only twenty-nine of them were receiving visitors. They lined up in front of the barracks. After warning them of all the dire punishments he would inflict if they did anything wrong, Jergens marched them to the visitor's area.
In the area there was a fenced-in lawn on which they could stroll around, picnic tables for those whose visitors brought food, and a roofed shelter in case of rain.
When Harding saw his sisters they were all running across the lawn toward him. Daphne won the race, leaping into his arms and covering his face with kisses. The others were right behind her, grabbing him and following her example. His face was covered with lipstick from chin to forehead.
"Watch that stuff, Mac," Jergens growled from behind him. "Let's not put on too much of a show in here. You know the rules."
"Who's that surly character?" asked Daphne after Jergens had strolled on out of earshot.
"He's my boot-pusher. It's his job to keep us in line."
"Has he been picking on you?" Cathy asked.
"Oh, forget it. That's his job."
"Well, he doesn't have to be so nasty about it."
"Certainly not," said Martha indignantly. "When will you be able to come home for a real good dinner, Harding?"
"I won't get liberty for another two weeks, dammit."
"But when you do get it," said Cathy, "we're all really going to have a ball. Did you miss us, Harding?"
"I must admit it, life has been prety miserable without you girls."
At that, the girls beamed. They sat down at the picnic tables and talked. They wanted to know everything Harding had done, how many hours a night he slept, how the food was, whether he was well treated, and so on and so forth. It seemed as if the only interesting thing in the world to them was the welfare of their only brother.
Some twenty minutes later Jergens strode up to the machine nearby, inserted a coin, and waited for his coke.
"Oh, that nice man you were telling us about!" Cathy exclaimed. "Introduce us, Harding."
"Uh, well, er, Martha, Cathy, Coleen, Daphne, this is Mister Jergens, my assistant company commander."
The seaman beamed.
"I'm pleased to meet you, all of you. I really am. Your brother here is going to make a fine sailor."
"Harding spoke very highly of you, Mister Jergens," Martha said. "Do you have to wait two weeks before you get liberty also?"
"Oh, no ma'am, that's just for the trainees. I have three-out-of-four liberty. I'm off at sixteen hundred today."
"Sixteen hundred?"
"Oh, I mean four o'clock, civilian time."
"Why, that's wonderful," Daphne said. "You can come over to the house to have supper with us. That is, if you haven't any other plans."
"No ma'am, I don't have any other plans. I sure don't. I'd be dee-lighted to come over to your house for supper."
"That's fine," Martha said, reaching into her purse and scribbling their address on a slip of paper. "We'll be expecting you as soon after four as you can get there."
"It'll be soon after then," Jergens said. "Very soon after."
"Why did you have to do that?" Harding complained as soon as Jergens walked away. "I thought you were through interfering with my affairs. I don't need anyone looking out for me."
"Oh, but you do," Cathy said. "That man was being mean to you, and that shouldn't be. I don't think he'll be mean to you after tonight."
"Oh, Jeez, I just don't like the idea of that rat touching any of you, that's all."
"He's not a rat, honey, he's a man," Martha said. "And in case you didn't know it, we like being touched by a man."
The Hart family was sitting around the fireplace in their home near the Naval base, listening to the crackling of the fire and luxuriating in its warmth. It was only late summer, but the day had been damp, windy, and cool.
"What a supper!" Harding said. "Daphne, you should be a cook when you finish school."
"You know very well what I'm going to be," Daphne said. "I only wish Martha would let me start now."
"Mom said twenty-one was plenty early for a girl to enter the profession," Martha said. "Besides, you need your education."
"Education? I can count up to a hundred dollars already."
"Yes, but there are other things you need to know. This business involves more things than meet the eye."
"Well, it gets awfully boring being a virgin."
"You can say that again," Harding said.
"Anyway, Daphne," said Martha. "When you finish high school, you'll have three more years for additional education-ballet, acrobatics, speech-"
"Speech? Why should I study speech? You told me yourself that at least half of the time you're not in any position to do any speaking."
"But you do have to discuss prices and arrangements. You must appear very educated, sophisticated, upper-cultured, in order to command the higher prices. You don't want to be a common prostitute."
"Oh, I guess you're right," Daphne said, pouting. "Five more years just seems like such a long time to wait."
They sat for a few moments in silence. Harding lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew the smoke toward the ceiling.
"How has business been here?"
"We can't complain," Martha said. "These sailors don't make a lot of money, but most of them are a long way from home, and with so many men around, it's hard for them to get any free sex from the local belles. Why do you ask?"
"Because we'll be staying here awhile longer. Right after boot training, I'm being assigned to Journalist's School. That'll be another three months."
"That's great, honey," said Coleen. "What will you be then? A newspaper man?"
"More or less. A journalist tells the Navy story through the papers, magazines, radio, television, all the news media. And I'll stand a good chance of not getting sea duty."
"Just introduce us to the men who make the assignments and we'll see that you never get sea duty," Coleen said.
Harding stood up, threw his cigarette into the fireplace and strode angrily around the living room.
"For Heaven's sakes," he said. "Stop taking the whole Navy to bed with you just to get me favors. I just can't take any more of that. I've never been so miserable in my life as I've been since you gave Jergens the royal treatment."
"But he promised to be good to you from then on," Cathy said.
"Good to me? He is, dammit. That's just the trouble. He's too goddamned good to me. It's worse than with old principal Havemeyer. Jergens smiles whenever he sees me. He speaks to me with honey in his mouth. He takes me off all the crap details. He looks out for me like he's in love with me. And that's exactly what all the fellows think. They think I've gone queer to get on the good side of him."
"Which side is the good side?" Coleen asked, puzzled.
"One of you ought to know that better than I. It's no joking matter. I'm asking you, on bended knees, please don't ever take any more Navy men to bed-I'd better phrase that differently-don't ever give any sex favors to anyone in the Navy in order to help me. Will all of you promise me that?"
Dramatically, he got down on his knees and spread his arms in a gesture of supplication.
One by one the girls agreed, but Harding wasn't sure they meant it.
CHAPTER FOUR
In Journalist School Harding studied hard and was rewarded with high grades. He found the subjects interesting. He was perhaps even more interested in six of his classmates-two women Marines and four Waves.
Jeez, this is my big chance, he thought. If I can make it with any woman, I ought to be able to make it with one of them. If what I've always heard about women in the service is true, they're always ready to hop in bed with a man.
As the weeks went by Harding found that there were two big obstacles in the path to his success. The first was competition. In addition to himself, there were thirty-five other males in his class-twenty sailors and fifteen marines; and almost all of them shared Harding's desire to know their coed classmates better. Some of them had automobiles and plenty of experience with women, and it was these who seemed to be making out right away.
Harding's second obstacle was his shyness. On the few occasions when he could find one of the girls without other admirers trying to make time with her, he found himself strangely tongue-tied.
One night during his eighth week of school he had to remain aboard the station to finish an assignment in photography. He had one negative to develop and print before the morning classes.
When he entered the lab he was pleasantly surprised to find Seaman Apprentice Janice Holmes about to enter one of the small student darkrooms. He had noticed many times that she was not adverse to sharing a darkroom with one of her male classmates.
"How many negatives do you have?" he asked, blushing.
"Just two," she said sweetly. "How many do you have?"
"One."
"Then why don't you put it in my tank? There's room for twelve."
"I'd love to," he said. "I'll be right with you."
"Good. It gets so boring standing in the dark for about fifteen minutes with no one to talk to, just waiting for the timer to ring."
They entered the four-foot square cubicle and turned out the lights. For a few moments they were both busy unloading their film holders and putting the negatives in racks for insertion into the tank.
"I'm ready any time you are," she said.
"Good. Let's drop them in and jiggle them. I'll pull down the arm on the timer."
"Now the long wait," she said. "Don't you get tired of waiting for things? It seems that life is so full of waits."
"It certainly is," he said. "For some things I've been waiting all of my eighteen years."
"Eighteen! That's a sweet age. I'll bet you think I'm an old bag. I'm twenty-two."
"Oh no, I definitely don't think that. I think you are-just right. You're very pretty."
"Pretty in the face, I suppose. But I don't have any sex appeal. I'm so flat chested and all."
"But you're wrong, Miss Holmes, very wrong. I think you have a great deal of sex appeal."
"You're just saying that to be nice."
"No, I really mean it."
"I'll have to see for myself."
He didn't know what to do next. Is she ready? he asked himself. Is this it? Do I have to say anything else, do anything else, or can I just go ahead and make love to her?
He had only a moment to think these thoughts before he felt her expertly unfastening his thirteen buttons. His heart leapt inside him. We'll have to do it standing up, he thought. There isn't room to lie down on the floor.
He reached for her skirt, hoping that if he were awkward in removing it, she would help him. Just as his hands should have closed about her waist, they came in contact with her hair. He was surprised. Couldn't she reach the buttons without kneeling?
He waited for her to rise, but when she finished unbuttoning him, she reached through the fly of his underwear and brought out the equipment he intended to use in his assault.
It's ready, in position, he thought. Now get up and let's get you ready.
But she didn't rise. He felt her hands, one beside the other, encircle him there, and then he felt her warm moist lips.
"No, get up, you don't have to do anything to get me ready. I'm ready now."
But she did not get up. He reached down and worked his hands under her armpits, lifting her upwards. She fought against him, holding on until it hurt, but he ignored her yankings and brought her face up to the level of his own, although in the dark he could see nothing.
"Not that," he said. "Come on, let's get your skirt and panties off."
"No, please, let me go. I'll satisfy you."
"Not that way. The regular way."
"No, I can't let you have intercourse with me. I might get pregnant."
"But I have something in my wallet I can put on to prevent that."
"No, please, I still can't. I don't like it that way. Let me finish. Please, I'll make it good. Please, let me get back to what I was doing."
"No, if you don't want it the regular way, then let's forget the whole thing."
"But I can't forget it. I need it. You don't know how much I need it."
"If you need it so much, get one of the other men back in here for seconds."
"No, you don't understand. It has to be someone different every time. I can't help it. Each time it has to be a stranger. Man or woman, boy or old man, black or white, nothing matters except that it's a stranger. Please, when I started it was better than it's ever been for me. I'll never get over it if you don't let me finish."
He dropped her, defeated and disgusted, standing there patiently bestowing his charity to her. In the dark he heard the timer ring. Without moving he reached over and pulled the negatives from the developer and dropped them in the hypo. After several minutes had elapsed he pulled them from the hypo and dropped them in the tank of cold water to rinse. He felt for the faucet and turned it on, in order that the negatives wash thoroughly.
He could have turned on the light at that point, but he preferred to give his charity in the dark. He waited, hearing the sink drain slurping at the water as it overflowed from the tank. In his moment of release he turned the faucet on harder, until the drain gurgled noisily, drowning out another gurgling he did not want to hear.
Well, I have done my good deed for today, he thought, as he felt his thirteen buttons being fastened for him. He waited until his classmate turned on the light before speaking.
"Let's see how the pictures came out," he said.
She reached into the water and held the negatives up to the light, one at a time.
"Bad news," she said. "My two are underdeveloped, while yours is overdeveloped, way, way overdeveloped."
He took them from her and looked for himself.
"Yes, but they'll print. You'll have to use the smallest diaphram opening on the enlarger, and I'll have to use a number one photoflood in place of the regular enlarger bulb. At any rate, all is not lost."
The print Harding got from his negative was grainy and not up to his usual standards, but there was no time to do it over. It pulled down his grade in photography just enough to make him graduate with only the second highest grades in his class.
CHAPTER FIVE
"How do you like this house?" Martha asked.
"I don't," Harding said. "It's too big. Why do we need twelve bedrooms? You're not thinking of becoming regular house whores are you?"
"Of course not. We won't be using the extra bedrooms. I took this house because of the huge living room and dining room. We'll be doing a lot of entertaining."
"Why? We never have before."
"Oh, but now that you're in public relations, it will be absolutely necessary. In fact, you're throwing a big press party tonight."
"The hell I am. I'm not doing a damned thing tonight. It's only Saturday and I don't even report in for duty until Monday."
"That's just it," she said. "Get off on the right foot with the news people before you ask them for any favors. Don't you worry though. We're going to take care of the arrangements. We're going around to make all the invitations in person."
"Now listen, I thought you girls promised me you wouldn't interfere with my Naval career any more."
"Oh no we didn't. We promised not to take any more Navy men to bed with us on your behalf, but we didn't say anything about civilians. And we are definitely not going to make any further promises. You're our brother and we want to do what we can to see that you get ahead. You're in public relations and we're in private relations, and the one might as well help the other."
He knew it was useless to argue. All four of his sisters wore expressions of determination. Nothing he could do would stop them after they had their minds made up.
"I'll say one thing. This neighborhood sure is nice. Look at the size of this yard. And here in this warm climate we'll be able to enjoy it all year round."
"The neighborhood is the most exclusive in town," Cathy said. "We made sure of that."
"I think I'll take a look around the yard. I'm certainly not going to help you girls with any press party. I'll be there, but that's all."
He strolled across the lawn, listening to the breeze sighing in the trees and shrubbery, admiring the beds of flowers.
And it was freezing when we left the North, he thought. This tour of duty is going to be very pleasant indeed.
At the back corner of the lot there was a dense grove of trees. He walked back to them and strolled among them, looking up to see if he could locate the birds that were singing there. While doing so, he bumped into a small picket fence, almost stumbling.
When he caught his balance his eyes fell upon a sight lovelier to him than either the birds or the flowers. A young woman was reclining in a hammock just a few feet on the other side of the fence. The book she was reading hid her face from him, but her face was not his immediate interest. His attention was riveted upon her white cotton short-shorts.
She was lying on her back with one leg hanging over either side of the hammock, with the crotch of the shorts aimed directly at him. The material hugged her tightly, clearly outlining a prominent pudendum, and as she swayed gently back and forth he could almost swear that he saw it pulsing and throbbing in a lazy rhythm.
It's as though it has never awakened to love, but slumbers with its great potentiality ready to come to life. Like the Sleeping Beauty who could be awakened only by the kiss of a prince.
The thought made him blush, even though no one was looking at him. "Yes, the kiss of a prince," he repeated to himself. But then the prince would mount his white charger, fix his trusty lance in position, and ride forth for the conquest of the princess.
He could see the twin mounds of her ample buttocks pushing out the canvas beneath the hammock. We wouldn't have to use a pillow, he thought. Her pillows are built-in, and would hold her high enough, at just the right angle, and at the same time they would cushion the wild jolts and stabs of desire.
Although she had assumed a posture of comfort rather than one of allure, Harding could not have been more thoroughly smitten. He noticed her long, well-shaped legs. So delectable, he thought, yet beneath their well-tanned loveliness ripple muscles with all the strength needed to lock around a man's hips and imprison him. As if he'd be trying to escape.
Her slender waist, above the beltline of her shorts, was bare up to her halter. Her breasts were not large, but they were exquisite, he felt. She had her book propped up upon them, and it rose and fell with her breathing.
He could see the top of her golden blonde hair, but he wanted to see her face as well. Even if she has a face that would scare a drunken boatswain's mate, this is the girl to whom I want to give my cherry, he thought. If she's ugly, I'll simply close my eyes as though too carried away with love to have them open.
"Hello," he called, trying to sound as warm and friendly as possible.
She lowered the book and peered at him. He was so happy upon seeing that her face was, in fact, the most beautiful thing about her that he almost forgot to explain his presence.
"I'm your new neighbor," he said at last. "I just moved in."
"Oh, forgive me for staring," she said, springing from the hammock and walking over to the fence. "I was startled at first."
She walks with the grace of a true princess, he observed. No exaggerated swing of the behind, but with a gentle swivel in her hips, her head held high, her saucy breasts pushing straight ahead.
"I'm Marion Green," she said, extending her hand.
"Harding Hart," he answered softly, thrilled at the delicate warmth of her slender fingers as they encircled his palm.
A firm handshake, he observed. When she grasps something, she does it positively.
"Are you new in the city, Mister Hart?"
"Yes. I've never been here before. It's such an attractive town. I know I'm going to love it here."
"I've always loved it. I know this will sound abrupt, but do you play tennis?"
"Yes. I do."
"Do you play well?" She laughed at her question. "I sound terrible, I know, but you see, I'm rather good at the game and I'm afraid I've just about outclassed all my friends here. I'm desperate for someone who can give me some real competition."
"I try to be modest," he said, "but I am quite an expert. On the other hand, if I play opposite you, I'm not sure that I can keep my eye on the ball."
"You will," she said. "Else I'll smash a racket over your head. I take my tennis seriously. If you pay attention and give me a good game, I'll give you a chance to ogle my body at the beach. You see, Mister Hart, whatever I do, I do with intensity. When I play tennis, I play tennis. When I swim, I swim. When I sunbathe, I sunbathe."
"You're not a member of a nudist colony?"
"No," she laughed. "My parents wouldn't hear of such a thing, although I did suggest once that the three of us join one. But I sunbathe as thoroughly as the law allows on a public beach. I wear a genuine French Riviera bikini."
"Say, isn't this a perfect day for the beach?"
"That depends," she laughed. "You've got to prove yourself on the tennis court first. The morning is still young. If you're as good as you say, we'll have time for the beach this afternoon."
"I'll go dig my racket out of the trunk and get into some tennis shorts."
"Wait a minute," she called as he turned to leave. "You're not married, are you?"
"Of course not. I'm still a-"
He stopped himself just in time. He was so accustomed to frank talk with his sisters that he had to make a conscious effort to be modest around others.
"A virgin? Is that what you were going to say?"
"I-how can I be sure what I was going to say?"
"Don't hedge. Are you?"
"I cannot tell a lie. Yes."
"Welcome to the club. I'm one too. And just in case you get any ideas, I intend to remain one for quite some time to come. If you really like tennis and swimming, we'll have some swell times together, but if you're on the make, don't waste your time on a hold-out like me."
"I do like tennis and swimming. Really. Even if I didn't, just ogling you in your bikini would be more than ample reward."
"I'm glad," she said. "I'm also glad that I can be so forward without insulting you. With so many wolves on the prowl, it's good to have an understanding. There's nothing I hate more than the unpleasantness of letting a boy date me a few times and then get indignant when I turn down his passes. You know the type. As though any money they spend taking a girl out is advance rent on her body."
"I can't promise never to make a pass, but I will promise not to be indignant when you turn me down."
"It's like I said. I'm intense about everything I do. If I made love, I'd be just as intense about that. What the wolves don't realize is that it's probably harder on me to refrain from love than it is for them. I know that once I started, I could no longer do without it. I'd either have to be extremely promiscuous or get married, and I don't want to do either. I'm only a freshman at the local university, and I want to finish college and work a year or two before I settle down."
"I understand. I still can't promise never to make a pass, but if I do, I'll do it in a gentlemanly sort of way."
"That's all I could ask," she said, smiling. "Now go get ready."
After talking to her he was more determined than ever to have his first intercourse with her, and he knew that it would have to be long before she finished college, even before she finished her freshman year.
It might take weeks, or months, he thought, but I'll go as slow as I have to go. I won't even try to hold hands until I know she's ready to hold hands. I'll give her complete confidence in me, and woo her with all the charm and skill I can muster. And when I finally seduce her, I won't feel like a heel, either. I'll be taking her cherry and giving her mine in return. That's a fair trade."
That afternoon, as Marion lay on her back basking in the sun Harding sat on the beach blanket beside her.
"Well," she laughed. "At least you gave me some competition on the court."
"Not much, I'm afraid, but I did my best."
"Why don't you lie down and get an even tan?" she said. "We can still talk."
"But I couldn't ogle. You promised me I could ogle, so I'm going to sit here and do it."
"You're attracting attention to yourself, silly, sitting there staring at my navel. Haven't you ever seen a navel before?"
"Not one as pretty as yours. I'm just feasting my eyes on the parts this bikini shows that your short-shorts didn't."
