“If you’re limited to your husband for emotional experience,” June Henessy said, “you have no basis of judgment; you’re more or less stuck with what he has to offer, but if you’ve gone to bed with other men you can tell better what your husband’s deficiencies are, and it’s much more possible for you to be objective about him. And what needs to be changed in him, you can insist that he change. And for your own part, you can see where you’ve been ineffective and with these other men you can learn how to improve yourself, so that you give your husband more satisfaction. I fail to see who loses by that.”
Put that way, it certainly sounded like a good healthy idea for all concerned. Even the husband benefited.
While she sat sipping her coffee and meditating about that, Silvia looked out the window and saw to her surprise a ‘copter landing. “Who’s that?” she asked June.
“Heaven’s sake, I don’t know,” June said, glancing out.
The ‘copter rolled to a halt near the house; the door opened and a dark-haired, good-looking man wearing a bright nylon shirt and necktie, slacks, and stylish European loafers stepped out. Behind him came a Bleekman who lugged two heavy suitcases.
Inside her, Silvia Bohlen felt her heart quiver as she watched the dark-haired man stroll toward the house, the Bleekman following with the suitcases. This was the way she imagined June’s Tony to look.
“Gosh,” June said. “I wonder who he is. A salesman?” A rap sounded at the front door and she went to open it. Silvia set down her cup and followed along. At the door June halted. “I feel sort of–undressed.” She put her hand nervously to her shorts. “You talk to him while I run into the bedroom and change. I wasn’t expecting anybody strange to drop by; you know, we have to be careful, we’re so isolated and our husbands are away–” She darted off to the bedroom, her hair flying.
Silvia opened the door.
“Good day,” the good-looking man said, with a smile revealing perfect white Mediterranean teeth. He had a faint accent. “Are you the lady of the house?”
“I guess so,” Silvia said, feeling timid and ill at ease; she glanced down at her own self, wondering if she were dressed modestly enough to be standing out here talking to this man.
“I wish to introduce a very fine line of health foods which you may be familiar with,” the man said. He kept his eyes on her face, and yet Silvia had the distinct impression that somehow he managed at the same time to examine the rest of her detail by detail. Her self-consciousness grew, but she did not feel resentful; the man had a charming manner, simultaneously shy and yet oddly forthright.
“Health food,” she murmured. “Well, I–”
The man gave a nod, and his Bleekman stepped up, laid down one of the suitcases, and opened it. Baskets, bottles, packages . . . she was very much interested.
“Unhomogenized peanut butter,” the man declared. “Also dietetic sweets without calories, to keep your lovely slimness. Wheat germ. Yeast. Vitamin E; that is the vitamin of _vitality_ . . . but of course for a young woman like yourself, not yet appropriate.” His voice purred along as he indicated one item after another; she found herself bending down beside him, so close to him that their shoulders touched. Quickly she drew away, startled into apprehension.
At the door, June put in a momentary appearance, now wearing a skirt and a wool sweater; she hung about for a moment and then drew back inside and shut the door. The man failed to notice her.
“Also,” he was saying, “there is much in the gourmet line that Miss might be interested in–these.” He held up a jar. Her breath left her: it was caviar.
“Good grief,” she said, magnetized. “Where did you get that?”
“Expensive, but well worth it.” The man’s dark eyes bored into hers. “Don’t you agree? Reminder of days at Home, soft candlelight and dance music by an orchestra . . . days of romance in a whirl of places delightful to the ear and eye.” He smiled long and openly at her.
_Black market_, she realized.
Her pulse hammered in her throat as she said, “Look, this isn’t my house. I live about a mile down along the canal.” She pointed. “I–am very much interested.”
The man’s smile seared her.
“You’ve never been by before, have you?” she said, now rattled and stammering. “I’ve never seen you. What’s your name? Your firm name.”
“I am Otto Zitte.” He handed her a card, which she scarcely glanced at; she could not take her eyes from his face. “My business is long established but has just recently–due to an unforeseen circumstance–been completely reorganized, so that now I am in a position to greet new customers direct. Such as yourself.”
“You’ll be by?”
“Yes, slightly later in the afternoon . . . and we can at leisure pore over a dazzling assortment of imported dainties of which I have exclusive distribution. Good afternoon.” He rose cat-like to his feet.
June Henessy had reappeared. “Hello,” she said in a low, cautious, interested voice.
“My card.” Otto Zitte held the embossed white square out to her. Now both ladies had his card; each read hers intently.
Smiling his astute, insinuating, brilliant smile, Otto Zitte beckoned to his tame Bleekman to lay out and open the other suitcase.
As he sat in his office at Camp Ben-Gurion, Dr. Milton Glaub heard a woman’s voice in the corridor, husky and full of authority but still unmistakably feminine. Listening, he heard the nurse defer to her, and he knew that it was Anne Esterhazy, come to visit her son Sam.
Opening the file he turned to _E_, and presently he had the folio _Esterhazy, Samuel_ spread out before him on his desk.
It was interesting. The little boy had been born out of wedlock, a year or more after Mrs. Esterhazy had divorced Arnie Kott. And he had entered Camp B-G under her name, too. However it was undoubtedly Arnie Kott’s progeny; the folio contained a great packet of information on Arnie, for the examining doctors had taken that blood relationship for granted throughout.
Evidently, even though their marriage had long been over, Arnie and Anne Esterhazy still saw one another, enough in fact to produce a child. Their relationship therefore was not merely a business one.
For a time Dr. Glaub ruminated as to the possible uses that this information could be put to. Did Arnie have enemies? None that he knew of; everybody liked Arnie–that is, everyone but Dr. Milton Glaub. Evidently Dr. Glaub was the sole person on Mars to have suffered at Arnie’s hands, a realization that did not make Dr. Glaub feel any happier about it.
That man treated me in the most inhumane and cavalier fashion, he said to himself for the millionth time. But what could be done about it? He could still bill Arnie . . . hope to collect some trifle for his services. That, however, would not help. He wanted–was entitled to–much more. Again Dr. Glaub studied the folio. An odd sport, Samuel Esterhazy; he knew of no other case precisely like it. The boy seemed to be a throwback to some ancient line of near-man, or to some variant which had not survived: one which had lived partly in the water. It recalled to Glaub the theory being advanced by a number of anthropologists that man had descended from aquatic apes who had lived in the surf and shallows.
Sam’s I.Q., he noted, was only 73. A shame.
–Especially so, he thought suddenly, in that Sam could beyond doubt be classified as mentally retarded rather than anomalous. Camp B-G had not been intended as an institution for the purely retarded, and its director, Susan Haynes, had sent back to their parents several pseudoautistic children who had turned out to be nothing more than standard imbeciles. The diagnostic problem had hampered their screening, of course. In the case of the Esterhazy boy, there were also the physical stigmata. . . .
No doubt of it, Dr. Glaub decided. I have the basis for it: I can send the Esterhazy child home. The Public School could teach him without trouble, could gear down to his level. It is only in the physical area that he could be called “anomalous,” and it is not our task here to care for the physically disabled.
But what is my motive? he asked himself.
Possibly I am doing it to get back at Arnie Kott for treating me in a cruel manner.
No, he decided, that does not seem probable; I am not the psychological type who would seek revenge–that would be more the anal-expulsive or perhaps the oral-biting type. And long ago he had classified himself as the late genital type, devoted to the mature genital strivings.