Renaissance, p.2
Renaissance, page 2
'Oh!' said Grayson. He lay for a long moment, bracing himself. Then he got off the bed, turned on the light, went around to the night-table drawer, got his glasses, put them on, and walked to the door.
There he paused, turned. 'Better get dressed,' he said gruffly, 'and let's eat'
He went out into the hall.
chapter three
By the time they sat down at the table, Mila's lean, slightly lined, normally sallow-complexioned face was brick-red. For a while she stared at her plate and did not look at him. And that was somewhat disappointing. He was - he had to admit it -curious.
The truth was, he realized, he was,'fantastically ignorant and distrustful of Utt judgments, and he craved information on which he could form his own conclusions.
On the surface, what he was doing and thinking looked superficially like men had caused all the problems of all time. Because, shortly after the Utt came, women changed.
A married woman, unpursued by her husband, was… normally… not interested in the sex act. There were reports (from certain salesmen) of exceptions. But the ordinary situation was drably standard. Usually a wife would have a child or two - no more. Since only women were allowed to own property, married women lived confidently. Since Grayson brought home a good salary from his job, all of which he handed over - by law - she had a housekeeper - and temporary help when needed. Her clothes were always neat, her house clean, she herself always well-groomed. Sane, healthy, stable, she was the embodiment of a high-standard human being.
Except for one thing. It was universally observed that the average wife was as easily angered after the Utt came as she had been before the Utt. Only now she really felt free to express that anger.
… Good-looking, clean, well-dressed, hard-working, naturally sexless - but angry—It was the one disturbing factor in a world where men were hard-working, peaceful, clean, and kept sexually apathetic by a physiologic method that was the law of the planet. For an unknown reason men in such a condition were never angry—
Grayson came to that point in his recollection - when there was a sound at the other end of the table. His mind jumped out of its reverie. He saw that his wife was glaring at him. She spoke sharply: 'Why were you not wearing your spectacles in the bedroom?'
Grayson explained about the danger of damaging the cracked lenses. 'But of course,' he went on, 'I kept my eyes closed. So I was very careful not to upset the internal balance.'
'Oh!' Some of the high color faded from her cheeks, and now her lips compressed. It was the old signal of an imminent flare-up. He spoke hastily, trying to head off the explosions.
'What you did,' he said, 'tells us a great deal about the pre-Utt man-woman relation.'
There was a noticeable relaxing of the anger as Mila said, 'How do you mean?'
'Evidently, women offered sex to males out of fear.'
'What are you talking about?' The sharpness was back in her voice.
That startled him. Could it be? Was she trying to pretend? Was is possible - that she didn't remember?
Forgetfulness. Blankness— Her old pattern. As if it hadn't happened… Of course, he thought, that could be it.
Yet he realized he was still curious and interested, and therefore frustrated.
'Has the fear faded?' he asked.
For a long moment, then, she had the definite expression in her face of someone who intended, yes, to deny. Then: Tt was very strange,' she said, with a faraway look in her eyes,' what happened. I suppose I should go to see Dr Austin.'
Grayson presumed silently that terror could have a profound physiologic effect. Correlated with shock, no doubt. White blood corpuscles make that jump out of the blood fluid and attach somewhere.
'There I was,' his wife continued, 'suddenly in a fainting state, and subject to hallucinations.'
'Can you imagine,' she added with a ridiculing laugh, 'I actually fantasized myself taking off my clothes, bathing, and then coming into your bedroom without any clothes on.' She laughed again, and made an angry gesture with one shoulder. 'Probably a regression to my child-bearing state. After all, we've had our two children and our reason for copulation is twenty-five years behind us.'
It was Grayson's turn to gaze with a faraway expression. So it was going to be forgetfulness.
What an amazing world. In their courtship days, she had pursued him like a sex demon. The vitality she offered him promised that his enforced apathy would be completely overwhelmed by her inexhaustible need. Before marriage, she forced sex as often as three times a day. Afterward—
Two days after the ceremony that, by Utt law, bound them together forever, Mila let him know that marriage was for companionship and for bearing children.
Sitting there, Grayson thought that probably gentler women, like Miss Haskett, lost out in the struggle for marriage because they were incapable of that insane premarital intensity, which absolutely overwhelmed the males subjected to it.
—Too soon to decide anything about that. Yet in a way he felt a hardening inside him, which was a decision of sorts. That hardening barred Mila from his life.
After dinner Grayson went back to bed, and in his fantasies visualized Miss Haskett in various exotic maneuvers. Far more important, there was a thought in his mind that said there was no danger. Meaning, no chance now of being found out.
About seven, he could stand it no longer. He dressed and went out into the living room. His wife was sitting with her sewing glasses clinging to the bridge of her nose, knitting on another of the interminable sweaters with which she enveloped Mart, who was at college.
'Uh, Mila,' said Grayson.
The woman did not look up, did not reply. Which was par, for her. She had ignored him most of their married life, and she was obviously not about to change her attitude now.
T'm going for a walk,' said Grayson. 'Perhaps you'd like to come with me.'
That was his final hope in defeating the urge that moved him automatically to what was obviously a forbidden adventure.