"Go ahead and be silly, then. If you don't mind all those people looking at you."
"At me? Honey, don't you know better than that? They're looking at you."
"Nope," she said positively. "When they look at me in my bikini they gape, they don't laugh. You know why they're laughing? Because you're sitting there drooling like you'd like to eat me up."
"I would."
"Thanks," she said. "As long as you don't paw me, you can make those kind of passes. A girl likes to be admired. It's nice to know I'm desirable, even if it has to end there, for the time being. I wouldn't wear a bikini on a public beach if I didn't enjoy having people admire my body. But enough of this fleshy talk. What do you do, Harding? Do you work or go to college?"
"I'm in the Navy. I have to report in at the base Monday."
"Really? What do you do? What are you?"
"I'm a journalist. Well, I'm still a seaman, but I've been through journalist school so I should make journalist third class soon if I do a good job here."
"I'm sure you will," she said, but there was a note of disappointment in her voice.
"What's the matter? You don't have anything against sailors, do you?"
"Hardly. My father's a sailor. That's just the trouble. He's an admiral, the commanding officer of the base."
"I suppose you've never had anything to do with enlisted men, have you?"
"No, I haven't, but it hasn't been because of snobbery, if that's what you're thinking. I'm not impressed by rank. After all, my father is an admiral, and yet I know he's just a foolish old man."
"But you were disappointed when I told you I'm a seaman."
"You don't understand, Harding. It doesn't make any difference to me. But it could to you. I think the whole system of Navy etiquette is silly and childish, like a group of grown men playing sea scouts. But my father takes it all very seriously. If you intend to keep on seeing me-and that's entirely up to you-you can expect him to resent you for it."
"Of course I'm going to keep on seeing you," he said. "As long as you'll let me. If your father insists on resenting me, he'll just have to go ahead and resent me."
She sat up and looked him in the eyes.
"Don't you know that in your position, his resentment can be a big handicap to you? He has the power to turn down recommendations for your advancement, your leave, your special liberties. He could see that you had extra duties without even coming in contact with you. If he grew resentful enough, he could have you transferred."
"I'd take any risk to be with you," he said dramatically. "Seriously, I'm not going to be frightened away from you."
"Then, at least, let's not advertize our friendship to my father. I don't want to lose a good tennis partner so soon. If I don't invite you over to the house, it will only be to keep my father from getting upset."
"That's fine with me, just so I can keep seeing you."
"Right now you're going to see my other side," she laughed. "I'm going to get some sun on my back."
He continued sitting up, looking down at her.
"If you must stare at me, why don't you stare at my shoulder blades?"
"I told you. I'm ogling the areas which your short-shorts didn't reveal."
"My can is much too big."
"You know that isn't true. It's perfect."
"Well, do you have to sit there looking like you wanted to devour it?"
"Yes. May I?"
"Go ahead. You talk big, but you know good and well you haven't got the nerve to kiss a girl's butt on a public beach."
He leaned over and kissed the top surface of one buttock just above the skimpy bikini. She squirmed to get up, but he held her until he had also kissed the other.
"Let's get out of here," she gasped. "Everyone is laughing. I'm so embarrassed I don't know what to do. I'd die if word of this ever got back to my father."
He snatched up the beach blanket and ran behind her across the sand until they could no longer hear the guffaws of the crowd who had been watching them.
"You crazy fool," she scolded. "Why did you do such a thing?"
"Because I wanted to. You said I could. Are you angry with me?"
She stopped walking and turned to him taking his hand in hers and smiling, with tears in the corners of her eyes.
"How could I be? Every girl loves to be admired. I told you that's one reason I wear a bikini. I feel that my body is beautiful and I like to show as much of it as possible. But I never knew I was so devastating that a handsome young man would want to kiss my butt on a public beach with a hundred people watching."
"You are that devastating, Marion. And I'll tell you something else. If this had been a nudist beach and that bikini hadn't been in the way, I'd have shocked the nudists right out of their skins."
"Oh, I can't stand here and listen to you talk like that. I'm giddy from excitement. Take me home, Harding. Please take me straight home and don't try to park anywhere and seduce me, because I'm too weak now to fight you off."
"All right. I'll behave. I told you I'd act like a gentleman."
He drove her home in the new Chrysler convertible his sisters had bought for him. He stopped in front of her house and ran around to open the door for her.
"Can I see you again tomorrow?" he asked.
"Yes. I had a wonderful time."
She swung her legs around to get out, then hesitated.
"Harding, what I said about keeping my virginity still goes. But if I ever weaken, will you promise me one thing?"
"Promise."
"Before you take me, would you kiss me all over?"
"With pleasure."
"Everywhere?"
"Everywhere."
She slumped back in the seat, sighing.
"I'm so glad to hear that, Harding. Please mean it. I don't think I'll ever allow us to get that intimate, but I just wanted to know that if-if I did, you would. Some girls apparently aren't sensitive except in a few places, but I'm sensitive all over, even in places that most men would never think of kissing a girl."
"Are you sure you don't want me to take you out tonight and show you that I meant what I said?"
"No. No, Harding. Please. Give me time to think. Don't try to rush me. I'll see you tomorrow."
She ran across her lawn and into her house. Harding slipped behind the wheel and drove next door, whistling.
CHAPTER SIX
The huge living room of the new Hart home was filled to overflowing. Long tables were spread with rare and delicious snacks, which had been supplied by the city's best caterer, and the two bartenders hired for the occasion were kept busy mixing drinks and opening champagne.
"Here they are, Harding," Coleen said. "Practically every editor, reporter, and newscaster in town, except for the ones who are working, and we're going to have a special party for them next Saturday morning."
"Not me. I'll be playing tennis."
"Don't be silly. You met all these men tonight and they all like you. You'll want to meet the others."
"No. This is enough."
"Why are you so stubborn? I can't understand you. You're moody. When you came back from the beach today you were as happy as a skylark, and now you're just an old grump."
"I'm sorry, Sis, it's just that I don't like the idea of this press party. Look, there's Martha slipping off to her bedroom with those twin editors. I can't tell them apart."
"They are almost identical," Coleen said. "But D. Brockton Grant, editor of the Morning Sim, is just a little balder than F. Brockton Grant, editor of the Evening Star. I guess he's worried more. He's the real boss of the publishing company."
"She's doing this for me, damn her," Harding said. "Come on with me, Coleen, I want to know how the hell far she's going."
"How do you propose to find out?"
"You'll see."
Harding led his sister into the bathroom next to Martha's room. They would hear Martha's voice through the door.
"Here we are," she was saying. "Are you sure you hadn't rather have me get Cathy for one of you?"
"No," one of them anwsered. "Whatever we do, we do together."
"Suit yourselves," Martha said. "Most men like to be alone at such a time."
Harding whispered softly into Coleen's ear, "Peer through the keyhole. Let me know if she goes all the way."
Through the keyhole Coleen could see Martha undressing. When she had finished she lay across her narrow bed, her head hanging over one side, her exposed loins just at the edge of the other. Her legs were apart, her feet propped on the floor.
"Gentlemen," she said. "Choose your sides."
"Has she undressed?" Harding asked softly.
"Yes," Coleen whispered back. "She's taking on both of them at once. You'd better leave, Harding. Martha would be furious if she knew you were this close. You know how modest she is. I'll stick around and study her technique. Gosh, she's marvelous. What a pro!"
That crazy Martha, he thought. Oh well, it's her chosen profession and she's dedicated to it.
When he returned to the living room Daphne was standing over in the corner talking to Willis Wildon, a cub reporter from one of the newspapers. Harding couldn't remember which one.
At least she's not sacrificing herself to my success, he thought. The sweet kid. I'm glad she's only sixteen.
Cathy was coming down the stairs with Mort Snider, news director of Channel Five Television. Harding walked over to the table with the drinks and asked one of the bartenders for a champagne cocktail.
"So you're going to be in Navy public relations, are you?" a voice beside him said. "That's a great outfit, the Navy. I don't know what we'd do without them."
Harding couldn't remember the name, but he did know the man was city editor of the Tribune.
"More or less," Harding said. "I hope I can help get the Navy story to the public."
"You can count on the co-operation of the Tribune. When you have an item, just phone it in to me and I'll see that it goes in right away. The Tribune has a quarter of a million readers, you know."
"Yes, I've heard of your paper, even before I came here. I'll sure do that, Mister-I'm sorry, but I forgot your name. I've been introduced to so many people tonight that I just can't remember."
"Don't apologize. Zeke White. Just ask for Zeke White at the city desk when you have an item for us. You know you're a lucky boy to have such sisters. Or maybe you're unlucky."
"What do you mean?"
"Unlucky because they are your sisters. A boy can never appreciate his own sisters the way other men can. Sibling rivalry."
"Not in our family, Mister White. Our parents died when we were still young, so we've been pretty close. I love my sisters."
"That's the spirit. There should be more of it. Most brothers and sisters are always at each other's throats."
Harding had another cocktail, talked a while longer with Zeke White, then mingled with the crowd, chatting with the others. He noticed one inebriated man sitting all alone with a bottle of champagne in his hand. He walked over to him.
"Enjoying yourself?"
"I'm having a ball, son. Siddown. Me and my mistress here are making love. I kept going back so many times the bartender gimme a whole bottle. You wouldn't unnerstand. Too young. I bet you never had a piece of ass yet, have you, boy?"
"As a matter-of-fact, I haven't."
"You will. Don't worry. You're a good looking kid. You'll be getting more pussy than you can take care of in this town. The women here'll rape you on the streets. Me, I had my share. I chased it all around the world when I was a war correspondent. You're just so young you've been looking right past your opportunities. You gotta have an eye for that sort of thing. Me, I can walk in a bar and look around and tell you which woman is a whore, which one's a B-girl, which one's a wife stepping out on her husband, which ones are teasers, and which ones are hot to trot. But, you know, I don't give a damn no more. When I go to a bar I just want to drink, and to hell with pussy. I'm all petered out. But I'm still a star reporter, a damned good reporter. I could leave this town tonight and go get a job on any paper in the country."
"I know you could, Mister Roscoe."
"Hell, I been all over the world and I know that if you look deep enough, people are just plain people. When I'm not on a story I'm just an old sot, but when I'm working I'm stone cold sober. Hell, boy, I'm getting old and the only friend I got left is my bottle."
"That's not true. I'm your friend."
"Are you, boy? Put 'er there, pal. I'm your friend too. Hell, I hate the goddamn Navy, but if you got something you want in the Herald, you just give me a buzz and I'll see that it gets a big play with a Bob Roscoe by-line. You do that, pal."
"On one condition."
"What's that, boy?"
"That you stop doing all your drinking in lonely bars. Stop by here often and drink with us."
"I'll do that, pal. I sure will."
"I wonder where my younger sister's run off to?"
"Don't go looking for her, boy. She's having herself a good time with that cub reporter from the News. Don't you go trying to protect her honor. A sister'd never forgive you for that."
"Daphne? She wouldn't do anything she's not supposed to."
"All I know is what I saw, boy, when I went to take a leak. They were in such a hurry they forgot to close the door all the way."
"Maybe you saw one of my other sisters. Not Daphne."
"It was the young one, all right. And that cub reporter. I know, because I took another peek on the way back. He was pumping real slow like he was breaking in new stuff."
"It was new, all right, if what you say is true. I just can't believe Daphne would stoop so low."
"She wasn't stooping, boy. She was lying on the bed, with her legs wrapped around that cub reporter from the News."
Harding sat there appalled and paralyzed, until the guests started leaving just before dawn. He got up and stood by the door, shaking hands with them as they departed.
"What a party," Martha exclaimed. "Everybody had a good time. Even the bartenders. Everybody."
"Especially that cub reporter from the News," Harding said. "Martha, I thought you weren't going to let Daphne start her career until she was twenty-one."
"Daphne!" Martha screamed. "You didn't?"
"No," Daphne said, smiling happily. "I didn't."
"But somebody saw you," Harding protested.
"They might have seen Willis entering me, but they didn't see me entering any profession. I've got five years to wait before I can do that. I promised. But I didn't promise not to fall in love."
"You did, then!" Martha screamed again. "Daphne, how could you do such a thing. You can't fall in love with someone you've just met. That love-at-first-sight business is for the birds. Besides, a Hart girl doesn't fall in love with a man. She falls in love with men, but not till she's twenty-one."
Daphne shook her head, unperturbed by the commotion over her.
"Willis and I fell in love and we just did what came natural. I do love him and he loves me and we're going to keep on seeing each other and expressing our love. I'm even going to marry him if he asks me, and if he understands."
"Understands what?"
"That married or not, I've got my career all cut out for me as soon as I'm twenty-one."
"Good heavens," Harding moaned. "What a thing to tell a beau when he pops the question."
"Yes," Cathy agreed. "Some men are pretty old fashioned about such things. Some of them don't believe in working wives."
"Yes," echoed Coleen. "He might even be upset about it."
"He might," Martha said. "He very well might."
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Lieutenant Gepetto? I'm Harding Hart, your new journalist striker."
"Welcome aboard, Hart. So you're fresh out of school, eh?"
"Yessir. I hope I know enough about the Navy to do a good job."
"Knock off the 'yessir' crap around this office. Save it for the frigging academy officers. Same goes for saluting. And don't worry about doing a good job here. This base is a vacation resort. Especially for public information. The media here don't use our crap anyway. We have to send it out to keep the admiral happy, but that's the end of it. Just relax and keep out of everybody's way."
"I'll try."
"That's your desk over there. The coffee pot's in the photo lab. You can pass the day reading papers and magazines if you want. For any other division that would be considered goofing off, but it's part of our job here. Once in a blue moon you'll find a little article about the Navy buried somewhere in the middle of the paper. Clip it and route it up to the admiral. He eats up that crap. Even a space filler is enough to get both of us a day off."
"If I'm not too curious, Lieutenant, why are you so cynical?"
"Hart, I came here determined to do a good job. But I found that public relations is more than just grinding out crap handouts. You treat the media right and they'll treat you right, but the top brass here has fouled things up so much that everyone's down on the Navy. When the reporters call me up with a legitimate query and I go to the admiral to get the dope, he says tell all the reporters to go to hell, that we'll tell them what we want them to know about the Navy and when we want them to know it. Then the next day he'll turn right around and expect me to get some silly release with no news value in all the papers. It can't be done that way. I gave up long ago."
A commander stuck his head in the door. He looked past Harding as though he didn't exist.
"Gepetto, the chief of staff wants you in his office right away."
"Right. Well, Hart, you go over to the photo lab and see if Bowery hasn't got an extra coffee cup lying around."
Harding walked across the hall to the photo lab. The outer office was empty. A sign reading 'In The Dark' was hanging on the negative dryer, pointing to the darkroom.
"Anybody home?" Harding yelled.
"Be out in a minute," a voice answered from the darkroom.
He waited, looking over the seamless drum print dryer and the corner which had been set up for portrait work. He heard the door behind him open and turned to see a man emerge, squinting and blinking from the overhead lights.
"Hi, I'm the new journalist striker. Harding Hart."
"Bowery," the man said. "John Bowery."
"You must do a lot of darkroom work here, the way you're blinking. It's not that bright in here."
"I stay in that frigging place most of the time. I'm glad I'm retiring from this outfit in a couple of weeks so I can get back to the north woods and spend some time outdoors."
"What do you do in the darkroom so much of the time?"
"You'll find out. You'll be writing captions for all these pictures and sending them out to the papers. They never use them, but we have to send them anyway. The admiral is nuts on that subject."
"What kind of pictures?"
"Ships, planes, and officers. Every time a new officer reports in, gets promoted, or gets his orders to leave, the admiral wants a picture sent out to all the papers. The only one they've used in the two years I've been here is the one of the admiral himself when he reported in. He got a two-column cut on page nine of the B section in the Star, and a one-column cut in the others. I think it was the News that had three paragraphs on him. The others just had captions under the pictures."
"He's the boss. If he wants pictures in the paper, we'll have to see what we can do about getting pictures in the paper."
The photographer shook his head.
"Just send them out and forget about them. No sense in batting your head against a stone wall. You want a coffee cup, don't you?"
"I wouldn't mind. How much are coffee dues here?"
"Nothing. We use G. L coffee and sugar. The lieutenant and I drink ours black. If you want cream, you can swipe a can from the mess hall."
"Hell, I can drink it black."
"You'll have to wash this cup out. The hot water comes out steaming, and you can use that sponge and scouring powder. I'll talk to you more when I get caught up. I gotta get these prints out."
"Okay, thanks. Maybe I can give you a hand when I get settled. I learned a little darkroom work in journalist school."
He washed the cup, poured himself some coffee, and returned to the public information office. Lieutenant Gepetto was waiting for him, pacing the floor.
"What's up?" Harding asked.
"Problems, problems. A destroyer is putting in here today and the admiral wants news coverage on it. Nobody's going to use it, but we've got to put something out to show the admiral we tried."
"Which one is it? I suppose we have a photograph and a history in the files."
"That's just it. This tin can wasn't scheduled to stop here and we don't know a' damned thing about her, except that she's the U.S.S. Farmer and the C. O. is Commander Norman P. Agent. About the only thing I know to do is phone the papers and invite them down to meet the ship. They won't come, of course. We can have Bowery go down and take pictures of her and send them out this afternoon."
"I can use a speed graphic. Why not let me go down? I could take the pictures and escort the reporters and photographers around the ship."
Gepetto started laughing and couldn't stop. He sat down in his chair and threw his head back, gasping for air. Harding waited for him to stop.
"Forgive me, Hart. I know you're only thinking of what they taught you in school, but after you've been here a while you'll know what I mean. This town isn't receptive to Navy news. It isn't receptive to the Navy, period. They have signs up some places reading 'Sailors and Dogs Keep Out'. Really. I'm not kidding you. Anyway, you handle it any way you like, but for cripes sakes, remember what you do so I can report our action to the admiral."
By the time Harding had called all the newspapers, radio, and television stations, it was time to get the camera and leave for the docks. Bowery had the speed graphic loaded with a film pack.
"Take all twelve. They won't make the paper, but at least the admiral will have some more pictures to send up to the Pentagon to show we're trying."
At the docks Harding found almost two dozen news-media representatives milling around. Some had press cameras, others movie cameras, others tape recorders, and still others only ball point pens and pads. They all gathered around him, shaking his hand and telling him again how much they had enjoyed his party.
"That's her coming in now," he said. "She's supposed to dock right over here. As soon as they get the gangway set up I'll take you aboard."
He saw that there were nineteen of them in all-a reporter and photographer team from each of the five newspapers, a cameraman from each of the three television stations, and six reporters from radio stations, equipped with tape recorders for recording interviews.
The photographers and cameramen were already busy, covering the docking of the destroyer. As soon as the gangway was put into place, Harding ran up it, saluting the national ensign on the stern, and then the officer of the deck on the quarterdeck.
"I'm the station journalist," Harding said to the officer of the deck. "I'd like to set up a press conference with the skipper. Also I'd like to have you pipe all the men who live in or around this city up to the quarterdeck."
"Wilco on both items. You're sure on the ball here. We've never had a reception like this anywhere before."
When Harding returned to the public information office two hours later it was empty. He carried the camera back to the lab, yelled, and waited for Bowery to emerge, mole-like, from the dark.
"I didn't have a chance to take any. But the boys from the papers took extra copies for me. They'll send over the negatives in an hour or so."
"Cut the comedy. I'll soup up the pack."
Bowery walked over and pulled the film pack adapter from the camera.
"Cripes, you didn't take any. Boy, the admiral will stomp you personally for this." v "I told you, the negatives will be here."
"You mean you really got somebody to turn out? What'd you do, bribe them?"
"In a way. Yes, I guess you could say they were bribed."
When he returned to the public information office, Gepetto was there, striding around the room excitedly.
