"Deety, you're an idiot! You would ruin that pretty gown."

"Mussing a dress is irrelevant but I can take it off. I will. There's nothing under it."

"There's a great deal under it!"

That fetched a grin, instantly wiped away. "Thank you. Shall we head for the bushes?"

"Wait a half! I'm about to be noble and regret it the rest of my life. You've made a mistake. Your father doesn't want to talk to me; I don't know anything about n-dimensional geometry." (Why do I get these attacks of honesty? I've never done anything to deserve them.)

"Pop thinks you do; that is sufficient. Shall we go? I want to get Pop out of here before he busts somebody in the mouth."

"Don't rush me; I didn't ask you to rassle on the grass; I said I wanted to marry you-but wanted to know why you were willing to marry me. Your answer concerned what your father wants. I'm not trying to marry your father; he's not my type. Speak for yourself, Deety. Or drop it." (Am I a masochist? There's a sunbathing couch back of those bushes.)

Solemnly she looked me over, from my formal tights to my crooked bow tie and on up to my thinning brush cut-a hundred and ninety-four centimeters of big ugly galoot. "I like your firm lead in dancing. I like the way you look. I like the way your voice rumbles. I like your hair-splitting games with words- you sound like Whorf debating Korzybski with Shannon as referee." She took another deep breath, finished almost sadly: "Most of all, I like the way you smell."

It would have taken a sharp nose to whiff me. I had been squeaky clean ninety minutes earlier, and it takes more than one waltz and a tango to make me sweat. But her remark had that skid in it that Deety put into almost anything. Most girls, when they want to ruin a man's judgment, squeeze his biceps and say, "Goodness, you're strong!"

I grinned down at her. "You smell good too. Your perfume could rouse a corpse."

"I'm not wearing perfume."

"Oh. Correction: your natural pheromone. Enchanting. Get your wrap, Side door. Five minutes."

"Yes, sir."

"Tell your father we're getting married. He gets that talk, free. I decided that before you started to argue. It won't take him long to decide that I'm not Lobachevski."

"That's Pop's problem," she answered, moving. "Will you let him show you this thing he's built in our basement?"

'Sure, why not? What is it?"

"A time machine."

"This Universe never did make sense-"

Zeb:

Tomorrow I will seven eagles see, a great comet will appear, and voices will speak from whirlwinds foretelling monstrous and fearful things- This Universe never did make sense; I suspect that it was built on government contract.

'Big basement?"

"Medium. Nine by twelve. But cluttered. Work benches and power tools."

A hundred and eight square meters- Ceiling height probably two and a half- Had Pop made the mistake of the man who built a boat in his basement?

Mv musing was interrupted by a male voice in a high scream: 'You Overeducated, obstipated, pedantic ignoramus! Your mathematical intuition froze solid the day you matriculated"

I didn't recognize the screamer but did know the stuffed shirt he addressed:

Professor Neil O'Heret Brain, head of the department of mathematics-and God help the student who addressed a note to "Professor N.O. Brain" or even "N. O'H. Brain." "Brainy" had spent his life in search of The Truth-intendinng to place it under house arrest.

He was puffed up like a pouter pigeon with is professional pontifical pomposity reeling. His expression suggested that he was giving birth to a porcupine.

Deety gasped, "It's started," and dashed toward the row. Me, I stay out of rows; I'm a coward by trade and wear fake zero-prescription glasses as a buffer-when some oaf snarls, "Take off your glasses!" that gives me time to retreat.

I headed straight for the row.

Deety had placed herself between the two, facing the screamer, and was saying in a low but forceful voice, "Pop, don't you dare!-I won't bail you out!" She was reaching for his glasses with evident intent to put them back on his face. It was clear that he had taken them off for combat; he was holding them out of her reach.

I reached over their heads, plucked them out of his hand, gave them to Deety. She flashed me a smile and put them back on her father. He gave up and let her. She then took his arm firmly. "Aunt Hilda!"

Our hostess converged on the row. "Yes, Deety? Why did you stop them, darling? You didn't give us time to get bets down." Fights were no novelty at "Sharp" Corners' parties. Her food and liquor were lavish, the music always live; her guests were often eccentric but never dull-I had been surprised at the presence of N. O. Brain.

I now felt that I understood it: a planned hypergolic mixture.

Deety ignored her questions. "Will you excuse Pop and me and Mr. Carter? Something urgent has come up."

"You and Jake may leave if you must. But you can't drag Zebbie away. Deety, that's cheating."

Deety looked at me. "May I tell?"

"Eh? Certainly!"

That bliffy "Brainy" picked this moment to interrupt. "Mrs. Corners, Doctor Burroughs can't leave until he apologizes! I insist. My privilege!"

Our hostess looked at him with scorn. "Merde, Professor. I'm not one of your teaching fellows. Shout right back at Jake Burroughs if you like. If your command of invective equals his, we'll enjoy hearing it. But just one more word that sounds like an order to me or to one of my guests-and out you go! Then you had best go straight home; the Chancellor will be trying to reach you." She turned her back on him. "Deety, you started to add something?"

"Sharp" Corners can intimidate Internal Revenue agents. She hadn't cut loose on "Brainy"-just a warning shot across his bow. But from his face one would have thought she had hulled him. However, her remark to Deety left me no time to see whether he would have a stroke.

"Not Deety, Hilda. Me. Zeb."

"Quiet, Zebbie. Whatever it is, the answer is No. Deety? Go ahead, dear."

Hilda Corners is related to that famous mule. I did not use a baseball bat because she comes only up to my armpits and grosses forty-odd kilos. I picked her up by her elbows and turned her around, facing me. "Hilda, we're going to get married."

"Zebbie darling! I thought you would never ask."

"Not you, you old harridan. Deety. I proposed, she accepted; I'm going to nail it down before the anesthetic wears off."

Hilda looked thoughtfully interested. "That's reasonable." She craned her neck to look at Deety. "Did he mention his wife in Boston, Deety? Or the twins?"

I set her back on her feet. "Pipe down, Sharpie; this is serious. Doctor Burroughs, I am unmarried, in good health, solvent, and able to support a family. I hope this meets with your approval."

"Pop says Yes," Deety answered. "I hold his power of attorney."

"You pipe down, too. My name is Carter, sir-Zeb Carter. I'm on campus; you can check my record. But I intend to marry Deety at once, if she will have me."

"I know your name and record, sir. It doesn't require my approval; Deety is of age. But you have it anyhow." He looked thoughtful. "If you two are getting married at once, you'll be too busy for shop talk. Or would you be?"

"Pop-let it be; it's all set."

"So? Thank you, Hilda, for a pleasant evening. I'll call you tomorrow."

"You'll do no such thing; you'll come straight back and give me a full report. Jake, you are not going on their honeymoon-I heard you."

"Aunt Hilda-please! I'll manage everything."