Something must have penetrated; for Mila looked up. 'Whatever for?' Her tone showed surprise. 'What's this all about? Where are you going?'
'For a walk,' he said.
'Oh!' Then: 'No, thank you.'
It seemed to satisfy her, for she settled back to the sweater. The last picture he had of her was of her sitting in the chair rocking slowly back and forth.
Outside, Grayson stood peering along the brightly illumined street. The air was fresh, and that braced him. He walked along with gathering confidence. A bus was pulling up at the corner, and because he knew where he wanted to go, he climbed aboard without really considering the future.
He phoned Miss Haskett from the drugstore at the corner of Mendelian Drive. 'I happened to be in the neighborhood,' he said, 'and wondered if you'd care to come out for a cup of coffee.'
Her voice sounded breathless. 'Why, yes, Mr Grayson. Why, of course… I—' She broke off. 'Why don't you come over to my place?' She said, suddenly calm, Til have Joanne put the coffee on. No, I'll put it on. Come to the side entrance.'
She gave him directions. And when he got there he had no problem, despite it being a large condominium complex. Trees. Dim lights, and a genuine hidden entrance. An ideal place to visit. From where Grayson stood on the porch of 1818, he could not see the entranceways of the adjoining apartments.
A single touch on the buzzer was answered instantly. The door opened. A vision in white stood in the doorway.
'It's so nice of you to drop by, Mr Grayson,' said the shining young woman.
Grayson blinked at her. It seemed to him she must have made a quick change since his call. Or else he had misjudged this whole situation. 'Were you on the way out?' he asked.
'Oh, no, I always dress up for myself at night,' said Miss Haskett.
She held the door wider, and Grayson walked in.
They drank the coffee. A silence fell. She sat, empty cup in hand, on the couch. The long skirt of her dress was drawn up primly against the leg nearest him. Grayson placed his own cup and saucer on the little coffee table, and took a deep breath. It was either time for him to go or time for him to do.
His heart was pounding; he could feel a flush in his face. His vision was blurred. He found himself reluctantly agreeing: men really were the villains. For he was clearly in a state of raging desire.
Abruptly, that shamed him. Unsteadily, he came to his feet. 'Uh,' he said, 'uh, Miss Haskett, I want to thank you for this delightful—'
At that point the woman's cup made a clattering sound. She had set it down with such a quick movement that it hit the table, and the cup fell forcefully over on its side in the saucer.
The sound of china on china was startlingly loud in what had been intense silence. Both the man and the woman involuntarily leaned forward to straighten the cup. Thus, bending forward, his head brushed slightly against her hair. It was not physical contact in the real meaning of the word. But in his whole grown-up life, Grayson had only touched one other woman - Mila. And she had made that such a misery - and so rare - that, in fact, he no longer wanted to touch her.
In that peculiar psychic reality of things, it was in actual time several decades since he had been close to a desirable woman. His hand reached for her, almost knocked the cup over again - but got a hold on her fingers. Then he was tugging her along from behind the coffee table.
It was a long coffee table, alas; by the time he had her approaching its end, his consciousness - conscience - surfaced. He realized what he was doing. He let go.
Grayson stepped back with a sigh. '. . . very delightful,' he muttered gloomily, 'but I imagine I'd better—'
Miss Haskett had finally rounded her coffee table. As she emerged, she made an uncoordinated grab for his arm, catching his sleeve. And she gasped, 'Oh, but you must see the rest of this part of my home.'
Slowly, as the tour, with its tiny distances to cover, got under way, Grayson stiffened inside. In many areas he was a supremely analytical person. He saw his journey as a gesture of goodwill by Miss Hasket. They toured the fluffy, very feminine makeup room. The woman explained volubly things about it that Grayson did not hear because he was bracing himself. She took him into a huge bathroom. Apparently, there were special features there; also, that required Miss Haskett to continue her chatter. This time the man had the vagrant thought that this sad little creature had lavished her income upon the furnishings and appliances of a fine home. But, still he did not hear what those special features were. Something about an unusual method of maintaining the temperature of the bath water exactly at the blood heat of the person taking the bath… got through to him.
But that was only one of several items. And that one he promptly forgot as the guided expedition came to a closed door. Grayson never clearly remembered afterward who opened that door. Did he leap forward gallantly and do the amenities? Or was he at that instant still frozen into his single-track thought-feeling-intent?
Whichever - whatever - the door was opened. It was a bedroom. Large. And, again, very expensive. He had a sense of fluffy feminine atmosphere. A king-size - well, at least a queen-size - bed with one of those special headboard and footboard effects: at the head, books, radio, and at the foot (its entire length and height), a built-in, full-size panoramic holographic color television.
They were standing beside the bed, and she was explaining - something. As she talked, Grayson turned and stared at her. He said nothing. He fixed his gaze about an inch above her eyes.
And kept it there.
Suddenly, her own eyes - blue, he observed with a flickering glance downward - shifted. Her voice - which had been virtually unceasing sound - ceased.
'Where's the light switch?' asked Grayson into the sudden silence.
'It can be turned out from the bed,' whispered Miss Haskett, 'or - over there.' She pointed.