"How did you do it, Hart? The admiral is stupified. He's so goddamned happy he's acting like a madman. He's got the radio turned up full blast switching back and forth from station to station. Every frigging one of them has run a bulletin on that lousy destroyer. You'd think she had the President on board. What really made the admiral lose his rocks was that every damned bulletin he's heard has mentioned that the ship is visiting the local Naval Base, commanded by Rear Admiral Leonard T. Green."
"I told them all to be sure and get that in," Harding said. "I thought he might like it."
"Like it? Man, he's out of his mind. Tell me, how in the living hell did you do it?"
Harding shrugged his shoulders and winked.
"I did everything they taught me at school, and I used a few of my own tricks of the trade."
"Well, congratulations, journalist third class Hart."
"You think I'll get it soon?"
"Soon hell. You've got it. When I saw the admiral going crazy with that radio I came back and filled out your recommendation and pushed it right through the chain of command. Might as well strike while the iron is hot. I don't know what tricks you used, but this probably won't ever happen again."
"We'll see," Harding said. "At least we'll keep trying to get the Navy story out. Can I take time to go uptown for lunch, or do I have to eat in the mess hall?"
"Take two hours. Take all the time you want."
Harding did take two hours. When he got back, Gepetto had newspapers spread all over the table, his own desk, and Harding's.
"Look here," he said. "It's on the front page of the three-star edition of the Herald-a picture of the Farmer docking-and on the back of the B section there's a full page photo spread. Look, in this one, here's you standing behind Commander Agent."
"I tried to get out of the picture, but I had to be there to co-ordinate things."
"I got a glimpse of you on television, too, up in the admiral's office a few minutes ago. He's completely out of his mind now. He's got two men stationed at every newspaper office in town, with orders to buy fifty copies of every edition of every paper that carries anything on the destroyer. He wants us to try to get duplicate tapes from the radio stations, duplicate footage from the TV stations, and copies of all the pictures from the papers. You think you could manage that? We can reimburse them."
"I don't think that will be necessary. They're all glad to do what they can for the Navy. What are you going to do with all that stuff?"
"Hell, the admiral wants to send the whole package up to the Pentagon. They've been riding his ass because the Navy never gets any publicity here. I'm telling you, if regulations did not require that goddamned waiting period, I could put you up for second class this afternoon and rush it through."
"Give me time to enjoy being third class. Did you notice I had my crow sewed on when I went uptown for lunch?"
The lieutenant came over to Harding and grasped his hand.
"I like it here, Hart. My wife likes it, and my kids like it. We've been enjoying the hell out of this tour. I'm a family man myself. But it was about over before you came. They had me all lined up for sea duty. After this, I'm good for another year or two."
"I'm glad I could help you," Harding said sincerely.
"You know the way the chain of command works. Whenever you do something good I get more credit than you, and the commander gets more than me, and the captain more than him, and the admiral gets the most of all. That's just the way it works."
"That's okay by me," Harding said. "Just so you know I'm not goofing off, that's all I care about. You're my boss."
"Don't worry. I'll look out for you. I can't get you the credit you deserve, but I've mentioned all the way up the line that this was your project. Anything you want, just ask. Don't be bashful. When you want a day off, don't even bother coming in. Just give me a call so I'll know where you are."
"I almost forgot," Harding said. "Bob Roscoe wants to do a feature story on the admiral for the Sunday magazine section. You know-at work, at home, on the golf course, the works. Can you set it up for tomorrow?
"Lieutenant Gepetto! What's the matter?"
Harding ran across the hall and pounded on the darkroom door. Bowery scuttled out, throwing one arm over his eyes to protect them from the light.
"What's the matter? What in hell's coming off?"
"Do you know any first aid? Where's the sick bay? Call the corpsmen. Do something! Lieutenant Gepetto's fainted."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Harding and his three older sisters were sitting around the outdoor table in their back yard while Daphne grilled steaks at the barbecue pit.
"I ought to be doing that, Daphne," Harding said. "The man of the family usually does the cooking outdoors."
"No, indoors or outdoors, I'll do the cooking. You just relax. You worked hard today."
"All right. If you say so. Speaking of working hard, how did the day go for you three?"
"We can't complain," Martha said. "We slept until ten, got up and had one of Daphne's delicious brunches, bathed, dressed, and went looking for prospects during the noon hour. We each made out. And we were back home in time to go to the beach."
"How much?"
"The usual. A hundred dollars apiece. There are plenty of men here who can afford it. As soon as our telephone number gets around, we won't have to go looking any more. I don't think we need worry about the rent and grocery bill. We just can't spend it all. The bank account keeps growing. "
"If you'd stop giving away so much stuff to help me out, the account would be twice as fat."
"No, Harding, we're not greedy. One professional client a day for each of us is all we want. Besides, your career is important and we want to do what we can. We want to be available in the evenings for newsmen who drop by. We want them all to feel welcome here. I wish you were more appreciative of what we're doing for you."
"I am, Sis, really."
"How are you making out with the girl next door?" Coleen asked.
"Slow. We played tennis yesterday, but she won't give me a chance to make any time."
"Have you kissed her yet?"
"Twice, at the beach Saturday. That upset her so much that she's afraid to be alone with me anywhere except on the tennis court. She's a better player than I am, and dammit, I think that makes her feel superior."
"That's understandable," Martha said. "If she takes the game seriously, it could very well symbolize something for her. It could make her feel physically stronger and more vigorous than you, and some girls just won't surrender their virginity to a man unless they think he can master them."
"You sound like a goddamn psychology student," Harding snapped.
"Honey, I'm in the best business in the world for learning human psychology. Men say things on my couch that they'd never say on a psychiatrist's couch. A psychiatrist gets their dreams and make-believe. I get the naked truth."
"I think she's right," Cathy said. "Harding, you've just got to improve your game."
"How can I?" The girl's good enough to be a national amateur champion if she wanted to be."
"We'll get you the best instructor in the city to coach you. Do you know of any?"
"Don Bucolic lives here, but he doesn't take any pupils. He's retired. Once in a while he appears in an exhibition match, but that's about it. He's got all the money he wants. Nice home. A cabin cruiser. No, he wouldn't do it."
"He's a man, isn't he?" asked Coleen. "He might not be interested in money, but we could pay him in goods."
"He might be senile by now," Harding said. "He's still a cyclone on the court, but the storm in his pants might have died down years ago."
Martha smiled knowingly and shook her head.
"No difference. When a man loses the ability, he doesn't lose the desire. Lecherous old goats have more weird ideas in those little bald heads than a young bull like you ever knew existed. He's bound to have some ideas he'd like to put into practice with an attractive young woman, and we will find out what they are. You'll get your coaching, honey, until you'll be able to whip the pants off that girl."
"I don't want to whip them off. I want to be able to take them off, or have her take them off for me, willingly."
"Supper's ready," Daphne said. "Don't you worry, Harding. Our big sisters will help Cupid along for you, and they're experts at helping Cupid, as you well know."
The next afternoon when Harding returned from work he heard Martha moaning and groaning. He followed the sounds to her bedroom.
"What's the matter, Martha?" he asked, worried, knocking at the closed door.
"Don't come in!" Martha shouted. "I'm not decent!" She was lying on her stomach, twisting and writhing as Cathy rubbed ointment on her bruised and swollen buttocks. Cathy draped a light sheet over her sister's nude body and told Harding to come in.
"I'll be all right in a couple of hours, honey," Martha said. "Don't worry about it. I'll be back on my back by tomorrow."
"I heard a joke about that once," Cathy said, trying to distract her brother and alleviate his concern. "This whore was out of commission for a few days and said to her friend, 'Mabel, can you lend me ten till I get back on my back?' "
Harding paid no attention to her. He walked over to Martha and stroked her hair.
"What happened, Martha?"
"If you'd ever been in the bedroom with an old goat who likes to paddle girls on the fanny with a tennis racket, you'd understand, honey. I didn't know what he wanted to do when we got there. After I got my clothes off he said, 'Just bend over and touch your toes, and I'll show you where the wild goose goes.' And then, wham, wham, wham. He must have thought he was back on the court, in one of those big professional matches, the way he kept socking that ball."
"I'll knock his teeth down his throat for that," Harding growled.
"You'll do nothing of the sort. After what I went through for you. He's agreed to coach you every Friday morning if you can get off work. Can you?"
"Hell, yes. I can get off anytime I like. Martha, I just don't know what to do with you girls. You'll kill yourselves for me if you don't slow down."
"Forget it, honey. You're our brother."
On Saturday morning Marion noticed a marked improvement in Harding's game. She told him so at the beach that afternoon.
"I've never seen such improvement in a person before, Harding. Why, your whole style seems to be undergoing a change. You really kept me on my toes this morning.
On your toes is right, he thought, but that's not where I want you. "I'm trying hard," he said. "I'm not nearly good enough for you yet."
"Well," she mused. "You almost are. Before I forget it-absolutely no kissing today, anywhere."
"Can't I even kiss the back of your hand when I take you home, in a gentlemanly sort of way?"
"No, not even that. I told you, I'm sensitive all over, even the back of my hand. If I let you kiss me there, next thing you know I'd want you to kiss my arm, and then my elbow, and then my shoulder, and then-you know how one thing leads to another."
"Like that old spiritual-'the leg bone's connected to the thigh bone-the thigh bone's connected to the hip bone-' "
"Stop it, Harding. You're deliberately trying to get me aroused, talking about thighs and hips and things being connected. I have enough dreams already about being connected to-"
"Why did you stop? Being connected to me?"
"It doesn't matter. Dreams are for children. For adults the only thing that matters is what they think in the cold light of day. I've just got to finish college, and the only way I can do it is by remaining chaste."
"I don't know why, Marion. I'll bet at least a few college girls are not chaste. I'll bet that not all girls who get diplomas are virgins."
"Well, they're not me. They're just not as intense about things as I am. When I go after something, I go after it whole hog."
"C-ink, oink. Let's root some together, sow."
"I ought to slap your face for calling me that."
"I didn't mean it in a derogatory sense. You were talking about hogs and a female hog is a-"
"Yes, I'm well aware what a female hog is. Let's change the subject, shall we? Father keeps talking, indirectly, about what a good job you're doing."
"What do you mean 'indirectly'?"
"He would never praise an enlisted man. To him they're just cogs in a machine which the officers turn. But he keeps talking about what a splendid job Lieutenant Gepetto is doing lately. That is, when he stops praising himself long enough. That feature story Bob Roscoe did for tomorrow's paper has gone to his head. He believes all those high-flown phrases about himself. He thinks he's a reincarnation of John Paul Jones. But he does come down out of the clouds once in a while to mention Lieutenant Gepetto."
"Lieutenant Gepetto's a fine man, Marion. He doesn't have my particular tricks of the trade when it comes to handling the press, but he's a good man. Down to earth, and very intelligent. We get along so well at the office and have such interesting conversations. I wish I could be with him all through my Naval career."
"If he's intelligent, he's out of place as a Naval officer," Marion said. "It doesn't take intelligence to be an officer in the Navy. The most important quality for them to have is bull-headedness. They glorify it by calling it determination, but it's really just plain bull-headedness."
"I never thought much about it."
"Did it take intelligence to say 'Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead'? That wasn't very intelligent at all if you ask me. It was just bull-headedness. Did it require much thinking to say 'I have not yet begun to fight' or 'Don't give up the ship' after any halfway reasonable person could have observed that it was time to strike the colors and surrender? No, just bull-headed stubbornness, an unreasonable faith in victory, and a conceited idea that the United States Navy is undefeatable."
"Maybe that bull-headedness is the very reason our Navy is undefeatable. We've never lost a war yet, and somehow I believe that we never will, as long as we have these stubborn old admirals like your father, who may or may not seem ridiculous around the house. Have you ever seen him on the bridge of a ship during battle?"
"Of course not," she said. "Before you start glorifying my father, let me remind you that he's a mean old cuss, and if he ever sees us together, he'll make you hate his guts, as you say in the Navy."
"Cripes, does he think he can keep men away from an attractive young woman like you? Does he want you to be an old maid or something?"
"Oh, no. Far from it. He has plans for me. For the past few months, ever since my eighteenth birthday, he's been bringing a steady succession of promising young ensigns home for supper. Not just any ensigns. He looks down on the OCS officers and the Reserve officers and those who came up through the ranks. Just the stiff-necked, stiff-mannered Annapolis asses who are sons of other admirals and have success guaranteed them by the Navy's inner sanctum. I can't stand them. They look alike, sound alike, act alike. I think that academy must take young men and melt them down, stir them up, and pour them all into identical molds."
"Is it really that bad?"
"It's so bad that if I married one, I'd never know which one was my husband. When I went down to meet the ship I wouldn't know which one to run to and throw my arms around."
"May fate deliver you from ensigns then," he said.
And I'll do my part to help fate along, he thought. I'll certainly do my part.
CHAPTER NINE
Lieutenant Gepetto sipped his coffee and stared at the newspaper spread open on the desk before him.
"This is incredible," he said. "A regular daily column of Navy news. Transfers, promotions, even society crap about the Navy Wives' Club."
"In the long run a little column like that can do more good than a big feature," Harding observed.
"You're probably right, but as far as the admiral is concerned the best thing was that feature about him. Second to that was the Star's big write-up on the importance of the Navy to national defense and the importance of this base to local economy. I think that one really opened the eyes of some of the businessmen around here."
"Bob Roscoe is going to do a series that will top them all," Harding said. "With his by-line, I wouldn't be surprised if papers all over the country didn't pick it up and carry it. He's going to make the theme broad, so it will apply to New York or Chicago just as much as it does here."
"What kind of series?"
"Human interest stories of boys in uniform away from home. He's going to tug at the old heartstrings. You know, the clean-cut American youth kissing Mom good-bye and going off to serve his flag and his country. Roscoe can do that sort of thing up brown. Then this boy is stationed in a far-away city like this one, where he's all alone and doesn't know a soul. He goes into town, looking for a Sunday School, looking for the innocent companionship of some decent American girls. He came from a warm, friendly town, you know. He likes people and thinks America is the greatest country in the world. He's proud to be serving his country, proud of his uniform-you know, real gung-ho.
"But what does he find in this city? Signs that say 'Sailors and Dogs Keep Out'. The decent girls sneer at him as if he were dirt under their feet, and would spit in his face if he tried, in his own naive way, to speak to one of them. The local police eye him like a criminal, ready to throw him in the jug for the slightest unintentional infraction of a city ordinance."
"Good God, you're wringing the tears out of me," the lieutenant said. "It's all so goddamned true to life."
"So, bewildered by all this antagonism, what does Mom's son do? He wanders into the one place where he is welcome-a waterfront dive. He's had nothing to do with beer or bad women before-but he finds that this beer joint is the one place where he is treated with respect-as long as he's got money-so he starts drinking. The bad women are the only ones who are friendly. And he's so lonely and homesick that he's got to have some kind of companionship-so he drifts up to one's room with her and looses his innocence."
"End of the tragedy?"
"No, Roscoe's taking it further. The kid becomes hard and cynical. He now scorns his uniform, and switches to civilian clothes as soon as he gets ashore. He bitches about the lousy Navy. He snubs his nose at anyone who talks of patriotism and honor. He becomes a heavy drinker. He saturates his speech with profanity. He shacks up with the lowest of whores. He hates decent girls, but given half a chance he'd rape one of them to bring them down a peg. In short, he becomes a typical sailor."
"I've seen it happen a million times," Gepetto said. "Here and almost every other port I've been in."
"But it doesn't have to happen. That's going to be Roscoe's message. Stop corrupting our youths in uniform by giving them a bad name and then forcing them to live up to it. Invite them into the community churches and homes. Let them make an important contribution to community life wherever they are stationed. Let them go back to Mom older, more mature, but still pure, clean-cut American boys. Don't shatter their ideals. The future of America is in the hands of the youths of today. Nobody can grind out that stuff like Roscoe. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't get another Pulitzer prize for the series."
"The Pentagon will eat that right up. How the hell do you do it, Hart? Bob Roscoe had a personal hatred for the Navy before you came here."
"I told you before. I use all the principles of good public relations plus a few of my own tricks of the trade."
"What kind of tricks, that's what I'd like to know?"
Harding shrugged his shoulders.
"It wouldn't do any good to try to explain. These tricks of the trade are mine, and there's no way I could pass them on to anyone else, even if I wanted to. Mozart was born with a gift for music. Ben Franklin was born with a knack for inventing things. I was born with these tricks at my disposal. They're just my heritage. My father passed on to his children certain ideals and principles which, good or bad, we're stuck with."
"Whatever they are, they're magic."
"Yes, in a way I suppose they are in the realm of magic. A lot of men think so at any rate. Well, I think I'll go over and give old Bowery a hand while things are quiet. I've finished making all the arrangements for that first Navy-hour show on Channel Five tonight."
He found Bowery in the dark, as usual. He knocked, waited, then stepped into the darkroom.
"Came over to help you out. What can I do?"
"I'll hand you the prints as I take them out of the enlarger and you can soup them up."
"Okay, the production line is all set up. Say, why don't you ever get some sun on week ends?"
"Hell, I have to help the old lady around the house on week ends. If I didn't she never would give me any nooky. She's stingy enough with it as it is."
"Don't you get enough?"
"I've never had enough. Twice a week, if I'm good, and that's it. If we have an argument or the old lady isn't feeling up to snuff I don't even get that much. I've been trying to find some I can get on the side, but with my luck, I'll never do it. Like I said, I'm retiring next week. Back home, in our neck of the woods, I'll never have a chance to chase any strange stuff."
"Why don't you make out? You're not bad looking. That is, after you've been out of the dark a few minutes and stop squinting like a mole."
"I don't know what it is. Hell, I try to operate the same way other sailors do, but it just doesn't work for me. I couldn't even get into the old lady when we were engaged. I lost my cherry on the second night of our honeymoon. She was too sleepy the first night. And I've had nobody but her. That would be all right, too, but sex leaves her cold. She lies there like a corpse. For once in my life I'd like to have a woman squirming under me and maybe moaning a little."
"Why don't you leave her, if you're incompatible?"
"I'm too used to having her around now. In almost everything but sex and her nagging too much, she's everything I want in a woman. Hell, I hate to use the word 'love' around another sailor, but I love the old lady in spite of everything. I couldn't ever leave her. I do take me one night a week to go out trying for strange stuff, though."
"Where do you go?"
"Different bars. That's where all the other fellows seem to make out. I see women getting picked up every week, but never by me. If I offer to buy one of them a drink she always tells me thanks but she's waiting for a friend. Then the friend always turns out to be the next man on the make who comes in, buys her a few drinks, and then leaves with her on his arm."
"Gosh, you're in a bad way."
"It's just the idea of it that kills me, Hart. I ain't oversexed or anything. I think if I could make out once with another woman who seemed to really get a bang out of sex, I'd stop prowling and be perfectly content with the old lady for the rest of my life. It's just this feeling that I'm no damned good, that women just wouldn't want me in bed, that slays me."
"Good luck then. Which is your night out?"
"Tonight. I'm going to give the Seven Sisters a try. I've heard lots of fellows say they made out there."
"Sisters?"
"Yeah, that's just the name of the place. What's the matter?"
"Nothing. I was just thinking. But cheer up, Bowery. A guy as good as you can't have all the bad luck. I've got a feeling that you're going to make out tonight."
"Really? What kind of feeling?"
"Just a feeling in my bones. But when I get this feeling, I'm usually right. You know what I think your trouble has been? I think you're just too high class for those broads at the dives. If any high-class women ever came into one of them, I'll bet they'd go right for you, and not even give those other bums a second glance."
"You really think so? The other fellows say I'm a sad sack."
"Hell yes, I think so. You just keep trying and one of these days, maybe even tonight, you're going to show them all up."
"Thanks, Hart. Your optimism is contagious. Maybe this will be my night."
