"Oh, good!"

"But never worry about job. Sure, this pad is righteous, good north light, I like it. But we lose it, who cares? Broke don't scare me."

(It scares me, dear!) "I love you, darling."

"But we do it for nice old boy dying, not to save studio. Understand?"

"Roz indeed! Joe, you're the nicest husband a girl ever had."

He did not answer and got a pained scowl, which she recognized as birth pangs of creativity. So she kept still. Presently he sighed. "Down off ceiling. Problem what to do for Boss solves inspiration that put me up there. Tomor­row you're a mermaid."

"All right."

"And tonight. Upper body sea green with rosy glow showing through on lips and cheeks and nipples. Lower body golden fish scales blending at waist. Undersea background with sunlight filtering down. Traditional sea bottom symbols, romantic. But upside down."

She hesitated. "So?" (Hard to know when to ask, when to keep quiet, when Joe was creating.)

He smiled. "Fool-the-eye. You're swimming. Diving straight down to bottom, back arched, hair streaming, toes pointed—main light dapple-scrimmed for water. Beautiful. But can't wire you, even if had wires—no way to hide harness, and hair would hang down and buttocks and breasts would sag—"

"My breasts don't sag!"

"Chill it, Jill. You got beautiful breasts and you know I know. But masses of flesh sag and artist sees it. Everybody sees, just don' realize. Something wrong, don' know why. Eye not fooled. Has to be real dive, or it's fake. Bad art."

"Well," she said doubtfully, "if you borrowed a stepladder and dragged the mattress under your background, I suppose I could dive off and roll out and not hurt myself. I guess."

"I don't guess! Break pretty neck, little stupid. Dive up.

Not down."

"Huh?"

"I said. Background upside down. So jump straight up in air. Like going for hot return in volley ball. I shoot stereo stop-action, a thousandth. Shoot six, seven, eight, nine times till just right. Turn pic upside down—lovely mermaid diving for sea bottom."

"Oh. Yes, I'm stupid."

"Not stupid, just not artist." He started scowling again; she kept quiet. "Too much for one night. Tomorrow paint background, tonight paint you for drill. Then maybe stereo-mug some jumps against any background, more drill. Bed early, up early—paint you again for Boss."

"Fine," she agreed. "But why paint me twice, dear, if I'm to be a mermaid for Boss tomorrow? If you set up the cot for me and I slept alone, I wouldn't disturb paint job much. Then you could touch it up in the morning. Not get up as early."

He shook his head. "Won't paint quite same way for Boss. But won't let you sleep in paint anyhow."

"My skin won't break out."

"No, my darling. Your skin don' break out because I don' paint you too much, or too often, or let paint stay on too long—and always damn sure you get it all off, then oil you. But you see, I see, everybody see what happen to girls who paint too much. Pimples, blackheads, itching, scratching—ugly. Sure, we'll paint you for Boss from ears to toes—but not too often and scrub you minute you're home. That's official."

"Yes, sir."

"So scrub jet and scarlet off, while I flash pizza."

A few minutes later she shut off the shower and called out through the door of the bath unit.: "What did you say?"

"Forgot. Big Sam stopped by. Pizza ready."

"Cut me a chunk, that's a dear. What did he want? Money?"

"No. Well, I let him have a fin. But stopped to invite us. Sunday. All day meditation. Gigi's pad."

She stepped out into the room, till toweling. "All day, huh? Just us four? Or his whole class?"

"Neither. A Seven Circle."

"Swinging?"

"Suppose so. Didn't say."

"Swinging." She sighed. "Darling, I don't mind you lending him a five you'll never see. But Big Sam is no guru, he's just a stud. And a bliffy."

"Big Sam and Gigi share what they got, Eunice. And nobody has to swing. Ever."

"Theoretically, yes. But the only good way to break a Circle is never to join it. Especially a Seven Circle. Did you promise? I can grit my teeth and smile if I have to."

"No. Told him had to see you, tell him tomorrow."

"Well? What do you want me to say, dearest?"

"I'll tell him No."

"Dearest, I don't think you answered me. Is there some special reason you want us in this Seven? An art critic perhaps? Or a dealer? If it's Gigi you have on your mind, why not ask her to model some daytime while I'm working? She'd be up here at once, her tail quivering—I've seen her eyeing you."

He shook his head and grinned. "Nyet, Yvette. Believe, lass—I stalled Big Sam because possible you wanted to join in. But Big Sam chills me too—bad aura."

"Oh, I'm so relieved! I'll swing, darling; I promised you that when I asked you to marry me. And I have, the few times you've wanted to. And most were fun and only one struck me as boring. But I like to size up the players."

"Grab pizza, climb throne. Paint legs while you eat."

"Yes, darling." She mounted the model's throne with a I wedge of pizza in each hand; there followed a long period broken only by sounds of chomping, and of low profanity that punctuated his alternating pleasure and exasperation. Neither noticed either; Joe Branca was deep in the euphoria of creation, his wife was immersed in the warm glow of being cherished.

At last he said, "Down," and offered his hand.

"May I look?"

"No. Ribs and tits now. Don' raise arms yet. Want to study them."

"As if you didn't know every wrinkle."

"Shut up. Want to think about how to paint ‘em In the morning." Presently he said, "Been thinking maybe you crowd Boss too hard with only a gee-panty. Solved now."

"So."

"Da. Paint a bra on you."

"But wouldn't that spoil it, dear? Mermaids don't wear bras."

"Was problem. Bad empathy. So use sea shells. Flat curved kind with nubbly backs. You know."

"Sorry but I don't, dear. Sea shells are scarce in Iowa."

"No matter. Sea shells fix bad empathy, symbols all match." He grinned. "Pretty one, I'll paint sea-shell bra cups so fool-the-eye that Boss won' know for sure. He'll spend day trying to see whether is real bra or just paint. If he breaks down and asks—I win."

She gurgled happily. "Joe, you're a genuis!"

As Dr. Boyle came out of the operating theater Mr. Salomon stood up. "Doctor!"

Boyle checked his impatient strides. "Oh. You again. Go to hell."

"No doubt I will. But wait a moment, Doctor."

The surgeon answered with controlled fury: "Listen, chum—I've been operating eleven hours with one short break. By now I hate everybody, especially you. So let me be."

"I thought perhaps you could use a drink."

The surgeon suddenly smiled. "Where's the nearest pub?"

"About twenty yards from here. In my car. Parked on this floor. Stocked with Australian beer, both cold and room temperature. And other things. Whisky. Gin. Name it."

"My word, you Yahnk barstahds do know how. Right. But I must change first." Again he turned away.

Salomon again stopped him. "Doctor, I took the liberty of having your street clothes packed into your bag and placed in my car. So let's have that drink at once."

Boyle shook his head and grinned. "You do take liberties—too right. Very well, if you can stand the stink, I'll tub and change at my hotel ‘Lay on, MacDuff!'"

Salomon let it go at that until they were locked into his car and he had poured beer for them—the authentic kangaroo kick for the surgeon, a much weaker American brew for himself; he had tangled with Australian beer in his youth and was wary. The big car started smoothly and-continued so; Rockford had been warned that drinking might take place in the passenger compartment.