'Do you mind?' asked Grayson.
'You're going to turn out the light?' Again she spoke sotto voce.
'Yes.'
'It's over there,' she said once more, and her voice had come up in pitch and had a stricken sound in it.
chapter four
A few minutes later—
As, in the darkness, Grayson encountered the nude body of Miss Haskett, he was enthralled. The moments glided by. Skin writhed against skin. Lip pressed to lip. And all was optimum. As the moments lengthened into seconds, and the seconds into minutes, Grayson told himself that Miss Haskett was definitely in a class by herself. Most important, she was accepting him without any apparent reservation. Which, he had to admit, was pretty tolerant of her. After all, she was offering him a nubile, slender, but well-formed, good-looking body. In return, she was having imposed upon her a rather spare, even gaunt, male type with an aging face. The face was fortunately hidden in the three-quarter night of her bedroom. Still, she must know what it looked like, and was making her peace with it.
He decided to tell her how grateful he was for her goodwill. To do so, he removed his lips from hers. His intention was to make the non-kissing period extremely brief; in fact, just long enough to say a few kind words that, he believed, would fit the occasion.
Momentarily, he paused to formulate the words. And, because he was always careful in his uses of English, the moments grew long. And, abruptly, an awful realization that his gratitude had diverted him. And that he was in serious danger of losing his capability of performing the act. Instantly desperate, he fought to save the situation. There was no question about that, either. It was a fight.
'What's the matter?' Miss Haskett whispered.
What could he say? He had virtually wrecked the moment by letting his mind wander to an unfortunate reality: that he was no longer a young man.
As he had that set of despairing realizations, Grayson made a final, desperate effort to salvage the affair, and in a limp fashion… succeeded.
It was 11.32 as Grayson climbed aboard the bus that would take him home. At first, as he settled into his seat, the exhilaration and frustration (yes, both) of the evening alternately pulled him up and pushed him down.
But somewhere during the journey came his moment of confrontation:
He had taken an irrevocable step.
He waited for the shock of disaster to move through him.
But what he felt was not that intense. In its place was irritation. He was - he told himself - a grown man, who didn't need any advice from either an Utt or any other living person.
The hostile reaction stayed with him all the rest of the way to his getting-off place.
The emotion had faded a little by the time he entered his house. Yet the prospect of running into Mila did not really shake him. And that was awesome, indeed. Almost a new thought. The idea of a man standing up to a woman's anger with anger of his own was - well - there was no clear reaction that he could produce, having no previous experience to judge by.
But he had seen her on her knees. He had a feeling he would never, no matter what happened, forget the implications of that.
Despite his strong attitude, he moved silently along the dim-lit hallway. In fact, he came to the final stretch, where there was no carpet, he took time to remove his shoes, and then made it the rest of the way in his stockinged feet, turning the dim lights out en route.
After all, he argued with himself, why force problems where none need exist?
In his bedroom, with its door softly shut behind him, he undressed hastily and slipped into bed. As he lay there, then, in darkness, reviewing the night's events, he realized that he was having still another and different kind of thought.
The same scheming part of his mind that had noticed and accepted the little hypnotic ploy with the mirror in his office was busy plotting.
He was remembering what he had once read in one of those awful-example stories, so common in the magazines in the days after the Utt came.
This particular story had depicted a fifty-year-old managerial type very much like himself. In the pre-Utt era - the story had stated - such a man would have had half a dozen mistresses by the half-century mark.
Grayson found himself feeling blank. The story (after his sad performance) seemed untrue. Miss Haskett, all by herself, had been almost too much for him. And, in fact, a definite negative feeling came.
Would he ever again, now that he knew that he might fail, dare take a chance on disgracing himself?
With that… moral… thought, he must have slept.
chapter five
Grayson usually ate breakfast alone; and the following morning was no exception. The maid served him his normal complement of toast, eggs, and coffee. He ate hastily, worried that perhaps Mila might get up and ask him questions.
—Not that I'm afraid, he told himself. Let's just not have problems.
Because of his gulping approach to the meal, he started forth to catch his regular 7.30 bus with time to spare.
The bus stop had its average scattering of sad-looking males already sitting on benches, or standing, each in his own lackadaisical way. Everywhere Grayson looked the reflected light from spectacles glinted back at him. The eyes he saw appeared distended behind the thick lenses. It was very shocking to him this morning, for some reason
As Grayson walked into this lackluster group, an automobile - which he did not see until it moved - started forward from the curb fifty feet away. It pulled up opposite Grayson. The rather large, middle-aged woman inside leaned over and said through the open window, in a falsetto voice, 'Miss Has-kett sent me to pick you up, Dr Grayson.'
With considerable dexterity, and unusual strength for a woman, she continued to lean all the way from the driver's side. Swiftly, she manipulated the passenger-side door from inside, and pushed it open for him.
Grayson was completely taken by surprise. 'Miss Haskett -oh!'
He was appalled at his employer's indiscretion. Many of the men who were standing around were neighbors or next-block people. And his hope was that they had not heard what the muffled voice from the inside of the car had said. As he scrambled in, his one thought was to get the machine on its way before another word was spoken.