Just a good shipmate, that's me, Harding thought as he left the lab later. What's a shipmate good for, if he can't help out his buddies once in a while? If I could only help out that poor seaman who sweeps the floors and runs errands I'd be doing all right. He has a lousy job here and then spends all his free time with his nose in a book. I can think of a lot better places he could stick it than in a goddamned book. Everybody ought to have a good time once in a while.
With the idea still fresh in his mind, he went looking for the seaman. He found him in the stock room, dusting off supplies.
"How's it going, Roy? What's new?"
"Nothing much. I'm still working on that en-gineman course I took out. If I can pass it, maybe they'll let me strike for engineman when I get aboard a ship."
"You've been on that a long time, haven't you?"
"Yeah. Some parts of it I just can't get. I keep reading the damned stuff over and over and it just doesn't sink in."
"You're getting stale from too much study. What you need is a night out for a change. How about coming over to my house for supper tonight? The break will do you good."
"I can't, Hart. Thanks for the offer. I'd like to, but I've got to study."
"All right. If you insist on studying, you can bring your book over to my house and study there after supper. But I want you to come with me, understand?"
"Okay, if you're sure your folks won't mind my bringing my book along. I've just got to keep after it until I understand this stuff."
"Okay, I'll pick you up at four-thirty and drive you by your barracks so you can shower, change clothes, and grab your book. Okay?"
"Okay."
I don't know how they'll do it, Harding thought, but if he can be helped, my sisters will find some way to help him.
CHAPTER TEN
"Martha, Cathy, Coleen, Daphne, this is John Roy I was telling you about over the phone."
"Pleased to meet you, ladies," Roy said, nodding.
The girls shook hands with him and Daphne announced that supper was on the table.
"I'm leaving right after supper," Daphne said. "I have a date with Willis tonight. Martha is going out with one of the newspaper men. But Cathy and Coleen will be here."
"Not Coleen," Harding said. "I've got an assignment for her tonight. Cathy will be plenty to keep us company here. This boy brought his book so he can study after supper. Cathy can help him."
"Study? Cathy doesn't know anything about studying. There's only one subject she could teach him anything about."
"Don't underestimate old Cathy," he said. "She's a pretty smart cookie."
After supper Harding called Coleen aside and said to her:
"Coleen, honey, will you do me a big favor tonight?"
"You know I'll do anything for you, Harding. What is it?"
"I want you to dress up in your most expensive evening clothes, jewelry and all. Then I want you to go downtown and rent the honeymoon suite in one of the best hotels. Just for tonight. Don't pay less than a hundred dollars for the suite. Take one suitcase of your things to spread around on the dresser. Be sure to include your sexiest negligee. Then I want you to rent a limousine and hire a chauffeur for the night. Have him drive you to the Seven Sisters, where-"
"The Seven Sisters! Harding, that's a dive. Nobody but tramps go there."
"You won't be there long. Remember, the chauffeur is going to drive you right up to the front door. You're a rich girl going slumming, understand? Sit down at a table and order a martini. Look the crowd over, but give everyone the cold sneer, except for this one fellow. Here's a photo of him. Take a good look so you'll recognize him. Then pick him up. You'll know how. But be enthusiastic about it. Let everyone See that you think he's irresistible from the moment you lay eyes on him. Have your chauffeur drive the two of you back to the honeymoon suite and give him a real honeymoon.
"He's been missing out all his life. Make it up to him in just one night. Nothing is too good for this fellow, see. Be hotter than a firecracker. When he touches you, moan and twist like you just can't stand it, you're so carried away. In the morning you can let your chauffeur drive him home. You're just in town for one night, so you won't be seeing him again, but let him know that this has been the most thrilling night of your life, the one you'll always cherish. Can you do all that for me, Sis?"
"You know I can, Harding, and you know I will. This character is going to be ten feet tall tomorrow."
"Thanks, Coleen. You're a doll. Now you'd better go get ready."
Roy had taken out his book to start studying.
"Go sit over there on the couch beside him, Cathy," Harding whispered. "See if you can't help him out. When you get a chance, try to get him up to your bedroom and get his mind off that damned book for a little while."
"Leave it to me, honey. I'll fix him up."
She sat down by Roy, close enough for him to smell her perfume, but not close enough to frighten him.
"What are you studying, Roy? Maybe I can help you out?"
"No, a girl wouldn't know anything about en-gineman work."
"I might. Why not give me a chance?"
"It's no use," he protested. "Do you know anything about pumps, pistons and cylinders, shaft glands, lubricating oils, suction, surge chambers, lock screws, winches, thrust bearings, flexible couplings, nestled-typed reduction gearing, bull gears, shaft alleys, push rods, dummy pistons, scoop injection, manholes, hot wells, exhaust blowers, stuffing boxes, hand-operated pumps, and discharge pressure?"
"Of course I do. Nobody can operate a pump any better than I operate mine. I've had many a piston in my cylinder. I've seen all sizes and shapes of shaft glands. I know the importance of lubricating oils. Suction thrills me. I've felt many a surge chamber starting to surge. Locked screws I've used. Winches I know inside out. I know a good thrust bearing when I see one, and I'm an authority on flexible coupling. My nestled-type reduction gearing has reduced many a bull-gear to size, and I've had all sorts of push rods in my shaft alley. I once knew a Les who owned a dummy piston, but I never saw it in operation. I've had scoop injection in my manhole and I have an exhaust blower right under my hotwell. I've felt discharge pressure in my stuffing box. Hand-operated pumps I don't approve of, but I know about them just the same."
"Say, maybe you will be able to help me after all. I didn't know a girl would know about such things."
"Honey, who would know them any better?"
"Help me pick out the right answer to this one. 'If a pump fails to discharge fluid when the pump is up to speed and the discharge valve is opened, what should you do?'"
"What are the choices?"
"One. 'Operate at reduced speed until suction is established.'"
"That sounds tempting, but I don't think it's the right answer."
"Two. 'Send someone to sound the tank.'"
"Let's leave that other someone out of this."
"Three. 'Bypass the governor and speed up the pump.' "
"No need to drag the governor into such a situation. What else?"
"Four. 'Stop the pump.' "
"That's all you could do, honey. That's the right answer."
"Say, you're a smart girl. Now the next one. 'If a reduction-gear bearing overheats, the first thing to do, if possible, is-One. Cool the bearing with a CO-two fire extinguisher.' "
"Golly, no. I wouldn't want one of those freezing my reduction-gear bearings."
"Two. 'Cool the bearing with a fire hose, using straight stream.'"
"That's even worse."
"Three. 'Increase the flow of oil to the bearing.' "
"That's exactly what I do when mine overheats. That's right."
"True or false. 'No attempt should ever be made to jack over an idle pump by hand.'"
"True. I agree one hundred per cent."
"Another multiple choice. 'The portions of hydraulic rams where they fit into the cylinders should be protected from rust by-' "
"Well, I've seen some rusty ones, all right, that hadn't been used for years. What are the choices?"
"One. 'Painting with red lead.' "
"No. What a cruel thing to do."
"Two. 'Polishing with emery cloth.' "
"No."
"Three. 'Scrubbing with turpentine and steel wool.' "
"Good Lord, no! Never that."
"Four. 'Coating with the prescribed lubricating oil.'"
"That's what I do. That one is right."
"'Would you use the feeler gage method to measure the distance between the thrust bearings and the turbine shaft?' "
"How else? The feeler method is the simplest."
"True or false. 'If a reciprocating pump loses suction, it is likely to be irregular in operation, or to race without an appreciable increase in discharge pressure.'"
"Oh how true. When my reciprocating pump has suction and is reciprocating nicely, it is most irregular in operation upon losing the suction, always races without increase of discharge pressure."
"Multiple choice. 'Loss of discharge pressure may be caused by-' "
"You don't even have to read the choices. I know that one. It's caused by excessive wear of packing on the pump plunger."
"Say, that's one of the choices, all right. Cathy, you're so smart. You know so much about this sort of stuff."
"Ask me some more."
"'Has your centrifugal pump ever failed to deliver fluid?'"
"Yes, of course."
"'Name some of the probable causes.' "
"For one thing, insufficient priming. Then clogged passages can cause that. And, when I'm tired, insufficient speed of the pump."
"Great. Those are three of the reasons listed here. Now, 'if the pump does work for a while and then fails to deliver fluid, the trouble may be caused by insufficient fluid on the suction side, or excessive heat in the fluid being pumped.' True or false."
"True, honey. You've got to have that fluid on the suction side, and it is possible for it to get so hot that the pump won't operate properly."
"'What would a bent shaft cause?"
"Honey, that could cause the whole centrifugal pump to vibrate something terrible."
"'What is a viscosity pump?' "
"My viscosity pump is a shallow, helical groove inside the lower-bearing shell."
"Do you know anything about thief samplers?"
"Not so much. I've heard about these guys who sample it and then leave without paying, but I take precautions against that before I put my pump in operation."
"We'll skip that one, then. One more and we'll knock off for a while."
"That's fine, Roy, honey. Hurry up with that last one so we can go knock it off."
"Look over this long list and tell me which of these things are important in assuring full output of a pump."
Cathy took the book from his hand and glanced over the list.
"This one-'no undue deposits inside tubes'. Any girl should know that. And this-'proper operation of brine pumps and tube nest drainage system'. 'Overboard piping reasonably clean'. I keep my overboard piping very clean, myself. Clean suction and continuous-feed treatment are very important. Then, 'no air leaks in pump piping. Glands properly packed.'-that's important. 'Sufficient pressure at nozzle'. And finally this one-'proper speed and direction of rotation'. I think all those things would help you get full output of a pump. Come on up to my room and find out for yourself."
"You've got a pump in your bedroom?"
"I've got one I'll take up there to demonstrate some of these things we've been talking about. Put away your book now, honey, and let's have some practical application."
"Let's go. I'm dying to see what kind of pump you've got."
"Okay," she said, taking him by the arm. "I'm sure you're going to find it the most interesting pump you've ever worked on."
Arm in arm they went off to Cathy's bedroom. Harding, who had been sitting across the room pretending to read a newspaper, chuckled and 'walked out in the back for some fresh air.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The next morning as soon as he got to work, Harding sauntered nonchalantly over to the photo lab, his coffee cup in his hand. He grunted at Bowery and poured himself a cup of coffee. The photographer looked as though he were ready to drop in his tracks, but he also looked happier than anyone Harding had ever seen.
"Mind if I have the switchboard operator transfer all my calls over to you today, Hart?"
"No, of course not. Why, you going out?"
"Hell, no. I'm going in that darkroom, lock the door, and go to sleep. Man, I can sleep all day without turning over. Come over at quitting time and pound on the door. If anybody wants me, tell them I got a lot of darkroom work to catch up on."
"Where are you going to sleep in there?"
"I'm going to fold my peacoat for a pillow and stretch out on the top of the work table. I'm weary to the bone."
"What's the matter, Bowery? Couldn't you get to sleep last night?"
"Hart, I didn't even think about sleeping last night. Talk about making out-nobody's ever made out like I made out last night! But nobody! Not in the whole entire history of making out has anybody even come close to making out like I did."
"What the hell happened?"
"Ask the yeomen in the personnel office if you don't believe me. They were there when she came in. Their tongues were hanging out when they saw her. Everyone in the whole joint stopped stock still when she came in. They were that stupefied. You won't believe me, but I had plenty of eyewitnesses from right here at the station who'll back up what I say. Ask them."
"Ask them what? You haven't told me a damned thing yet."
"This doll, this queen, the most georgeous hunk of femininity you'd ever hope to feast your eyes upon walked into the Seven Sisters. Talk about class, man, she had it. A mink stole, enough diamonds to buy this whole damned Naval station, a gown that clung to that sublime body of hers like it just couldn't snuggle close enough. I mean it, she was the Queen of Sheba all over again."
"So-you saw a real queen."
"Saw! Hell, that's just the beginning. She looked around the joint at all those peons like they were just so much dirt under her feet. But when she saw me-now you ask the yeomen in personnel if you don't believe me-she just couldn't take her eyes off. She ordered a martini and just sat there sipping it, not taking her eyes off me for a minute. I was too frigging nervous to try making a pass or anything so I just sat there sweating, paralyzed, looking right back at her."
"A staring match, huh?"
"Hart, for cripes sakes stop trying to minimize my experience. After a while she asked the bartender to come over and tell me she'd like to have me join her in a drink. Imagine that, she couldn't even wait for me to make a pass at her. She had to make a play for me. It took me about two seconds to get over and introduce myself."
"Who was she? An actress or something?"
"Actress, my ass. This dame wouldn't have lowered herself to act in the biggest movie there ever was. She was a frigging princess-the Princess of Flagonia or something like that. Her and the prince flew over to vacation in the States, but the prince had to go up to Washington for a day to attend some kind of diplomatic business, so she thought she'd look over the town. Not knowing anything about the place, she had her chauffeur drop her off at the Seven Sisters. Seeing what a dive it was, she was ready to leave, but a real princess like her don't ever like to be rude, so instead of just turning up her nose and trotting out, she decided to have one drink first, just out of politeness. Then she saw me, and bang, just like that, she knew she had to have me in her bed."
"A nymph, huh?"
"Listen, Hart, one more of your cracks and I'll punch you right in the nose. This here was a real lady, a real princess, in fact. She hadn't ever had anybody but the prince get into her pants before last night, and she won't ever again. It was just one of those things that happens to a person once in a lifetime. The grand passion, she said they called it on the continent. She saw me, and even though her attitude toward adultery and things didn't change one whit, she could tell that this feeling just couldn't be denied or controlled, that it was bigger than her, or me, or the whole damned social system and all its rules."
"She was right, Bowery. I'm not joking with you now. I believe that some things are just preordained. They're bound to happen, just the way they were planned back in the beginning of time; and when they're ready to happen, the chosen people just get swept up into the schemes of fate and are powerless to do anything but play their appointed roles."
"Yeah, that's it, Hart. That's what she said."
"Did she tell you all that right there in the Seven Sisters?"
"Now you know a princess like that couldn't open up right off the bat. We had a couple of drinks there, with those yeomen and everybody sitting around staring at us like their teeth were going to drop out, and then I don't even remember how she put it to me, but we were on our way up to her suite for another drink.
"You should have seen that limousine, Hart! Of course, she was just renting it, since her and the prince flew over and couldn't bring their own, but that just gives you an idea how they do things in the royal style. The chauffeur was so far up front that she had to talk to him through a little two-way radio gadget. And you know where she was staying?-the honeymoon suite at the Continental! I couldn't even begin to describe that place. It was twice as big as my whole house and must have cost as much for one night as I pay for three months' rent. She left me sitting there in this plush parlor while she went to get comfortable.
"About the time she came back in this negligee-and I just don't have the words to tell you about that-this character knocks on the door and brings in this bucket of ice with a bottle of champagne sticking out. He opens it with a loud pop, pours us a couple of glasses, and gets lost. It was while we were killing that champagne that she got up the nerve to tell me the way it was with her about me. After I told her I felt the same way about her, there wasn't any more bashfulness for the rest of the night. Just pure hot passion."
"Did you know what to do, or did she? If neither of you had ever done anything like that before, it looks like you'd have trouble. You can't spend the whole night just acting like you do at home with the old lady."
"Hart, you don't have to know things like that. It comes natural. I carried her into the bedroom and slipped off that negligee and spent five minutes just looking at that angel body of hers. Then she started tearing my clothes off, so I got undressed, kissed her, and we were both ready to romp-on a bed big enough for a dozen couples to romp on at one time. We rolled over and over and over on that bed while still locked together going at it, without even slowing down. When we'd get to one edge, we'd start rolling back the other way."
"So that's what these sailors mean when they talk about getting rolled?"
"Hart, don't joke about something this serious. She moaned and groaned and screamed out at the top of her lungs. I told her she'd better not be so loud, but she said the honeymoon suite had soundproof walls, so I told her to go on and scream all she wanted to. She was that excited, and about twenty million muscles in her body were all going at one time. She reached a dozen climaxes before I did, and then another big one right with me.
"After that I lost track of the way things happened. We did it several more times, trying out all the different positions. And then there were some things that we did that I couldn't even tell to a shipmate like you, Hart-things that would make me sound like a real weird creep unless you could know how ravishing this princess was and how you could get a charge out of things that would be downright repulsive with an ordinary dame."
"I'm glad for you, Bowery. Hell, some fellows make out almost every night with the skunks that hang around the dives, but that's all they ever get. All these years fate has been saving you for something special, something too good for a fellow who's been used to small time stuff."
"You're right, Hart. That's the way it was for her and me both. One night out of a lifetime and it won't ever happen again for either of us. After that, I wouldn't think of trying to pick up any strange stuff. It would just be nothing compared to that. I'll just stick to the old lady from now on, and I'll always have that one night in my mind to keep me satisfied."
"You've got a lot to remember, all right."
"If I start getting blue, I can take this out and look at it."
He pulled out his handerchief and carefully unwrapped a garter belt with a single large diamond at the clasp. Harding recognized it at once.
"She gave it to me, as a keepsake of our night of grand passion. For herself, she pulled a button off my peacoat."
"That's nice. If you ever get tired of that garter, you could trade it for a brand new car. That diamond is genuine, you know."
"Of course it is. You think a real princess would be wearing imitation rocks on those royal thighs? Nope, I wouldn't trade this little souvenir for a whole fleet of limousines. This means something to me. It shows I didn't live for nothing. It's my college diploma, my big house on the hill, my statue in the park, my name in lights, my admiral's stripes. This is the one thing I've got to show that I'm just as important as anybody who ever lived."
"I'm glad it happened to you, Bowery. I really am. Now you go on and get some sleep. I'll tell the switchboard operator to switch all your calls over to my desk."
Harding left the lab with a feeling of elation. He passed Roy, who was sweeping the corridor, whistling merrily as he worked. In the public information office he found Gepetto just as happy.
"Are you as happy as you look, Lieutenant? I like for everyone around me to be happy."
"How could anyone not be happy around you, Hart? I'm so happy I could cry. The admiral just told me that I'll never leave this billet as long as he can help it. Do you realize I might finish out my career without ever going to sea again?"
"Why is the admiral so generous today?"
"He's been selected for promotion. It's just a matter of a few month's wait and he'll be Vice Admiral. Hart, it's all your doing. That nationwide newsreel coverage you got us is what really topped things off. It hit all the theaters right before the selection board met, and old Green was the first one they brought up for consideration. They went way down on the seniority list and skipped an awful lot of numbers to get to him. He wouldn't have had a chance if it hadn't been for this rash of publicity. He knows that, too, although he still insists on giving me the credit."
"You don't have to apologize to me. I'd just as soon the admiral didn't even know I exist."
"He knows you exist, all right, and he knows that you have been handling all these projects. He's just so goddamned stubborn that he has to keep insisting that an officer take all the credit. He sort of thinks of you as a valuable machine that I know how to operate to get results."
"Let him think that, then."
"But it isn't true. Hart, he thinks that if I left here you couldn't operate without me, but that if you left, I could find another journalist, another publicity machine, and get the same results out of him. That's what galls me."
"Stop fretting about it."
"I can't help it. He ought to be grateful to you, Hart, really grateful. Your tricks of the trade have lifted that admiral off his Rear and into Vice. He couldn't have made it without you, dammit. He owes his Vice to your tricks."
"Plenty of men owe their vice to my tricks, Lieutenant, and I've never expected any thanks from any of them in the past. I'm not going to start worrying about it now."
After all, he thought, the less the admiral knows about me the better.
CHAPTER TWELVE
As soon as Harding reached home that afternoon he found Daphne and her cub reporter, Willis Wildon, quarreling in the living room. They stopped when they saw him.
"Harding," Willis pleaded. "Will you please have a talk with your sister. She's being completely unreasonable. You should have heard the fantastic thing she told me."
"What fantastic thing?"
