"In the latter case," our intrepid replied, "the name would still be a man's, the woman's father's name."

"Exactly. That is why I changed my name from Johnetta Georgette Redd-you'll notice that both my so-called Chris­tian names are feminizations of masculine names-I changed it to Jill Gulbirra. My father raised hell about that, even my mother protested strongly. But she was a typical Aunt Dora-brainwashed."

''Interesting," Mr. Bligh said. "Gulbirra? What kind of a name is that? Slavic? And why did you choose it?"

"No, it's Australian aborigine, you dummy. A gulbirra is a kangaroo that catches dogs and eats them."

"A carnivorous kangaroo? I thought they were all vegetarians."

"Well, actually, it may not have existed. But the abos claimed that it did exist in the outlands. It may have been mythical, but what's the difference? It's the symbolism that counts."

"So you identify with the gulbirra? I can imagine what the dogs symbolize."

At this point, Miz Gulbirra smiled so terrifyingly that your correspondent felt compelled to down a snort of the Dutch courage he always carries in his shoulderbag.

"Not that I chose that name because I identify with, or sympathize with, blackfellow culture," the Miz said. "I am one-quarter abo, but so what? It was a male chauvinist culture through and through, women were mere objects, subject to slavery, they did all the hard work and they were often beaten by their fathers and husbands. A lot of Cauca­sian males have sentimentalized about the destruction of abo society, but I personally thought it was a good thing. Of course, I deplore the suffering that went along with its disintegration."

"Deploration, unlike defloration, is usually managed without pain," Mr. Bligh said.

"Virginity! That's another male myth, invented solely to aggrandize the male ego and enforce his opinions about his property rights," Miz Gulbirra said bitterly. "Fortunately, that attitude changed considerably during my lifetime. But there are still plenty of pigs around, fossil boars, I called them, who..."

"That's all very interesting," the dauntless dared to inter­rupt. "But you can reserve your opinions for the Letters to the Editor page. Mr. Bagg will print anything you say, no matter how scurrilous. Our readers just now would like to know what your professional plans are. Just how do you see yourself as contributing to Project Airship, as it's officially called? Just where do you think you'll fit into the hierarchy?"

By now, the heavy acrid fumes of marijuana overrode all others. A wild, fierce light glittered in her drug-expanded pupils. Your correspondent felt it necessary to expand his rapidly shrinking dauntless state with another pull on the divine bottle.

"By all logic and by right of superior knowledge, experi­ence , and capability,'' she said slowly but loudly, "I should be in charge of the project. And I should be captain of the airship! I've checked out everybody's qualifications, and there's no doubt at all that I am by far the best qualified.

"So why am I not put in charge of the construction? Why am I not even considered as a candidate for the captaincy? Why?"

"Don't tell me," your intrepid answered. Possibly he was overly emboldened by the liquid lava coursing through his veins and dulling his otherwise fine sensibilities. "Don't tell me. Let me hazard a guess. Could it be, I'm just groping for an explanation, mind you, could it be that you are rele­gated to an inferior position because you are only a woman?"

The subject stared at your correspondent, took another puff, drew it deep into her lungs, causing a slight lifting of slight breasts, and finally, face bluish with lack of oxygen, discharged the tag-ends of fumes through her nostrils. Your intrepid was reminded of pictures of dragons he had seen during his Terrestrial existence. He, however, thought of the better part of valor and did not remark upon the similarity.

"You've got it," she said. "Maybe you're not so dense after all."

Then, gripping the edge of the table as if she'd squeeze the wood, she sat up straight. "But just what do you mean by only a woman?"

"Oh, that's only my verbalization of your thoughts," the intrepid said hastily. "I was being ironic. Or whatever..."

"If I were a man," she said, "which, thank God I am not, I'd have been made at least first mate on the spot. And you wouldn't be sitting there sneering at me."

"Oh, you're mistaken about that," our dauntless said. "I am not sneering at you. However, there is a point that you may have overlooked. It wouldn't make any difference what your sex is; you could have the biggest balls for 40,000 kilometers around, and you still wouldn't be put in charge.

"Long before the Riverboat was built-the second one, I mean, not the one King John stole-it was agreed that Firebrass would be in charge of the airship project. It's even in the Parolando constitution, which you must know, since he himself recited it chapter and verse to you. You were aware of that and by taking the oath you accepted that. So, tell me, why all the bitching?"

"You don't understand after all, do you, you clown?" she said. "The point is that that rule, that arrogantly imperi­ous law, should never have been made."

Your correspondent swallowed some more of the stuff that encourages-and stupefies-and said, "The point is that it was made. And if a man came along twice as qualified as you, he'd still have to accept the fact that he could never be higher than second. He could be Captain Firebrass' chief construction assistant and first mate on the ship. But that's all."

"There isn't any such creature as twice as qualified as me," she said, "unless an officer from the Graf Zeppelin should show up. Listen, I'm getting tired of this."

"It is rather hot and smoky in here," your correspondent said, wiping the sweat off his brow. "However, I would like to get more of your background, details of your earthly life, you know, human interest stuff. And also the story of what happened to you right after Resurrection Day. And ..."

"Are you hoping I'll get turned on by this joint and by your overwhelming male charm and virility?" she said. "Are you getting ready to make a pass at me?"

"God forbid," I said. "This is a strictly professional visit. Besides ..."

"Besides," she said, and she was the one sneering now, "you're scared of me, aren't you? You're all alike. You have to be dominant, the superior. If you meet a woman with more brains, one who is able to handle you in a fight, who is clearly the superior, then the hot air whistles out of you like a pricked balloon. A balloon with a prick."

"Now, really, Miz Gulbirra," your dauntless said, feel­ing his face heat up.

"Bug off, little man," the subject said.

Your correspondent thought it was wise to obey this imperative. The interview, though not complete from our viewpoint, was terminated.