The prop boys jumped to manhandle an easy chair from its place by the window to the corner now occupied by a breakfront, which they tugged into the center of the room. “Wait a minute,” said Dorrie. “I thought I’d just sit on the couch here—”

“Don’t you have the light reading yet?” Hengstrom demanded. “Sally, start the camera. You never know what we might use for rollunder.”

“I mean it,” Dorrie said.

Hengstrom looked at her. The voice had not been loud, but the tone was dangerous. She shrugged. “Let’s set it up,” she proposed, “and if you don’t like it we’ll talk it over. Run through for me, will you?”

“Run through what?” The pale young girl with the hand-held camera was pointing it at her, Dorrie noticed; it distracted her. The lightperson had found a wall socket and was holding a crucifix of floods in each hand, moving them gently to erase shadows as fast as they formed each time Dorrie moved.

“Well, for openers, what are your plans for the next two years? You’re surely not just going to hang around waiting for Roger Torraway to come home.”

Dorrie tried to make her way to the couch, but the lightperson frowned and waved her in the other direction, and two of the prop boys shoved the coffee table out of reach. She said, “I’ve got my shop. I thought you might like to have some of the pieces from it on camera while you interviewed me—”

“That’s fine, sure. I meant personally. You’re a healthy woman. You have sexual needs. Back up a little, please — Sandra’s getting a buzz from something on the sound system.”

Dorrie found herself standing in front of the chair, and there seemed nothing to do but to sit in it. “Of course—” she began.

“You have a responsibility,” Hengstrom said. “What sort of an example are you going to set young womanhood? Turning yourself into a dried-up old maid? Or living a naturally full life?”

“I don’t know if I want to discuss—”

“I’ve checked you out pretty carefully, Torraway. I like what I’ve found out. You’re your own person — as much as any person can be, anyway, who accepts the ridiculous farce of marriage. Why’d you do it?”

Dorrie hesitated. “Roger’s really a very nice person,” she offered.

“What about it?”

“Well, I mean, he offered me a great deal of comfort and support—”

Hagar Hengstrom sighed. “Same old slave psychology. Never mind. The other thing that puzzles me is your getting involved in the space program. Don’t you feel it’s a sexist shuffle?”

“Why, no. The President told me himself,” Dorrie said, aware that she was trying to score points in case of another visit from Dash, “that putting a man on Mars was absolutely indispensable to the future of the human race. I believe him. We owe a—”

“Play that back,” Hengstrom commanded.

“What?”

“Play back what you just said. Putting a what on Mars?”

“A man. Oh. I see what you mean.”

Hengstrom nodded sadly. “You see what I mean, but you don’t change the way you think. Why a man? Why not a person?” She looked commiseratingly at the soundperson, who shook her head in sympathy. “Well, let’s get to something more important: do you know that the whole crew of the Mars voyage is supposed to be male? What do you think of that?”

It was quite a morning for Dorrie. She never did get her ceramic pieces on camera.

When Sulie Carpenter came on duty that afternoon she brought Roger two surprises: a cassette of the interview, borrowed from the project public-relations (read: censorship) office, and a guitar. She gave him the cassette first, and let him watch the interview while she remade his bed and changed the water for his flowers.

When it was over she said brightly, “Your wife handled herself very well, I thought. I met Hagar Hengstrom once. She’s a very difficult woman.”

“Dorrie looked fine,” said Roger. You could not read any expression in the remade face or hear it in the flat tones, but the bat wings were fluttering restlessly. “I always liked those pants.”

Sulie nodded and made a note to herself: the open lacing up both sides of each leg showed a great deal of flesh. Evidently the steroids implanted in Roger were doing their job. “Now I’ve got something else,” she said, and opened the guitar case.

“You’re going to play for me?”

“No, Roger. You’re going to play.”

“I can’t play the guitar, Sulie,” he protested.

She laughed. “I’ve been talking to Brad,” she said, “and I think you’re going to be surprised. You’re not just different, you know, Roger. You’re better. For instance, your fingers.”

“What about them?”

“Well, I’ve been playing the guitar since I was nine, and if I stop for a couple of weeks my calluses go and I have to start all over again. Your fingers don’t need calluses; they’re hard enough and firm enough to fret the strings first time perfectly.”

“Fine,” said Roger, “only I don’t even know what you’re talking about. What’s ‘fret’?”

“Press them down. Like this.” She strummed a G chord, then a D and a C.

“Now you do it,” she said. “The only thing to watch out for, don’t use too much strength. It’s breakable.” She handed him the guitar.

He swept his thumb over the open strings, as he had seen her do.

“That’s fine.” She applauded. “Now make a G. Ring finger on the third fret of the high E string — there. First finger on the second fret of the A. Middle finger on the third fret of the low E.” She guided his hands. “Now hit it.”

He strummed and looked up at her. “Hey,” he said. “Nice.” She grinned and corrected him. “Not nice. Perfect. Now, this is a C. First finger on the second fret of the B string, middle finger there, ring finger there… Right. And this is a D chord: first and middle finger on the G and E strings, there, ring finger one fret lower on the B… Perfect again. Now give me a G.” To his surprise, Roger strummed a perfect G.

She smiled. “See? Brad was right. Once you know a chord, you know it; the 3070 remembers it for you. All you have to do is think ‘G chord,’ and your fingers do it. You are now,” she said in mock sorrow, “about three months ahead of where I was the first time I tried to play the guitar.”

“That’s pretty nice,” Roger said, trying all three chords, one after another.

“That’s only the beginning. Now strum a four-beat, you know, dum, dum, dum, dum. With a G chord—” She listened, then nodded. “Fine. Now do it like this: G, G, G, G, G, G, G, G, C, C, G, G, G, G, G, G… Fine. Now again, only this time after the C, C do D, D, D, D, D, D… Fine again. Now do them both, one after the other—”

He played, and she sang with him: “ ‘Kumbaya, my lord. Kumbaya! Kumbaya, my lord. Kumbaya—’ ”

“Hey!” Roger cried, delighted.

She shook her head in mock dismay. “Three minutes from the time you pick up the guitar, and you’re already an accompanist. Here, I brought you a chord book and some simple pieces. By the time I get back, you should be playing all of them, and I’ll start you on finger-plucking, sliding and hammering.”

She showed him how to read the tabulature for each chord and left him happily puzzling out the first six modulations of the F.

Outside his room she paused to take out her contacts, rubbed her eyes and marched to the office of the director. Scanyon’s secretary waved her in.

“He’s happy with his guitar, General,” she reported. “Less happy about his wife.”

Vern Scanyon nodded, and turned up a knob on the comm set on his desk: the sound of the chords for “Kentucky Babe” came from the tap in Roger’s room. He turned it down again. “I know about the guitar, Major Carpenter. What about his wife?”

“I’m afraid he loves her,” she said slowly. “He’s all right up to a point. Past that point I think we’re in trouble. I can bolster him up as long as he’s here at the project, but he’ll be a long time away and — I’m not sure.”

Scanyon said sharply, “Get the marbles out of your mouth, Major!”