Willis held a diamond solitaire out for Harding to see.
"I bought this ring to put on her finger, but she said before she would agree to wear it, I'd have to understand that she was going to be a-a prostitute as soon as she came of age."
"A call girl," Daphne corrected him.
"Can you imagine that? Where did she get such a weird idea?"
"What's weird about it?" Harding asked. "Haven't you ever heard of call girls before, Willis?"
"Of course I have, but what's that got to do with it?"
"It's got a lot to do with it. You knew there was such a thing as call girls. Surely you didn't think they all went around with big signs on them saying 'I am a call girl.' And surely you didn't think they sprang full grown from the sea, the way Venus did. If none of the pretty young girls like Daphne ever became call girls when they came of age, who would keep the profession going? I don't think it's a bit weird that my sister has selected that for her profession."
"But Daphne was a virgin. I know. I was the one who robbed her of her virginity. I feel responsible for all this. Because of me she feels her life is ruined."
Harding laughed and shook his head.
"You stop worrying that you corrupted Daphne. She gave you her treasure, it's true, but she's had her profession picked out since she was just a little girl. Willis, do you realize that when we were kids all the boys in the neighborhood used to get boards and scraps of canvas to build, not clubhouses, but what they called apartments? You know why? Because if a boy had one of these little shelters of his own, and would call Daphne over a tin-can telephone which we used to make with strings and waxed paper, she'd visit him for private games. They used to pay her off in play money. One-hundred-dollar bills. She wouldn't take a make-believe cent less. No sir, and she wouldn't let a boy play with her behind a bush or in a garage. He had to have his own apartment or no dice."
"But all kids play sex games at one time or another," Willis said. "Even I."
"Yes, but Daphne was pretty serious about her games. No, I don't think it particularly unusual that my sister wants to be a call girl. It's a good profession."
"Good profession! Being a whore!"
"Willis, I wish you wouldn't use that insulting word," Daphne said, pouting.
"Let him use it if he likes," Harding said. "A whore is a woman who sells sex for money. Now which is it you object to-sex or money?"
"I-well, I don't object to either separately. Everybody should enjoy sex, but I want all Daphne's sex for myself."
"Tell me, Willis, let's be honest now, how long can you keep going at sex every day? I don't mean that occasional day after you haven't had any for a long time, but day in, day out?"
"How should I know a thing like that?"
"Come now, Willis," Daphne said. "You've had a good many days to find out. Especially since you've been coming by here in the mornings before you go to work and in the afternoons as soon as you get off, and then again in the evenings."
"All right. Say, two hours. A half-hour in the morning, a half-hour in the afternoon, and an hour in the evening. Two hours a day."
"Two hours," Harding mused. "Do you realize that Daphne could probably go at it eight hours a day? But let's be conservative and say two-plus hours. Two hours with some left over. Now you can take care of the two hours. But what about that which is left over? What do you expect her to do with that? Throw it in the trash?"
"No, but-"
"But what? Why do you object to her selling what's left over for cash? Don't you know it's wrong to be wasteful and throw away something valuable? Do you make so much that you can't use the extra money?"
"Gosh no, that's not why I object. I think a wife should be home with her husband."
"Daphne will be home when you are. Call girls work different hours. I think what Daphne has in mind is the afternoon shift. She'd be home to cook your breakfast, home to fix your lunch if you live close to your work, and home again in time to fix your supper. She'd have time to do her housework in the morning, and you'd never miss those two or three hours in the afternoon."
"Harding, for goodness sakes, you don't know what you're talking about. The idea of all those men defiling that sweet young body-maybe giving her diseases, making her pregnant, corrupting her mind."
"Let's sit down and talk this over, Willis. As for defiling her body, you don't really believe that sexual relations 'defile' a woman's body, do you? In order to believe that, you must think there is something inherently nasty about sex, and that isn't true at all. When a man has sex with a woman, he usually leaves his saliva on her lips and breasts, his sweat on her belly, his semen in her loins. After she douches, brushes her teeth, gargles with mouthwash, and takes a hot soapy bath, all traces of the man are gone, and her body is the same as before.
"As for diseases, Daphne isn't talking about being a streetwalker. The clients she'd be coming in contact with would generally be free of any disease. Besides, she'd certainly train herself to spot diseases in their early stages, and she'd have regular medical check-ups. As for pregnancy, a good call girl would be an authority on the best contraceptive methods. As for corrupting her mind, just remember that most of her clients would be doing the very same things you've no doubt already done with her. If occasionally one of them came up with something new, she'd only bring it home to enrich your own sex life there."
"Harding, please, listen to me. It's just not I right. What if Daphne and I wanted to have chil-i dren?"
"If you want to have children, I think you'd better discuss that with Daphne. I've never heard her say she wanted any."
"What about that, Daphne?" he asked. "I just don't know, Willis. Everyone doesn't have to have kids. It's a good thing and all that, but the world is already so overpopulated, that if half the couples who marry never had any, we'd still have more being born than there's decent room for in the world. I'm just not the mother type, I guess. Do you want kids real bad?"
"To be honest about it, no. I just can't accept this idea of your selling yourself for money."
"Stop and think with me, Willis," Harding said. "Think of the way different people sell themselves. In various professions people sell their muscles, their sweat, their physical labor, their skills, their intelligence, their education, their ingenuity, I their appearance, their reputation, any part of their body or personality or experience you can! name. In your job as a reporter the main thing you sell is your inquisitive mind, plus your writing skill and your general knowledge of human affairs. Daphne wants to sell her beauty, her skill in lovemaking, and her spontaneous passion. May-; be a better term would be rent. Both of you would be renting various aspects of your total personalities, but you'd still have them. Does using your intelligence for the News use up your brain or wear it out? Of course not. Neither will Daphne's client's use up anything of hers or wear it out. It will still be there for you."
"But-why? Why should she have to sell anything? Or rent anything?"
"Have to? She doesn't have to. She wants to. She wants to be a success in her field just as much as you want to be a success in yours. I'm sure she'd earn at least a hundred dollars a day, at least twenty-five days a month. Couldn't you use that extra twenty-five hundred dollars a month to help you both enjoy a higher standard of living than what you could afford on your newspaper salary? Furthermore, there might be times when Daphne could use her professional talents to further your career."
"I know. But, Harding, this profession she wants to enter isn't even legal."
"Neither was medicine, at certain times in our history. All science was outlawed during the Dark Ages. In many totalitarian countries today reporting the news is illegal. True, Daphne's profession is against our laws, but I think those laws are wrong. In all the golden ages of mankind, Daphne's profession has been not only permitted, but encouraged and exalted. There are many famous courtesans who were among the most respected members of their society."
Willis shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know what to say next. If there's nothing wrong with that profession, why does everyone look down upon it?"
"Everyone? I think if we had some way of actually looking into the minds of everyone in this country, we'd find only a small minority who look down upon it. I think we'd also find that those who do, actually look down upon sex in any form or fashion. You'd find that they hate sexy clothes for women, sexy advertisements in your newspapers, even any articles you might have occasion to write on sexy subjects.
"They might claim to sanction sex in marriage, but even there they'd disapprove of everything but straight intercourse, and they'd even feel that that should be infrequent and not performed with a great deal of passion. If you could get down to the core of the matter, you'd find that they consider sex a necessary evil for procreation, and an unnecessary evil for anything other than that."
"You're so goddamned convincing," Willis said. "You have that knack of making me look at things rationally instead of with my fears and prejudices."
"There's no room in love for fear. I've got to run upstairs and take a shower. Why don't you and Daphne talk this thing over some more. Just remember this, Willis. If you marry Daphne now, you'll have her all to yourself for the next five years. Then she'll probably be retiring by the time she's forty. If you save just half what she makes, you could retire at forty also, and together you could do anything you wanted, see the world, enjoy life. One other thing-Daphne's a damned good cook by anybody's standards."
"I know she is," Willis said. "She's good in everything."
After Harding had showered, dressed, and returned to the living room, he saw Daphne and Willis with their arms around each other, kissing. He noticed that she was wearing the diamond on the third finger of her left hand.
We'll be having a late supper tonight, he thought. I might as well catch up on my reading.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
After supper Harding walked out into the back yard, enjoying the cool evening. He instinctively directed his footsteps to the little patch of woods where he had first seen Marion. He felt a pang of disappointment when he found her hammock empty. Leaning against a tree, he stood gazing into her yard.
I wish she weren't so afraid of me, so afraid of herself, he thought. The weeks are so long when I can only see her on week ends.
He stepped across the picket fence and over to her hammock. Kneeling beside it, he pushed his face down into it, inhaling deeply, trying to smell some lingering trace of her. He did, or imagined he did, and remained there, smothering himself with thoughts of her. How long he remained thus, he did not know, when he felt her hand upon his shoulder. He knew it was her before he raised his head.
"That's the sweetest compliment you could have given me," she said.
"Oh, Marion, you're so beautiful I can't stop thinking of you for a single hour."
Still kneeling, he lifted her hand from his shoulder and brought it to his face, kissing the palm slowly, gently. She smiled contentedly and motioned for him to bring his face close to hers. When he did so she touched her hands gently to his cheeks and pulled his lips down to hers. She kissed him with her lips, and then with her tongue, thrusting it boldly into his mouth as far as she could. He sucked hungrily at the juicy morsel until she withdrew it, then thrust his own tongue into her mouth for her to suck. After many such exchanges she broke the kiss.
"Oh, Harding, you thrill me so. It's kid stuff, this endless petting, but even though I have the body of a woman, I must continue acting like a kid. Are you angry with me?"
He stroked her hair, at the same time bringing his other hand to rest upon one of her breasts, wishing that it were bare.
"Have I been acting angry? Would you think me too forward if I slipped my hand under your dress and fondled your breast?"
"It wouldn't do any good," she said. "My bra would still be in the way. It's fastened in back."
"Couldn't we unfasten it?"
"I suppose so," she laughed softly. "If you'll promise to go no further. I've never let a boy take my bra off before. Promise you won't try reaching under my panties."
"I promise."
"Harding, you're so patient, so good to me. I've told you why I can't go all the way with you and you understand. But I do need this kid stuff."
She sat up in the hammock and reached behind her to unfasten several buttons of her dress and unsnap her bra in back. She removed one arm from the dress and pulled it down over one shoulder, then removed the bra and put it on the hammock behind her. She lay back, one breast exposed.
"It's lovely," Harding murmured. "May I kiss it?"
"Isn't that what it's for? For men to kiss, for babies to suck? Be my baby. Come nurse your mother."
Harding restrained himself. He know that if he were too greedy he could make the nipple very sore. He opened his mouth wide enough so the teeth would not scrape it, and sucked quietly, running his tongue in little circles over the tip of the nipple.
"Oh, that's nice. You're so much like a little boy, Harding. But I'd better watch out, or my little boy is going to catch up with his mother on the tennis court. We couldn't let that happen, now could we?"
As she talked she continued running her fingers through his hair. It was obvious to Harding that she was slowly becoming passionately aroused, but that nevertheless she was enjoying the experience in a lazy, pleasant sort of way.
"This is a lovely way to spend an evening," she sang to him.
Very lovely, he thought, but slightly frustrating. I am getting closer to my goal, Maid Marion. Rome wasn't built in a day.
"Marion? Where are you?"
It was the voice of an old man, and Harding knew exactly which old man it had to be. He sprang to his feet. Marion quickly put her arm back into the dress and fastened the buttons in back. By the time her father came close enough to see them in the evening twilight she was sitting there in the hammock, Harding standing a few feet away, as though they had been merely talking to each other.
"What are you doing out here? Ensign Fletcher doesn't want to spend the whole evening talking naval tactics with me. Who's this. Don't tell me. I know."
He stepped close to Harding and scowled fiercely at him.
"You're that new journalist, Hart. I've seen you in the hall. What are you doing here with my daughter?"
"We were just talking, sir."
"Just talking, eh?"
The admiral struck a match and held it in front of Harding's face.
"Lipstick! Just talking, eh? Hart, what in the hell do you mean slipping into my back yard like this? Marion, how long has this-this-been slipping into our back yard? Where did you come from anyway, Hart? What are you doing here in my neighborhood in the first place?"
"He lives next door, Dad."
"Next door? In that big house? Impossible. It would take his annual salary to pay a month's rent there."
"My annual salary wouldn't cover a whole month, sir, but I don't pay it. I live with my older sisters."
"If you've got money in your family, why didn't they buy you a Reserve commission? They're a dime a dozen these days. Listen, Hart, I don't care if you do live next door. I don't want you coming over here hanging around my daughter. You enlisted men have the morals and manners of a pack of dogs. So you stay out of my yard, do you hear?"
"Dad, listen to me. I invited Harding over here.
We've been playing tennis together on week ends."
"That's not what you were playing tonight. What has got into you, Marion? Slipping around behind my back with this-this-
"If you want a tennis partner, I'm sure Ensign Fletcher will be glad to oblige you. And this-this spooning in the dark. If you've got to have that, he'll be glad to oblige you there, too. You can trust Ensign Fletcher not to try to take advantage of your innocence. He know how to respect a girl with proper upbringing. These enlisted men wouldn't believe there is such a thing as an eighteen-year-old virgin in the world.
"Go on, Hart, get out of my yard. Go on down to one of your waterfront bars and pick you up a girl of your own class. If I catch you around here again, I'll have you court-martialed for disobeying orders. Now get out!"
"You'd better go, Harding," Marion said. "I'll telephone you tomorrow."
She was in tears, sobbing. Harding wanted to comfort her, but he knew that would only make things worse. He turned and walked back to his own house.
Thank God for small favors, he thought ruefully. At least he didn't see the bra. I saw it on the hammock after he came up and knew the old bastard would see it and raise holy hell. I'm glad Marion thought about it in time to slide over and sit on it.
When he opened the back door he heard the sound of merriment inside. Willis and all four of his sisters were drinking champagne in the living room.
"Harding, where have you been?" Cathy yelled. "Come on in. We're celebrating Willis and Daphne's engagement."
"Congratulations, both of you."
He shook Willis' hand and kissed Daphne on the cheek.
"How's your romance coming?" Daphne asked. "You'll have to hurry it up so we can make it a double wedding."
"Wedding?" he gasped in a shocked tone. "I haven't said anything about a wedding. I haven't even thought about a wedding. I don't want any wedding. All I want is a honeymoon."
"But I thought you were in love," Daphne said.
"Whatever gave you that idea? I haven't told you that. And I haven't told her that. She doesn't want to get married, thank goodness. She wants to finish college and work a few years before she starts looking for a husband. And I've got to finish my hitch in the Navy and get started in my career."
"What are you going to take up, Harding?" Willis asked.
"I'm going to follow in my father's footsteps."
"What did he do?"
"Didn't Daphne tell you, when she was telling you about her own chosen profession? Our father was a pimp."
"A pimp?"
"Don't say that word like it was something disrespectful. You might as well get used to it, Willis. You'll be one too."
"I most certainly will not."
"Hell, you'll be living off Daphne's earnings. What you make will help out, but she'll be bringing in most of the family money."
"All right," Willis said. "So I'll be a pimp. I don't care, as long as Daphne and I are going to be together."
"Of course, I'm going to be a real pimp," Harding said. "I'm going to recruit me a stable bigger than Solomon's harem. We'll take long distance calls from anywhere in the country. Hell, we'll even take calls from anywhere in the world, and rush the girls to their clients by jet plane."
"You are ambitious."
"Isn't that the way to be. Aim high, our pop always said. Shoot for the moon, son, and you'll get it."
"Let's drink a toast to that," Martha said.
"Here's to Harding. May the moon be his."
Six glasses clinked together in the toast.
Yes, Harding thought, gulping down his champagne. Shoot for the moon, and all you'll get is a kick in the ass. How in hell can I ever recruit a stable when I can't even seduce one gullible young girl?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Less than five minutes after Harding arrived at the office the next morning, Lieutenant Gepetto was called up to the admiral's office. When he returned he was carrying a sheet of paper in his hand.
"Read and sign," the lieutenant told Harding, handing him the paper. "The admiral's got a hair across his ass this morning."
"What is it? Have you read it?"
"Yeah. Cripes, I don't know what got into the old bastard. He put out this directive saying public information personnel are absolutely forbidden to receive any personal telephone calls during working hours. If my wife calls, the switchboard operator is supposed to tell her I can't be disturbed. Can you imagine that? Hell, I've never spent over five minutes a day talking to her over the phone, and you haven't been getting many personal calls."
"I see it says we can't make any either."
"Hart, that's not all. I might as well tell you and get it over with. The admiral told me I might be getting another journalist soon. Cripes, I tried to tell him what would happen if they moved you, but he insists the only reason we made out so badly before you came was that we had a journalist that was below par. He said he was going to have his friends up in Washington upgrade your billet to chief and find us a top-notch chief journalist to fill it. He said you're going to sea. What in hell's this all about?"
"Family trouble. He caught me necking with his daughter."
"His daughter? How in hell did that come about? Were you trying for a transfer? Don't you like it here?"
"Sure I like it here. It's just one of those things. I didn't even know she was his daughter until we were off to the start of a good friendship."
"Oh, hell, that's none of my business. It's none of his either, but he's making it his business. Can't you think of something to stop him? Maybe a big publicity stunt or something."
"Too late for that," Harding said. "We should have held something in reserve. Instead, we shot the works. Anything we could dream up would be anticlimax. No, I'm afraid if he wants to transfer me, there's no way I can stop him. Of course, my tricks of the trade go with me."
"And how long do you think I'll last here without them? No other journalist in the Navy is going to be able to keep up the publicity you've been getting the Service here. I've been getting the credit for your work here. Now I'll be getting the blame for the new journalist's failures."
"I'm sorry, Gepetto. I really am. But there's nothing I can do. I haven't broken any rules or anything. The admiral is pissed off at me for personal reasons which are actually none of his business. And, like I told you before, my tricks are not transferable, even if I wanted to leave them behind."
"I'm not blaming you, Hart. It's just the lousy Navy. Why I ever decided to make this outfit my career I'll never know. There's about as much justice here as there is in a concentration camp. The big brass get away with murder and the enlisted men get shat upon, if that's the right tense of the verb. Here, for a lousy hundred bucks a month you've been getting the Navy a million dollars worth of publicity, and the only thanks you're getting is the old meat hook up the giggy."
"A hundred and twenty-two dollars and twenty cents a month," Harding corrected him. "It keeps me in cigarettes."
The phone on Harding's desk rang. He picked it up.
"Public information office. Hart speaking."
"Hi, Harding, this is Marion."
"How did you get your call through?"
"The first time I called the operator said you were too busy to accept any personal calls. So I waited five minutes and called back as Jane Smith of Ladies' Home Companion."
"Did you know your father is having me transferred?"
"He told me he would last night. But he's not going to. I'm going to talk to him about it tonight."
"Why waste your time, Marion? Why don't we just see as much of each other as we can before I have to leave?"
"You saw all you're going to see of me last night. What do you want to do? Corrupt me and then go off to sea? No, Harding, I can't let you be transferred on my account. I'm going to put a stop to it tonight."
"How do you plan to do that?"
"I'm going to promise my father not to see you again. And you must understand, Harding, that I don't 'make promises and then break them. You couldn't see me if you were away at sea. This I way it will be just as though we'd never met."
"Don't say that, Marion. I couldn't bear to be I so close to you and never see you. I think you're I just chicken, afraid I'll beat you in tennis,"
"Don't you think it will be just as hard on me? I But we'll both get over it. After all, it was just I a good friendship, wasn't it?"
"It might have been more than that, in time."
"But we don't have that time, Harding, whether I you go to sea, or whether you stay and don't see me again. It's not as though we were in love or anything, is it? We never mentioned that word, did we?"
He hesitated. I wish I could lie to you, he thought. But I can't, even if it means I won't be able to trade cherries with you.
"No, Marion, but-"
"There's no buts about it," she said icily. "Except the one you kissed at the beach, and I suppose it was just my tail that you were after all along. I'm going to say good-bye now, Harding, and I must ask that you please respect my wishes and not call me or try to see me. I'll say-"
He could hear her breaking down and sobbing, but he could think of nothing he could do to comfort her.
"I'll say one thing for you," she said, quickly choking back the sobs. "You never lied to me, Harding. And you stuck to your promise to behave like a gentleman. You don't blow both hot and cold. Some lucky girl is going to be very grateful for that. Good-bye now, it was nice knowing you."
"Marion-" he said, but he heard a click and knew that it was too late to say anything more.
"Don't bother telling your wife to start packing yet," he said to the lieutenant. "Maybe I won't be leaving after all."
"I'm sorry," Gepetto said, walking over and putting his hand on Harding's shoulder. "I could not help but overhear your end of the conversation. Maybe this will be the best way. Since you're screwed either way you turn, you might as well stay here. That's just the way it goes in this outfit. An enlisted man's got two strikes against him to start with, and the big brass have bribed the umpire. There's no way you can ever expect to get to first base."
"I just don't know why I feel so goddamned depressed about it, Gepetto. After all, like she said, it wasn't a matter of love or anything."
"Are you sure about that?"
"I can level with you. You're a pal who can understand. Maybe I won't sound so noble, but I wanted to give that girl my cherry so bad I didn't know what to do. The idea of taking her cherry was only a small part of it. I've waited so long-all my life, in fact-for my first piece of ass, and I wanted it to be with somebody special, like her."
"Sure, I understand that. Sex and love don't always go hand in hand, but they have a pretty sneaky way of getting mixed up together, especially when you're eighteen and cherry."
"I'm not going to be cherry long. If it's all right with you I'm going to take the afternoon off."
"Sure. Is it any of my business where you're going?"
"The last edition of the Morning Star goes to bed at ten A.M. What's the name of that girl reporter who was in here giving me the come-on the other day?"
"Julie James. She was hot for your pants, all right."
"You think I can make out with her? You saw how she was acting around me."
"I'll give a hundred to one odds that you can make out without any trouble, but-"
"But what?"
"I don't want to spoil anything for you, but I just think you ought to know this. Julie's far from a virgin. And making out with her is not going to be any feather in your cap. I shacked up with old Julie the first two weeks I was here, before my family came down. Half the guys on the station have been up to her room at one time or another."
"So what? I said the cherry part made no difference. I'm just hot to lose mine. How is she?"
"She's damned good in bed. She's not a nymph, but she's a good match for any man she can pick up. If she weren't so career happy, she'd make somebody a good wife. She's a damned good-looking girl, and like. I said, plenty adequate in bed."
"That's good enough for me. I'm going to call her up now and see if I can't pick her up at ten o'clock and take her out to lunch. The admiral can shove his regulation about personal calls up his ass. I'm already slated for Siberia anyway."
He dialed the number.
"Good morning from the Sun."
"City desk, please."
"City desk. Rogers."
"Hi, Rogers, this is Hart. Is Julie James around?"
"Sure thing. Julie, pick up three."
"Hello, Julie James speaking."
"Hi, Julie, this is Harding Hart, remember, the Navy journalist? I was wondering if I could pick you up about ten and take you out to lunch today."
"I'd love that, Harding, but you'd better make it eleven. I've got to finish up a few things around here."
"Fine. I'll be waiting out front for you. See you then."
"'Bye, Harding, and thanks."
Later, near the end of their lunch, he made his first subtle pass at Julie. They had been talking journalism all during the meal. He reached across the table and pressed the back of her hand.
"You're the prettiest reporter I've ever seen," he said. "Do you have anything scheduled for this afternoon? If not, how about helping me enjoy my afternoon off. Maybe we could go swimming or something."
"I don't think I'm up to swimming this afternoon. Why don't we go by my apartment for a drink. We'll think of something to do there."
In her apartment they had the drink, scotch and water. Julie put a record on the phonograph, turned the volume down low, kicked off her shoes, and sat down on the couch beside Harding, curling her legs up under her.
"Here's to the handsome journalist and his day off," she said, raising her glass in a toast.
"And here's to the pretty girl reporter who is brightening up that day off."
They sipped the drinks, looking at each other and not speaking. She moved closer to him. He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips. Just a little peck. When she did not pull away he kissed her deeply, with his lips and tongue.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I just couldn't help that."
"Don't apologize, Harding. We both knew that we were going to spend the afternoon in my bed as soon as you called me. Available Julie, that's me, available for any clean, good-looking man who's halfway decent about his approach. Just so you don't treat me like an inferior being because I enjoy sex and don't want to get married. I'm not being too frank for you, am I?"
"No, Julie, you're not. I prefer complete honesty. You're very pretty, and if I can spend the afternoon in your bed without having to tell you I love you or make any promises which we both know I wouldn't keep, then I'll consider myself very lucky to have such a thrilling experience."
"It'll be thrilling all right, Harding. I can promise you that. But I may as well tell you in advance that I won't be able to go all the way. Not straight, anyway."
"Huh? What do you mean?" he asked incredulously.
"The moon won't be right for three or four days, if you know what I mean. I'm in the middle of the curse."
Harding groaned.
"Don't be too disappointed," she said gaily. "Don't you like to improvise? Just stop to think of how many entrances a woman's body has. There's more than one way to stoke a fire. You game?"
Harding nodded, but inwardly his spirits drooped. He'd had enough, more than enough, of sexual preliminaries and embroideries. He felt like a traveler with a free ticket to visit any place in the whole world but was forbidden ever to get to the home port he wanted more than anything else.
He felt numb as Julie stripped and began working him over. The Fates are working overtime against me, he thought. But what the hell, maybe it's all for the best. Much as I want to get rid of my cherry, I really don't want to leave it with a girl I have no feelings for.
"What's the matter, Harding?" Julie said. "Aren't you in the mood?"
"Sure, sure," he answered rapidly, feeling slightly embarrassed.
He pulled her into his arms and give her a fierce kiss, remembering what he'd once heard Martha tell Coleen: 'There are times when you've just got to fake it.' Harding fixed his mind on Marion, imagining that she was present and not Julie.
"Ahhh," gasped Julie a few moments later. "I see you are in the mood. Now you just lie back and let old Julie take a sailor on a long voyage...."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Marion was reading in the living room when the doorbell rang. She put a slip of paper in her book, laid it on the lamp table, and went to the front door. Before unfastening the night latch she peered through the small rectangular window.
"Harding," she said, opening the door. "What are you doing here? Didn't I ask you not to try to see me again?"
"I just had to talk to you, Marion. May I come in?"
"You're a fool, Harding Hart, coming into enemy territory like this. What if my parents had been here?"
"I made sure they wouldn't be. A friend of mine arranged a last minute guest appearance on TV. I made sure he included your mother."
"I know. They rushed out all excited. I'm supposed to watch them from nine to nine-thirty."
"Don't. They'll only be on for two or three minutes, and you've heard anything they might say a million times."
"But what will I tell them?"
"Tell them you were having trouble with the set."
"All right. Now, what do you want to talk about, Harding. Our friendship was good while it lasted, but you know it's futile to try to continue it."
"Maybe it was more than just a friendship, Marion. I don't know. I won't lie to you about it, but the way I feel about you is certainly not the same thing I've felt for just any friend."
"Of course not," , she said sarcastically. "You also want to get into my pants."
"Yes, I did, but only if and when you wanted me to. Don't you know by now that I'd never take advantage of a moment of weakness-that I'd never seduce you when your mind was set against it but just couldn't prevail against your body?"
"Yes, I do trust you."
"Sit down, Marion. I don't know exactly how to say what I want to tell you. Maybe I'd better start by beating around the bush."
"Start beating then."
"I don't know-, this is a funny world we live in, a funny point in history. You're a welleducated girl, Marion. You know in how many stages of history love was free. In many countries today love is free and uninhibited. People enjoy all the forms of sex which spring spontaneously into their minds-some places, that is. And they don't associate sexual enjoyment with sin or guilt or any other form of impropriety."
"I know that."
"This sort of freedom of the mind and spirit is a wonderful thing, and whenever society has had it, there has been a golden age of creative effort and progress. Of course there have also been periods of unlimited license where selfish people would abuse the rights of others to attain their own sexual goals-periods where rapes, child molesting, and such were commonplace. Then there have been the periods of restraint and taboo, where sexual activities were subject to all sorts of limitations, where about the only approved act was straight intercourse between man and wife, and only then at certain times and in a prescribed manner, and at that they weren't supposed to enjoy it. During these periods of taboo, society went into dark ages, making no progress, and their sexual repressions exploded into barbarity and sadism."
"I know all that, too."
"Well, today, even though in many ways people, in this country at least, are enjoying more freedom than ever before in most respects, the general attitude towards sex is still more or less that of the periods of restraint. For instance, you made me promise that if I ever did seduce you, I'd kiss you all over first. That's a reasonable desire for a girl to have, but you know also that in most states it's still carried on the books as a felony, and aside from the legal aspects, some people think it's morally wrong, and many others who actually feel that it's all right would be afraid to engage in it for fear of being found out and arrested or ridiculed."
"So, what does all this beating around the bush add up to?"
"It adds up to the fact that you may just be unfortunate enough not to find a completely uninhibited man. You might finish college, work a couple of years, fall in love, get married, and find yourself on a lifelong pattern of straight intercourse. Of course it's typical of these Puritan men who preach that it would be abnormal for them to kiss your body to insist that just the opposite is not only normal but virtuous."
"Harding, what are you trying to say to me?"
"I'm trying to say that I made a promise to you, and I'd like to keep it, whether or not I ever have the privilege of giving you my virginity for yours. I want to make you even more beautiful than you are, Marion, by keeping my promise, and I will give you my oath that I won't attempt to have intercourse with you in the heat of your passion when you couldn't reject me."
"No, Harding, I couldn't let you."
"Why not?"
"I couldn't accept such an offer knowing it would only leave you frustrated. And-at this point I couldn't bring myself to reciprocate."
"I don't want you to, Marion. I really don't."
"Come here, my baby. Nurse my breast."
She was taking off her blouse as she spoke. When she leaned back on the couch he began kissing one breast unhurriedly.
"Oh, Harding, I shouldn't be so selfish, but I am. Your beating around the bush scared the daylights out of me. I told you how much I've longed for what you offer, and now you've got me scared to death that if I don't take it now I might never get it. Oh, Harding, be good to me, and forgive me for being so selfish."
"There's nothing to forgive, Marion. Aren't you going to take off your skirt?"
"Not yet. Not for a long time. You've got a lot of skin to cover above the waist. When you get that far, I'm going to take off my shoes and socks and let you start from the bottom up. When you have covered all the area outside my panties, I'll take them off."
Harding worked slowly, but with full attention to what he was doing. He made love as though he had no goal beyond the action of the moment.
You are sensitive all over, he thought as he was kissing her shoulders. It's as though each pore in your skin had exposed nerves, the way you twitch with delight.
"Oh, my darling, this is divine."
"Do you have any powdered sugar?"
"Yes, but why do you ask that?"
"Go get it, and bring a powder puff. I'll powder each area before I start on it, then I can tell I've finished that much when there's not a single sweet speck left anywhere."
"It sounds delightful," she said, jumping up and running toward the kitchen.
He powdered her back thoroughly, and then started kissing her left shoulder, slowly working down the outside edge, enjoying the novelty of the sweetness mingled with the deliciousness of her skin.
I've never seen so much life in a body before, he thought. It's all I can do to hold her down.
While he was moving his lips down her spine, and especially when he neared the top of her skirt, she was kicking her feet against the couch, beating her fist against the pillow, and rollingback and forth despite the firm grip he had on her waist.
"I can't wait, Harding," she almost screamed, "I'm taking off the skirt now."
"No, my darling," he said, holding her down. "I'm a man of my word. I've got lots more territory to cover."
"Oh, Harding, you're wonderful to be doing this to me. It's better than tennis or scrabble or anything in the world, and you thought it up just on the spur of the moment, with the powdered sugar and all."
"I doubt that," he said. "I think probably many other men and women have devised similar games spontaneously. One thing about it, though, the games of love don't have to be original to be fun. I think if more men and women dallied with such pleasant little games as this, instead of making their sex hurried and furtive, the world would be a better place to live in."
The game progressed as Harding had said it would.
During the last round of their game she thrashed, bounced on the couch until he feared she was going to break the springs, clutched handfuls of his hair and yanked, rolled, ground her hips, pumped with her abdominal muscles, pulsed, throbbed, moaned, screamed, laughed, cried, and sometimes, after one of her many climaxes, lay completely relaxed, not moving a muscle or making a sound.
"Please stop," she said at last. "Oh, Harding, please stop. I can't bear any more ecstasy right now."
"A convenient time," he said. "Why, darling?"
"I just heard a car drive up. It's probably your parents coming back. You'd better grab your clothes and run for the bathroom. Which door will they be coming in?"
"The back," she said, "after they put the car in the garage."
"Then I'll run out the front. Marion, will you play tennis with me Saturday morning?"
"Yes, darling. Hurry. I'll meet you at the court at nine."
He slipped out the front door and ran across the lawn to his house, feeling that his jaw might well be paralyzed for the next day or two.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Saturday morning, when Harding drove her home from the tennis courts, Marion sat in shocked silence.
"Cat got your tongue?" he asked.
"Oh, Harding, I just can't understand how it happened. I played well. I played a better game than I've ever played, but I just didn't have a chance against you. I tried so hard, but no matter where I socked the ball, you were right there, driving it back. I-I-"
She put her face in her hands and started crying. He glanced over and saw her shoulders heaving in great sobs. He steered with one hand, reaching over to pat her on the back in a gesture of consolation.
"Don't cry, Marion. It's only a game."
"No," she wept. "It's more than that to me. I-I haven't been beaten in tennis since I was a young teen-ager, Harding. It was my pride, my superiority, my ego, and you've taken it all away from me."
She continued crying until he pulled up in front of her house.
"I'll see you in," he said. "I don't care if your father does kick me out. I can't leave you in this condition."
He switched off the motor and ran around to open the door for her. He held her arm as they walked up the path to her door. He opened it for her and followed her inside.
There was a note on the mantle. Harding read it aloud to her.
"Marion-Your father and I will be at the country club until this afternoon. Your lunch is in the icebox. Mother."
She didn't answer. She looked at him through tear-reddened eyes.
"Damn you, Harding Hart," she yelled suddenly. "Damn you to hell!"
Before he had time to defend himself she raised one hand all the way back and brought it around in a powerful slap that knocked him off balance and left his cheek stinging as though a dozen hornets had stung him there. He toppled backwards to the floor, breaking his fall with his hands. When he looked up he saw Marion holding one wrist with her other hand, blowing on the one with which she had slapped him.
"I think I sprained my wrist, goddamn you!" she cried.
He rose to his knees, taking the hand in his own and kissing the palm tenderly. While he was doing so she raised back one foot and kicked him with all her strength in the pit of the stomach. He slumped forward, clutching his abdomen and gasping for breath.
"It was my game, goddamn you to hell!" she screamed at him.
She kicked again, and although he could see it coming he was unable to move his hands from his stomach to ward off the blow. It caught him in the chest, knocking another groan from his body. He managed to roll over away from her, so that the third kick landed at the base of his spine, causing excrutiating pain. He rolled over on his back, squirming as the fourth kick crashed into his side.
"I'll stomp you to death, goddamn you!" she cried.
He saw the bottom of her shoe raised over his face. His eyes opened wide as it descended. Just before it smashed down upon him he managed to bring his hands up and catch it, one hand under the sole, the other under the heel. He had stopped her foot only inches above his face, but he could feel her shifting all her weight to this leg, twisting her foot back and forth with a grinding motion as she did so.
He was losing ground. His arms were at an awkward angle and were slowly giving out as the bottom of her shoe twisted itself down closer and closer. He knew that if it reached his face she would crush down with all her weight, twisting and grinding until the tread of the tennis shoe lacerated his flesh, perhaps broke his nose, tore his lips, dug out one of his eyes. In her fit of anger she would not realize the viciousness of her attack.
With a tremendous effort, he twisted the foot and pushed upwards, throwing her off balance onto the floor. Immediately he was upon her, tearing off her clothes, not bothering to find the buttons, but simply grasping handfuls of cloth and snatching them away. When he had her completely naked, he sat on her legs and untied her shoes, ignoring her fingernails raking and tearing at his back.
When he had the shoes and socks off he sprang to his feet, unbuckling his belt. He was in such agony from her kicks and scratches that he could not move without groaning. His face was red with anger. He brought the belt up over his back and slashed down across her naked thighs. There was a loud plop as the leather whacked across her flesh, followed by her scream. She doubled up, covering her thighs with the upper part of her body. He raised the belt again, but he hesitated when he saw there was nothing exposed to him but her back and shoulders. He reached down and pushed, not hard, toppling her over on one side, exposing her buttocks. Slowly this time, he raised the belt over his head and slashed down with all the strength he could muster, raising a vivid welt across her buttocks. Then he stepped around in front of her, his feet near her head.
"Please, Harding, please, no more," she sobbed.
"On your knees," he said, with no gentleness in his voice.
She complied, begging with her eyes.
"Please don't hit me again," she repeated.
He stood there with the belt in his hand as she looked up at him imploringly.
"Now lie down," he commanded. "On your back."
When she did so, he dropped the belt, removed the torn shreds of his T-shirt, took off his shoes, and lay on top of her.
"Who is master?" he asked.
"You," she said, still trembling with fear.
"Say it. Say 'Harding, you're my master.' "
"Harding, you're my master."
"That's better."
He rolled off and sat beside her. He bent over and kissed the red streaks on her thights, then rolled her over and kissed the even redder welts. He turned her over again and kissed her breasts, stomach, and her most sensitive parts until there was no doubt that she was fully aroused.
"I'm going to rape you, Marion."
"I can't stop you," she said. "I couldn't stop you on the tennis court, or when you had the belt.
I can't stop you now."
He was well aware that he was using the word 'rape' very loosely. He knew that if he got up and started to leave she would beg him to come back and take her. At the same time, he knew that this was her moment of surrender, the moment at which she would drop the last vestige of her tom-boyism and assume the role of a woman. To make this surrender more complete, he wanted to show her it was not necessary to ask her permission.
He entered her slowly, using shallow strokes to penetrate her gradually, going a little deeper each time. She was groaning with pain, but at the same time her arms were wrapped around his back and her legs were locked around his hips. At last he was completely within her. He withdrew completely and again penetrated slowly, patiently. Each time he repeated the process it was easier than the time before. Her moans still denoted some pain, but there was more and more pleasure in them as well.
"Oh, Harding," she screamed. "My master. Oh, my master!"
"My princess," he said softly. "Now that you've said it, don't ever call me that again."
"My man, then," she said. "Oh, my big strong masculine man."
"My woman-"
She stopped his mouth with her own. For a moment all motion ceased but the thrusting of their tongues, the sucking of their lips. He knew his climax was near, and could tell that she also was ready for the finale. He tore his mouth from hers, gasped his lungs full of air, and set his hips in motion at a much faster tempo, until they both groaned together in an ecstatic orgasm. He slumped down upon her, not withdrawing.
"You're not a virgin any more," he said after while.
"Neither are you," she murmured in his ear. 'You rapist, you. Why did we have to almost kill each other?"
"You started it, you wildcat," he said. "But I don't care. If that was the only way for this to happen, I'm glad it happened as it did."
"Did I injure you, darling?"
"I don't know. I'll have to have the base of my spine x-rayed. You might have slipped a disc. I'm awfully sore."
"You're not the only one who's sore. Those kisses didn't make my butt stop hurting. Harding, thanks for not hitting me that hard on the thighs, and for not hitting me anywhere else it would show outside my tennis shorts. I want to continue playing, even if I can no longer beat you."
"You'll probably win part of the time," he laughed. "The red places on your thighs will be all gone by tomorrow, but you might have to sit on a pillow for several days. Am I too heavy for you?"
"Oh no. Please stay where you are. Stay in me until you can do it again. Oh, it's wonderful to be a woman. I feel more confidence through you than I ever did through myself."
"I'm glad for both of us, Marion."
"Harding, I'm-I'm glad you made me do this. I might never have gotten over my restraint otherwise."
"Hush, I feel something stirring. Do you?"
"Oh yes, of course I do. Love me again, Harding. Love me again."
"Here we go, honey. Here we go. All aboard. The old locomotive is on its way."
Marion was screaming again, but this time with almost all pleasure and very little pain.
"Great balls of Satan!" a voice bellowed from behind him. "Great balls of the devil!"
Harding sprang to his feet in time to see the admiral grabbing his Navy sword from its scabbard over the mantle. The old man raised it over his head and came for him. Harding barely had time to get to the door, open it, and slip through before the sword slammed against the door panel.
"I'll run you through, miserable swine!" the admiral swore, charging out the door behind him.
Unencumbered by clothing, Harding made good time across the lawn to his own house, but the old man managed to stay right at his heels, despite his age. Harding knew his small lead was not enough to permit him to open a door, so he kept right on going until he came to the patch of woods at the back corner of the lot. Instinctively he leaped as high as he could up the trunk of a slender tree, shimmying on up out of reach of the sword.
The tree was so small that it bent slightly with his weight. He looked around to see if it might be possible for him to cross over to a larger tree, but none was close enough. The admiral was right below him so there was nothing he could do but maintain his precarious position in the swaying tree.
Swish-whack! Harding heard the noise and felt the tree shudder. He looked down again and shuddered with it. The admiral was hacking at the tree truck with his sword.
"I'll rip out your guts, miserable swine!" the old man raged. "Hanging's too good for an enlisted pig who'd rape an admiral's daughter right in her own living room!"
This is the end, Harding thought. I can't even die with my boots on. I was brought into this world naked-I'll go out the same way. When this sapling falls, I'll be helpless. I hope he finishes me off with one quick stroke.
"Father! Stop it! Stop it this minute! Do you hear!"
Harding looked around and saw Marion running up behind her father. She was still naked, with crimson smears on her thighs.
"In the house!" the admiral yelled. "Get in the house! I'll take care of this enlisted pig! I warned you what would happen, you foolish girl! Get in the house!"
"I won't go until you come with me. Put that sword down. Do you want to be court-martialed for murder?"
"Murder, ha! It's not murder to cut the guts out of an enlisted pig who rapes an admiral's daughter."
"Stop it, Father. Right this minute. If you hurt Harding I'll testify that it wasn't rape."
The old man stopped hacking and looked at her, astonished.
"Wasn't rape! Look at you. That streak on your legs, that welt on your butt. And your clothes torn all to shreds all over the living room. What do you mean, not rape?"
"In a sense it wasn't," she said. "It didn't really amount to rape, and I'll testify that I co-operated with him. Now you come on and leave Harding alone."
"No, by Satan's balls!" the admiral thundered, again hacking at the tree with his sword.
"Stop it, Father!" Marion yelled again, desperate now that she could see the tree bending further, ready to give way at any moment. "Think of me. I'll be ruined."
"What?" the old man asked, stopping again.
"I'll be ruined. If you hurt Harding, or even have him court-martialed, you'll have to tell them what happened. My name will be in all those military court-martial books, and everybody in the armed forces will know about it. I'll be ruined and so will you."
Harding saw the old man's arm drop. He glared up at his prey like a dejected hound dog that has chased his coon into a helpless position and is called off just as he is moving in for the kill.
"I'll get you for this, you miserable pig!" the admiral said to Harding. "I'll do it without dragging in my daughter's name, but I'll get you for this!"
Marion took him by the hand and led him away, just as, with a crack, the tree snapped and hurtled Harding to the ground. When he could regain the breath that was knocked out by the fall, he picked himself up and hobbled toward the house, sore, bruised, scratched, bleeding, exhausted, and almost fainting from the fright he had experienced.
Look at me, he thought. What a hell of a wreck I am. And worse is yet to come. But-I'm no longer a cherry.
With that thought, he smiled and hobbled bravely onward.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
On the way from the airport to the Naval Base Harding looked out the window of the bus at the bleak New England landscape.
Cold, lonely, depressing, he thought. The grass is dead, the trees bare, the sun obscured in winter gloom. I almost wish the girls had come with me, although I'd never have suggested it. This will be my one chance to be completely on my own. Besides, it wouldn't have been fair to pull them out of that sub-tropical paradise and bring them to this desolate country.
When the bus stopped at the main gate of the station, Harding threw his sea bag over his shoulder and hiked up the the guardhouse. He showed his I. D. card and his orders.
"Okay," the sentry said. "Take your gear to the Master-at-arms at Building Sixteen. He'll assign you a bunk and a locker. After you stow your gear, take your orders up the O.D. in the administration building."
"Don't you have any base transportation?" Harding asked.
"Sure. You're standing on it," the sentry answered, pointing to Harding's feet.
"But where is Building Sixteen?"
"Just follow the yellow brick road, Mac, about a mile and a half straight ahead. Watch the numbers on the buildings."
Harding shifted his sea bag from shoulder to shoulder fourteen times on the trudge to the barracks. Counting the shifts helped take his mind off his misery. After he had been assigned a bunk and locker, the even longer walk to the administration building was much less tiring, but his ears grew numb in the bitter cold and he was afraid they might get frostbitten.
I wish the fellow who designed this frigging uniform had to wear it in this weather, he muttered to himself. No way to keep your ears warm. Earmuffs are not regulation.
The officer of the day, a bulging lieutenant, took his orders and looked them over.
"Seaman, eh? Good, we're short of seamen around here. We've got too many chiefs and not enough Indians," the lieutenant said, laughing at his own unoriginality. "I see here you were busted back from journalist third right before you were transferred. For incompetency, it says here. You really did get the shaft. What happened? Did you get caught screwing the admiral's daughter?"
"Yes," Harding answered, and the lieutenant laughed.
"Well, this is not the worst place in the Navy, but we do our best. If there's any kind of horse-shit we don't already have, it's probably on order. Salute everything that moves and paint everything that don't, and you'll get along okay. You better go on back and rest up today because you will have a busy week ahead of you. The M. A. of your barracks will assign you to your work details, beginning at muster in the morning. Welcome aboard, Hart."
"Thanks, sir. It sounds like a cheery place."
Harding spent the following day waxing and buffing floors, which had been, he estimated, waxed and buffed five days a week for the past fifty years. The wax on them was so thick that merely tiptoeing across them would mar the surface and necessitate rebuffing.
In the evening he had to remain on the station as part of the duty section. From midnight until two in the morning he stood a sentry watch in the freezing night by a lonely back gate which was never used after working hours. The following day he spent buffing the same floors for eight hours, but the time passed somewhat faster because he looked forward to going on liberty.
"Where do you go for a good time around here?" he asked in the shower that evening.
"That all depends on what you like," someone answered. "A good-looking son-of-a-bitch like you ought to make out like mad with the Waves. If you've got plenty of money, you can latch on to the young chicks in town. If you got a good line of bull, you can pick up stuff in the bars, but the competition is pretty stiff there."
"I'll be pretty stiff myself, one way or the other. I think I'll try the bars. I'd like a little competition."
He put on his dress blues, walked down to the main gate, and caught a bus into town. From the bus station he could see that the town was laid out roughly in the shape of an "L". The vertical stem of the "L" ran uphill, and was lined with department stores, drug stores, and other businesses, most of which were closed for the day. But looking down the horizontal leg of the "L" he could see nothing but bars and taverns. Without hesitation he chose the latter direction, stopping at the nearest bar for a drink and a chance to thaw out.
"Bourbon highball," he told the bartender.
"Let's see your I. D. card, Mac."
"My I. D. card? Okay, see it."
The bartender took it and shook his head.
"Sorry, I can't serve drinks to anyone under twenty-one."
"Why the hell not? I'm old enough to serve in the frigging Navy. Why can't you serve me drinks? "
"State law. I didn't make it. I just have to obey it."
"Okay, give me a beer, then."
"No beer either. No alcohol until you're twenty-one."
"Well take your state laws and shove them up your state senators' asses!" Harding snapped angrily, and wheeled off the stool and out the door.
He strode into the next tavern, but did not stop at the bar. He found a dimly-lit corner table, removed his hat and peacoat, and sat down.
A skinny, insipid barmaid was soon standing beside him, ready to take his order or check his I. D. card, probably the latter, he felt. Before she had a chance to say anything, he spoke.
"Hi, Delicious. Don't ask me what I'll have. Let me ask you that first. You can have a few drinks with a lonesome sailor, can't you?"
"Sure," she answered, smiling.
"Well, get whatever you want and bring me a bourbon highball. Hurry back," he said, patting one of her bony hips.
He laughed to himself. There's more than one way to skin a cat or get a drink, he thought. Any drinks I buy for her she'll get at cost and pocket the difference between that and what I pay. No barmaid is going to pass up a chance to make a few extra bucks.
"Here we are, honey. A highball for you, a gin fizz for me."
She pulled her chair up close to him, pushing her sharp knee into his thigh when she sat down.
"Here's to you," he said, taking a gulp of his drink.
She sipped her gin fizz, then leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Why did you call me what you did?" she asked coyly.
"You mean 'Delicious'? Because you're acute little trick and I wanted you to have a few drinks with me."
"People usually mean something to eat when they use that word. If you'd like to eat me, I get off at one o'clock. We could go to my apartment."
"Gee, there's nothing I'd like better, honey, but I've got to catch a bus back to the station around midnight. I've got a watch tonight. I'm not even supposed to be out on liberty."
He saw the disappointment on her face, but felt that it was kinder to lie to her than refuse her outright. She pouted, saying little while they finished their drinks. He watched her trying to wiggle her lean flanks as she went for refills.
Skinny little whore, he thought. Working in a dive like this, taking anybody and everybody home to bed. It's two to one that she's infected with a V. D., and three to one she's crawling with crabs.
The skinny barmaid spoke to the fat one who had been waiting tables on the other side of the room. They changed sides after their talk. The fat one came over to his table.
"Ready for a refill?" she asked, making no effort to be friendly.
"Not quite," he said. "Come back in a few minutes."
She was back much sooner than he expected, bringing him another highball.
"This one's on that woman over there," she said, nodding across the room.
Harding looked the woman over. She winked at him, motioning for him to join her. He got up and went over.
"Hi," he said. "Thanks for the drink."
"You look lonesome over there," she said. "And I'm all alone over here. I'll bet you're a long way from home, aren't you, sailor boy?"
"Yes, a pretty good ways."
Harding estimated her age at thirty-eight to forty-two. She was not bad looking, but he felt vaguely uneasy about the prospect of intimacy with a woman old enough to be his mother.
"Loneliness is a bad thing," she said. "When my husband's submarine goes to sea, I get so lonesome I don't know what to do. Sleeping all by myself in that big soft bed, bathing all by myself in that big long bathtub."
"Don't you always bathe alone?" he asked, his curiosity aroused.
"Heavens, no. When my husband's submarine is in port, I never bathe alone. My husband is a firm believer in the underwater torpedo attack. I'll bet you'd be pretty good at that. Are you a submariner?"
This is it, he thought. The proposition. But hell, she's just a little too old for a kid like me.
"No," he said. "I'm afraid I flunk out. I don't dive and my torpedo's out of commission. I'm out of quarantine, but the doc says I'll need a few more shot's of penicillin before I can launch any more attacks."
"Yes," she said. "Penicillin is a wonderful thing. If you'll excuse me, I'd better get home to the children. My baby sitter probably wants to get home early. This is a school night, you know."
"Sure," he said. "Thanks for the drink."
During the next hour he sipped three more highballs, and was feeling the effect of them when he noticed a drunken Wave leaning over one of the tables.
She's had one too many, he thought. He continued staring at her, for she seemed familiar to him. Hell, that's Janice Holmes, he exclaimed, almost aloud.
He thought of their experience in the darkroom at journalist school, becoming aroused as he did. And to think, I didn't even want it then, he thought. I was just being charitable. Well, I need some charity now.
He got up to go over and introduce himself. Her face was on the table, her eyes closed. On her sleeve she wore the crow of a journalist third class.
"Wake up," he said, shaking her by the shoulder. "You're not back at the barracks."
She shook her head and looked bleary-eyed at him.
"Hi, stranger," she mumbled. "I'm not-"
He stopped, recalling what she had said about being attracted only by strangers, about giving seconds to no one.
Clumsily she groped for his knee and ran her hand up his leg, squeezing his erect organ through his trousers. The contact seemed to sober her up to some extent.
"Can you drive?" she said. "I got my car parked up the street."
"Sure. Let's go."
He held her by the arm and kept her from falling as she stumbled across the floor and staggered up the street to her car.
"Where to?"
"Just drive. I'll tell you when to turn."
He followed her directions until they were out of town. She had him turn off a side road and park on a bluff overlooking the river. By the time he had pulled on the emergency brake she was busily clawing open his thirteen buttons.
Ah, I need this, he thought, leaning back against the seat, pleasantly anticipating what was to follow.
Oh, he groaned when he felt her fingers upon him. I need this. Oh, how I need it.
"No," she said, raising her head and shaking it. "No seconds. I had you once before, somewhere, sometime. It's gotta be somebody new every time with me. Take us on back to the station."
"What do you mean?" he asked. "I'm a stranger, remember?"
"No," she said, shaking her head stubbornly. "When I'm loaded I'm no damned good at remembering faces, but I never forget a man."
"Oh, hell, he thought, fastening his thirteen buttons and backing the car around angrily.
He drove back to the station in deep gloom, muttering to himself. Dammit all to hell, he complained silently. I always thought they all looked pretty much alike.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The morning after his unsuccessful liberty, Harding received a letter from his sisters. Each of them had written a page to him, mostly sentimental statements concerning how much they missed him and wanted him back. It was one of Cathy's sentences which aroused particular interest.
"All the newsmen think it's a dirty shame that you were transferred, Harding, and they agree that the Navy is an awful outfit to let a mean old admiral do a thing like that to a nice boy like you."
He shrugged his shoulders. What's done is done, he thought. I wonder why none of them said anything about moving up here when the weather warms up.
Two days later, while he was engaged in his never-ending task of bugging floors, a yeoman hurried up to him with a paper in his hand.
"Hart, run over to your barracks and pack your seabag. Get into your dress blues and report over to the administration building to pick up your orders."
"My orders? I just got here."
"You're going back where you came from, right away. No leave or proceed time authorized. I'm getting you a commercial flight out of New York tonight, so you'd better step on it. Your train leaves here in less than three hours."
"What's it all about?"
"I don't know, but your rate's been restored, too. You won't have time to get your crow sewed back on before you leave, though."
Harding could not relax on the train to New York or on the plane that night. He took a cab from the airport to the Naval station and waited impatiently for Lieutenant Gepetto to arrive at eight o'clock.
"What's this all about, Lieutenant? Couldn't you do without me? You didn't even give me time to get the sand out of my shoes and get used to the snow."
"Hart, dammit, am I glad to see you back. All hell broke loose when you left here. How was your week in New England?"
"Lousy, but I didn't have time to get used to the place. Maybe after I got to know my way around it wouldn't have been so bad. Come on, don't keep me in suspense. What's behind my orders?"
"The records said you'd been busted and transferred for incompetency. Now they show that you were the victim of an administrative error, so your rating has been restored and you've been ordered back to your billet."
"Aw, hell, I don't care what the records show. What's the real reason?"
"I told you. All hell broke loose. I never realized it would happen so fast. I thought things would slowly go to pieces, a little at a time. On Monday there wasn't a line about the Navy in any paper except for our daily column in the News. That was gone on Tuesday. On Wednesday we got notice that after last week the local Navy Hour was being replaced on TV by a re-run of a Western series. That same day we got word that the Secretary of the Navy was coming down to inspect the base the next day, and we couldn't get anybody to touch the story, not even the wire services. That, in itself, put the admiral's promotion in jeopardy. It doesn't become effective for a couple more months, and it would be easy for the Pentagon to withdraw his name at this stage of the game."
"That would break my heart," Harding said sarcastically.
"Thursday was the day the shit really hit the fan, though."
"What happened?"
"You know all the criticism the Air Force has been getting for those booklets instructing enlisted men in how to wash officers' dogs, how to scrub floors for officers' wives, and all the other flunky duties? Well, on Thursday Bob Roscoe came out with a big expose about the use of Navy enlisted men as servants for officers and their families. He dug up some pretty rich dirt."
"What kind?"
"He had facts and figures about the number of seamen and even rated men who were used as personal servants by officers in this area. And he had authenticated cases of abuses. The worst one concerned a seaman named Rogers, assigned on the book as one of the maintenance men for the station here. Actually, he'd never been on the station except to report in. He slept in a room in Commander Perkins' basement and acted as house-boy, maid, and all-around flunky.
"One day Mrs. Perkins complained that he hadn't done a very good job cleaning out the commode, and when he protested, she shoved his head down it and held it there while she flushed it. He didn't have a chance to take a breath, so he got strangled, and then he threw up. Anyway, he telephoned the base and reported the incident in detail to the officer of the day. They hushed it up here and sent Rogers to sea to shut him up, but somehow Roscoe got hold of the item and used it in his story."
"Wow, I'll bet that got some reaction."
"Hell, the telephone lines were jammed with calls from parents of Navy boys calling the Pentagon, and Commander Perkins' house was stoned and all the windows busted out. He requested immediate transfer and got it."
"They ought to send the bastard to Siberia."
"Hart, things are really bad. Since Roscoe started things off, all the other papers have started criticizing the Navy and digging up dirt. The way things are going now, the admiral is not only going to lose his Vice, but he may loose this Rear as well! They might force him out on involuntary retirement, or do something worse. If this sort of bad publicity continues long enough, the Navy might have to move this base to another city. You have got to do something fast."
"What makes you think I'm going to do anything? As far as I'm concerned this lousy outfit is getting just what it deserves. They can bust me back all the way to seaman recruit, send me to sea, throw me in the brig, or any other damned thing, but they can't make me use my own little tricks of the trade for this outfit any longer.
"If it was just for you, you know damned well I'd do anything I could, Gepetto, but I've got feelings too. They can't shove the meat hook up my giggy and then yank it out and say 'so sorry,' and expect me to forget about it. I didn't even have a hearing before I got transferred. I hadn't broken any rules or regulation. But they allowed my rights to be trampled on like I didn't even have any. So to hell with them. As far as I'm concerned, the admiral made his bed and he can lie in it."
The lieutenant shrugged his shoulders.
"I can understand the way you feel, and hell, I can't say that I blame you too much. You do whatever you think best then. I know you'll do that anyway. No sense in your hanging around here all day. Why don't you go on home and think things over. We'll talk about it again tomorrow."
"Sure. And look, Gepetto, I'm sorry you're caught up in the middle of this mess. I really am."
Harding had not informed his sisters that he was returning to the city, so when he walked into the house and called them, they were all taken by surprise. He braced himself as they came running out of their rooms and threw themselves into his arms.
"Harding," Daphne squealed. "It's so good to see you. Oh, how we missed you. What are you doing home?"
"I'm back, for the time being," he said.
After the excitement had abated, he sat down in the middle of the couch, with Daphne in his lap and the others crowded up against him.
"What did you girls do to turn the press against the Navy?"
"We saw all the men and told them what a dirty deal you got," Coleen said. "Every one of them agreed with us."
"I can imagine that you had them in a position where they'd have been agreeable to anything. Gosh, you're pretty, all four of you. I didn't see a woman in all New England who looks one tenth as good."
"I'll bet you think that girl next door is prettier than any of us," Cathy pouted.
"Not prettier," he said. "Maybe just as pretty, but the five of you are the absolute tops, anywhere. Have you seen her around this past week?"
"Nope," Martha said. "She's stopped using that hammock in the back yard. I haven't seen her at all, as a matter-of-fact."
"Well, it wouldn't be safe for me to go over. If any of you see her out in the yard, call her over and tell her I'm here."
Late that afternoon, when he heard the chimes, Harding rushed to answer the front door, hoping it might be Marion. His joy turned to both disappointment and amazement when he saw the admiral standing there.
"May I come in, Hart?"
"Did you leave your sword at home?"
"Yes, of course. I must talk to you, Hart."
"I'm sorry, but I'm not on duty now. I might be something less than a man when I'm at the Naval station, in your eyes at any rate, but in my own home I'm Mister Hart. It's just a title of ordinary common courtesy that I use when I address the garbage man or any other member of the male sex. If you can't show me that same courtesy, you're not welcome here."
"All right, Mister Hart, may I please come in? I must talk to you."
"Very well, Mister Green, come on in. Have a seat. What's on your mind?"
"Hart, I mean Mister Hart, Mister Gepetto tells me that he can't do anything to make you untangle this mess we've been having with the news media."
"That's right. He can't make me, and neither can anyone else. You can make a man perform simple, menial tasks, under threat of severe punishments, but there's no way you can make a man use his special talents and imagination. That's why all the armed services get such mediocre performances from enlisted specialists. You treat them worse than servants, worse than prisoners, in fact-shouting orders and expecting flunky salutes and 'yessir' replies. You can make me wax your floor, but you can't make me use my own tricks of the trade to get you out of the mess you are in."
"Please, Mister Hart, I'm not here trying to make you do anything. I'm begging you. I'm here to admit that I was wrong in trying to keep you from seeing my daughter, and for trying to kill you before I let either you or Marion explain that she provoked you to rape her, if one could call it rape. I was also wrong in taking away your rate and transferring you for purely personal reasons. I've been a stupid, stubborn, arrogant old fool and now I'm getting only what I deserve. But I'm asking you, Mister Hart, as one human being to another, can't you show a little mercy?"
"I'm capable of mercy, if I think that it's justified and will do some good. And I'm not just talking about my personal welfare. I'm smart enough and adaptable enough to look out for myself, Mister Green, even though I might temporarily be in some tight spots. There's a matter of principle and attitude involved here."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean a lot of things. Do you think Commander Perkins' wife had any right to shove that seaman's head in the commode and flush it on him?"
"Of course not. But Mrs. Perkins is a civilian. I couldn't court-martial her for it."
"No, but you could have court-martialed Commander Perkins for putting that seaman in a position where such a thing could happen, or at least have given him a letter of reprimand. You didn't do anything but punish the victim, and let the commander take another seaman home for his wife to kick around. Isn't that true?"
"Yes, it is true. I'll admit, Mister Hart, that I've failed to recognize enlisted men as human beings. But you can't blame me alone. It's traditional attitude of Naval officers and it's awfully easy to acquire."
"It wouldn't be easy for me to acquire. I might be bigger, stronger, richer, more educated, and more intelligent than my barber, my grocer, or my mailman; but I call them all Mister, treat them as equals, and respect their special skills and contributions to our way of life. Even a down and out tramp who asks me for a handout on the street corner, I treat with common courtesy, whether or not I've got anything with me to give him."
"I promise you, Mister Hart, I'll do anything I can to change that attitude, if you'll only show a little mercy. I stand to lose everything I've worked for if something isn't done."
"Try to remember how you feel next time you court-martial some poor enlisted bastard for some minor offense just a year or two before he's due for retirement. Don't be so goddamned quick to wreck his whole career just because he didn't jump fast enough to suit the whims of some junior officer who's only a year or so out of diapers."
"I will remember, Mister Hart. I will. I know how it feels."
"Who won the battle of Lake Erie?"
"The men who manned the guns," the old man answered without hesitation.
"Who makes our Navy the invincible fighting force it is?"
"The plain, ordinary American men who put on Naval uniforms and refuse to forget that they are men, no matter how many selfish old bastards like me try to scare them into frightened, flunkied submission. I know that now, Mister Hart. I really do. I've done an awful lot of thinking this past week, when I was forced to realize that my whole future rests in the hands of one such man. I know I've shared the mistakes of my fellow officers and I'm guilty and ashamed. We take grown men, with families and adult responsibilities, and dress them in little boys' sailor suits, trying to make them feel less mature than officers who wear shirts and trousers like normal men. And just as you said, we forbid them to be called 'Mister' in an effort to make them feel like something less than men, like trained animals who must jump when we bark rude commands.
"We make them salute us and stand at attention in our presence, so that these symbols of subservience and obeisance will make them feel humble in our presence, as though we were tin gods.
"By heaven, if we succeeded in breaking their spirit the way we try, we wouldn't even be able to fight the Swiss Navy. Thank God, most of you remember that you're human beings, adult men, and American citizens in spite of all we can do. You remain loyal to your flag even though you'd be idiots to feel any loyalty toward us bastards who abuse you so. And even with us to make it harder for you, you've beat the socks off every country who has ever picked a fight with ours."
"If you really believe that, Mister Green, I'll do all I can to help you."
"I do believe it. Do you think I'd come here like this, otherwise, Mister Hart? If I still felt the way I did, don't you know I'd rather die than talk to you like this? If I still thought of enlisted men as something less than human, talking to you like this would be like crawling before a snake. I mean what I say, and that's why I can tell you this without feeling any shame or embarrassment. The only shame and embarrassment I feel is for the past."
"Then you can count on my full support. I can almost guarantee results. I'm going to keep on calling you 'Mister Green' because I feel the title is perfectly adequate for any man. In this country we call our fathers, our bosses, even our president 'Mister'. The title's good enough for any man, and any man's good enough for the title."
The old man rose and started for the door, then turned, hesitantly.
"One more very personal favor I'd like to ask of you, Mister Hart, and this is even more important to me than the other."
"What is it?"
"Will you please talk to Marion? She hasn't been out of her room since the day you raped her-or did whatever you want to call it. She's hardly eaten or spoken. She just mopes around as though she were half dead. If it were any other girl of eighteen, I'd say she'd snap out of it soon, and leave her alone. But not Marion. She's so intense about everything she does. With her, nothing is ever halfway. She'll pine right away if something isn't done."
"Of course I'll see her. Right away, if I may. I hadn't realized. I had no way of knowing. Excuse me."
He rushed out the door ahead of the old man, dashing across the lawns and into the house next door, calling her name.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
On Saturday morning the alarm clock went off in Marion's room at eight o'clock. Harding got up and stumbled across the floor to turn it off.
"Get up, lazybones," he said, slapping the still-sleeping Marion on the rear. "You wanted to play tennis this morning."
She rolled over drowsily and blinked at him.
"I can't, honey. I'm too tired. You kept me up almost all night."
"I kept you up! I like that. Every time I tried to roll over and go to sleep, you started picking on me, getting me aroused all over again."
"I couldn't help it, honey. I've got to make up for all the years I've been missing out on my loving."
"All those years. You sound mighty old for an eighteen-year-old girl."
"Oh, honey, I've been dreaming about loving like this since I was twelve years old, and now that I'm actually getting it, I just can't get enough. I just don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't come back to me."
"You were in a bad way all right. I've never seen anyone lose weight and color the way you did in just one week. But thanks to your knight and his trusty lance, my princess is her old self again."
"Not my old self, Harding. A new, more wonderfully alive self than I've ever been."
"If you're so alive, why don't you jump out of the rack and let's go play tennis?"
"I don't want to play any old tennis. I don't have a chance against you anyway, you cheater, taking lessons from a professional and not telling me about it. Besides, I'd rather play another game I know-one where I can beat you part of the time."
"Honey, you sure beat me last night, good and proper. If you hadn't left me alone that last time I begged you, you'd have done me in for good. A woman's got a decided advantage over a man when it comes to endurance in that game."
"Oh, Harding, my darling, it's been so wonderful having you all to myself these past few days."
"It can't go on like this forever, though, honey. I feel guilty about not going down to the base at all."
"Why? You've seen to it that the bad press stopped for the Navy, and you're turning the whole mess into something good for the Service."
"I know; but hell, it just doesn't seem right, not going in at all. I feel like a loafer. And what about you? How are you going to make up all the classes you're missing?"
"I don't care about college, darling. I'd rather have you teach me what I need to know. Haven't I been a good pupil?"
"The best. Say, if we aren't going to play tennis, how about fixing me a bourbon highball?"
"There's no ice."
"Well, yell downstairs and have your old man bring some up."
She went to the door, cracked it open, and stuck her head out.
"Dad...?"
"Yes, Marion," Harding heard the voice from below answer.
"Bring us up a tray of ice, please."
"I can't remember which glass is yours and which is mine," she said, turning to Harding. "I'll have to go wash them out."
When she returned from the bathroom with the glasses Harding was rolling over and over on the bed, laughing.
"What's so funny?"
"You are, you silly girl," he said, as soon as he could stop laughing. "So goddamned careful about keeping our glasses separate, our toothbrushes spearate, our towels separate. It just doesn't make sense, after the way we kiss each other, nibble each other, practically eat each other up. We're already sharing any germs either of us may have. Keeping our toothbrushes and things separate just doesn't make sense."
"Well, it makes sense to me, smarty. I'm certainly not going to brush my teeth with someone else's toothbrush."
There was a knock on the door.
"Here's your ice, Marion."
"Wait a minute, Dad."
She walked to the door, cracked it, and reached her hand out to take the tray. "Thanks, Dad."
"Now, get busy with those highballs, girl."
"Harding, I wish you'd stop making Dad wait on us. It hurts his pride."
"I don't think it does. I think he understands. Hell, I just want him to realize how an enlisted man feels when he has to fetch an admiral's coffee, and all that crap."
"But he does understand now. Aren't you convinced, after he let you and Bob Roscoe help him work up those recommendations to send to the Pentagon?"
"He knows these things, but it's not hurting him to experience a few of them for himself. Marion, the Green Plan will make your father's name go down in Naval history, whether or not the Pentagon adopts it. And with Bob Roscoe pushing it the way he has, it has a very good chance of being accepted, at least parts of it."
"Which parts?"
"The new saluting code, for one thing. It might spread to all the armed services. No more saluting except for the flag, the national anthem, the officer of the deck when boarding or leaving a ship, and during formal ceremonies and parades. And the changes in the enlisted men's uniform. They have been talking about that for years, but haven't ever done anything. This might be the thing that clinches it. Then, coupled with the bad publicity the Air Force has already gotten, the Green Plan might make them really take effective steps to see that no more enlisted men are used as servants and flunkies, either on military bases or off.
"Some of the other things might take longer-like the idea of using 'Mister' to address all enlisted and officer grades. But one thing is certain, like Bob Roscoe said, the only way to undo last week's bad publicity was for your father to make open statements to the press admitting the truth of the scandals and promising to do his best to rectify such situations in the future. The public is behind him, one hundred per cent. Military brass consider him a traitor, but public opinion can force them into line, too."
"I know you're doing the right thing, for me and Dad both. Here, drink your highball and see if you can't get your strength and courage back. I'm not letting you out of this bedroom until you give me another lesson in love."
Harding took the glass from her hand and gulped down his drink.
"You crazy girl, what am I going to do with you?"
"I guess you'll just have to marry me."
"Marry? Now, Marion, I've never said anything about marrying, have I?"
"No, but I took it for granted that you would. And Mother and Dad certainly took it for granted you would, else they'd never in a million years have let you stay here with me, the power of the press notwithstanding."
"But I'm not the marrying kind."
"Harding, you know I could never let you go. I'm going to follow you wherever you go, whether you marry me or not."
"But, honey, I'm going to be a pimp. The only way you could stay with me all the time is to be one of the call girls in my stable."
"But I don't want any man but you."
"There's no other way that I can see."
"If there's no other way, I'll just have to get used to the idea of being a call girl."
"Yes, I guess you will."
But there was a bewildered tone in Harding's voice.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The next day at the dinner table the admiral was beaming as he sliced the roast.
"Dad, you look like the cat that caught the canary," Marion said. "What's up?"
"I got a long distance call from Washington this morning. They're setting up a special committee to study the Green Plan. They want me to fly up tomorrow to serve as advisor. It's too early to tell anything definite, but the Pentagon is favorably impressed by it."
"That's great," Harding said. "If it goes through it'll be good for you, for me, for the whole Navy."
"I'm convinced that it would, Harding, and you can depend on me to fight for it with everything I've got."
"Now eat your roast, everyone, before it gets cold," Mrs. Green said.
"Mother, I know the dinner table is not the best place to ask a question like this, but does it mean anything if one's period is a few days late?"
"Not necessarily, dear. Have you always been regular?"
"Just like clockwork. It always starts for me exactly on schedule, around four o'clock of the twenty-eighth day. Until this past Friday afternoon, that is."
"You'd better talk to the doctor about it tomorrow, dear. After all, you were exactly midway between periods when Harding raped-when you and Harding messed up the living room. You're most fertile at that time, you know."
"I wouldn't worry about it, Marion," the admiral said. "You and Harding have plenty of time. After all, your mother and I had been married only eight months when you were born. No one suspected our little secret; or at least, we never heard anything said about it, did we, dear?"
"They suspected, all right, you old seducer you, but they couldn't be sure. As long as you're no more than a month or two gone, there's no dead giveaway. You and Harding are just about ready to announce the wedding anyway, aren't you, Marion?"
"No, Mother, there's not going to be a wedding."
"No wedding?" the admiral bellowed. "You don't mean you're just going to elope? Your mother and I have been making plans for a big formal affair. We've already started on the invitation list."
"There's not going to be any elopement either, Dad. We're not getting married."
"Not getting married? What kind of a joke is this? What's she talking about, Harding?"
"Well, you see, it doesn't mean that I'm leaving her or anything. It's just that I don't believe in marriage?"
"Don't believe in marriage?! " the admiral thundered. "By the balls of Satan, you'd better believe in marriage. I'll-"
He grabbed the carving knife and sprang to his feet. Harding pushed his chair backwards until it toppled over. He was on his feet and running through the living room with the old man right behind him. The admiral stopped long enough to jerk his sword from its scabbard over the mantle and the chase was on.
Marion had so exhausted him the night before that Harding knew he could never outdistance the old man, and he was only too well aware of the latter's phenomenal speed when he was angered. His small lead gave him no choice but to head for the patch of woods again, hoping to find a larger tree than before. By the time he reached the woods he had lost so much ground that he was happy to settle for the very closest sapling. He leaped into it and scurried up just as the sword swished so close that he could feel the air fanning his flanks.
"Listen to reason!" Harding shouted.
But the admiral was already hacking away at the tree.
"Help, Marion!" Harding yelled. "Help, come call off your father. He's going to Mil me."
His shouting attracted the attention of his sisters, and all four of them came running out of the house and reached the scene just as Marion and Mrs. Green arrived.
"Dad, stop it! Stop it, I say!"
"Don't you dare hurt Harding!" Daphne screamed.
"Please, dear, try to control your anger," Mrs. Green said, knowing her husband would listen to no one.
At that moment, with a loud groan, the young tree gave way and hurtled Harding to the ground. He lay breathless, unable to move, as the old man leaped to his side and held the sword to his throat.
"One last chance, Mister Hart. Are you going to marry my daughter?"
"Yes," Harding gasped. "Yes, please put that sword away."
"On your honor?" the admiral asked. "Swear it on the sacred honor of all the valiant enlisted men who have made our Navy the greatest in the world?"
"I swear it. I swear it on the sacred honor of all the valiant enlisted men who have made our Navy the greatest in the world. Please, Pop, put that sword away before I have heart failure and leave your daughter a grass widow."
"All right, son. Get up. Let me be the first to shake your hand. Congratulations on your decision."
Harding scrambled to his feet, breathing heavily.
"Marion was right," he said, brushing the dirt off his face and clasping the hand that was offered him. "It doesn't take intelligence to be a successful Naval officer. All it takes is plain old fashioned bull-headed stubbornness. And, Pop, let me tell you, you've really got your share of it. If that kid in Marion's belly inherits one tenth of your stubbornness, I'm going to be the most haggard father in the U. S. A."
"Oh, Harding," Daphne gushed, running to his arms. "Now you and Marion can make it a double wedding with me and Willis."
"Don't I even get the honor of a proposal?" Marion asked. "I'm not sure I want to marry you, Harding. If I'm going to have to be one of your call girls, I don't see any sense in having a marriage."
"Call girl?!" the admiral shouted. "What's Harding going to be doing with a call girl? He's going to make the Navy his career. There's no way he could use a call girl in the Navy Public Information program. He's going to marry you two weeks from now, in a big formal wedding, and then he's going to have another two weeks before I send him off to Officer Candidate School."
"But, Dad, Harding doesn't have any college."
"I'll get around that. I've got friends in Washington who can get him a waiver on that requirement. You just leave it to me. The Navy needs good public information officers. No sir, in the Navy my son-in-law won't be needing any call girl."
"I wouldn't be too sure about that, Dad. I mean, about whether or not I could use a call girl to help the public information program. But I'm not going to. I'm going to make it on my own, after I let you do that one favor of getting me into OCS. I'm going to use my own ingenuity and hard work, and try to be the kind of officer the men can really like and respect, the kind you're recommending in the Green Plan. When I get in a tight spot, I'll use plain old bull-headed stubbornness."
"But, Harding," Martha said. "You were going to follow in Dad's footsteps. You had such big plans."
"I know, but I've got others now. Did you want me to lie there and get my throat cut? I had to promise, and like you always told me, a promise is a promise. I'd have been a failure in Dad's profession anyway. The only girl I could ever make out with is Marion, and I had to go and fall in love with her. I couldn't really let a girl I love be anything but my wife. I couldn't let her go around sleeping with other men. No reflection on you, Martha and Cathy and Coleen, but I love you in a different sort of way."
"Harding," Daphne said. "Since you're breaking up the family tradition anyway, there's no use in me trying to keep it up. I don't think Willis is really convinced that that's a good profession.
No reflection on you, Martha and Cathy and Coleen, but I think I'd rather just be a plain housewife. Willis is all the man I need to give my cooking and my loving to."
"Best of luck to both of you," Martha said. "Just remember that whatever a Hart sets out to do, he does well. If you're going into old-fashioned marriages, do that well too. Make them last. Have a lot of kids, and whether or not you ever tell them what profession their aunts are in, don't ever turn them against us."
"I'd never do that," Harding said.
"Me neither," Daphne said. "We'll both love you always."
"I think it's sweet myself," Coleen said. "Who knows, if the right John comes along, I might let him take me out of this wicked life and make an honest woman of me too."
"I think I'm going to cry," Cathy said. "I'm so happy."
"What about you, Marion?" Harding asked. "Are you happy?"
"I refuse to answer that until I get a proper proposal."
Harding went down on one knee and clasped his fingers together near his chin.
"Marion, my darling, my one and only love, will you marry me? Will you be mine and no other's, and take all my love so that I'll never need to give it to any other woman but you? Will you be mine and the mother of my children, through sickness and health, poverty and wealth, until we are parted by death? Will you, Marion? Will you marry me?"
"Oh yes, my darling. I will, and I'm happier than I've ever been or ever hoped to be."
"That makes it unanimous," the admiral said, thrusting his sword in the ground and putting his arms around Mrs. Green and strolling off with her towards their house.
"Wait a minute," Harding called after him, plucking up the sword and handing it hilt first to him. "Take this along, and if that committee does not like the Green Plan, you convince them, if you have to cut down every damned cherry tree at the Tidal Basin."
"I will," the old man said, winking. "By the balls of Satan, I will!"
