I was crossing the parking lot to my Lincoln when a guy who looked like a sumo wrestler stepped from the shadow of a bottle palm and fed me a knuckle sandwich that dumped me on my ass.

"You son of a bitch," he growled. "I see you around here again, you're dead meat."

He stalked toward Laura's apartment, and I had no desire to stop him.

Would an injured hummingbird challenge a rabid rhino?

I figured he was the "canceled" boyfriend, and dear, sweet Laura had left the drapes open, the light on, and had used me to raise his jealousy level.

Well, what the hell. I learned a long time ago that if you're going to drink and cruise sooner or later you're going to get hurt.

I dragged my split lip and loosened bicuspid home to Rustling Palms Estates. Marleen and Tania were asleep, of course, so I stumbled into the guest bedroom and got most of my clothes off before I fell into the sack.

I awoke a little after eleven on Thursday morning, and naturally I had the house to myself. I phoned Goldie and told her I'd be late.

"I already know that," she said.

I tossed down an ounce of cognac, took a hot shower, and then put an icebag on my puffed lip. it didn't look too bad, but my loose tooth was throbbing. I used my electric shaver, dressed, and went over to the Barrows. I hoped Mabel would make me a cup of coffee, and while she was doing that, I could take up where I had left off Saturday morning.

But she wasn't home, so I got in my car and headed toward my brother's studio for our weekly lunch. I stopped on the way to pick up a big pepperoni pizza and a cold six-pack of Bud.

Chas took one look at my face and said, "I bet the other guy hasn't got a mark on him."

" You'd win your bet," I said. "I was overmatched."

We ate warm pizza and drank cold beer. I didn't feel much like talking, but Chas did.

"One of these days," he said, "you're going to get into serious trouble.

Did you ever think of that?"

"It'll never happen," I told him. "God looks after fools and drunks, and I qualify on both counts."

"Why do you do it?" he asked me. "Drunk almost every night and whoring around. If you want to destroy yourself, that's your business.

But you're also hurting your wife and daughter."

"Don't try laying a guilt trip on me, Chas," I said. I get enough of,that at home. Hey, remember my telling you about the dumpling who lives next door? I think I'm making progress there.

I got a feeling she's ready.

But he wouldn't let me change the subject.

"Do you really enjoy the way you're living?" he demanded, and I got miffed.

"Damned right I enjoy it," I said. "Look, pal, you're born, you live a little while, and you die. What's the big deal? it's all bullshit, and you know it."

"What is?"

"Life is, that's what. So I grab what pleasure I can."

"Don't you believe in anything?"

"Sure I do," I said. "I believe in gathering ye rosebuds while ye may.

And I'm going to gather as many goddamn rosebuds as I can before I kick off."

He shook his head. "Your lousy rosebuds are booze and broads. Did it ever occur to that tiny, tiny brain of yours that there are other things that might give you more pleasure?"

"Such as?"

"Love, for one."

"Spare me," I said. "As far as I'm concerned love is just another four-letter word."

"You've got a lot of learning to do, sonny," he said.

"I don't want to learn," I said. "I'm selfish and I know it.

But everyone's selfish. Did you ever know anyone who didn't act out of self-interest?"

"Yeah," he said. "Me."

"That's right," I said. "And look what it got you."

"Have you ever heard me complain?" he asked quietly.

"No, I haven't," I admitted. "And I admire you for it. But I don't admire you for volunteering to have your ass shot off.

That was just stupid."

"For you maybe," he said. "Not for me."

I sighed, finished my second beer and stood up. "I've got to get back to the office," I told Chas. "You and I are never going to agree on what it's all about."

He crushed his empty beer can in his heavy paws and looked down at it.

"I worry about you," he said in a low voice.

"Not to worry, big brother, I'm fine." Then I bent suddenly to kiss his cheek. I couldn't remember ever having done that before. "Take care,"

I said huskily.

I drove back toward town thinking of what he had said and what I had said. He had shaken me up, I admit it. I've always known Chas was smarter than I was, and it bothered me when we disagreed, I'd get an antsy feeling that the deep sonofabitch might be right. So I turned north and headed for the club to get hammered.

Maybe Laura would show up.

It was obvious to me from the start that I had two ivital and interrelated problems on the ZAP Project, correct dosage and behavioral results. Since I could find no record of similar research that could be used as a guide, my only option was raw experimentation.

When all the specialized equipment was in place in my private lab, I prepared what I considered a weak solution of the synthetic testosterone I had developed. I made careful notes of the amount o the ormone used and the volume of the inert carrier in which it was suspended.

I then donned heavy rubber gloves, removed a male white mouse from its cage, injected it, and returned it to the cage. I removed my gloves and positioned a TV camera to record results, if any. When I turned back to the cage, the injected mouse was dead, lying on its back with all four paws in the air.

I then weakened the solution progressively with small subtractions of the quantity of testosterone, and the sixth injected mouse lived, scampering about the cage energetically and exhibiting no apparent ill effects. I captured this reaction on videotape and updated my notes.

I then obtained a larger wire cage from the supply department. I injected another male mouse with the weakened hormone solution and put a dot on its back with a black Magic Marker. I put it into the large cage, then focused and started the TV camera. I put an untreated mouse into the large cage with the injected mouse and stood back to observe the results, stopwatch in hand.

The untreated mouse was killed in less than thirty seconds.

After the killing, the dotted mouse continued to bite and worry the corpse for several minutes. I repeated this experiment twice more with identical results.

I then put two untreated mice in the cage with the injected and marked mouse. Both were killed almost instantly. I tried three mice, and then four. It was a remarkable and disturbing thing to witness, The untreated mice were totally incapable of defending themselves against the savage attacks of the mouse with a heightened testosterone level.

Because I work slowly and precisely (and keep copious notes) these experiments took the better part of two weeks. Then Marvin Mcwhortle came down to my lab and asked for a progress report.

I reported what I had accomplished so far, and I ran videotapes of the murderous activities in the big cage. Mr. Mcwhortle watched intently, fascinated.

"Incredible," he said, shaking his head. "But are you certain the killings were the result of the testosterone injections and not due to some other factor?"

"Naturally I ran control experiments," I replied, somewhat offended that he imagined I might have neglected such an important discipline.

"When untreated males were placed together in the same cage, there was no overt display of aggression. In fact, they spent much of their time playing with each other."

"So you feel the aggression was definitely the result of the added testosterone?

"Preliminary results would seem to indicate it," I said cautiously.

"But there is much work still to be done."

"What comes next?"

"I want to place two, three, and then several injected male mice in the same cage and observe what happens. Then I intend to repeat all my experiments with female mice placed in the same cage with an injected male. I think it important to establish if the male's murderous frenzy occurs in the presence of ovulating females or if his aggression is converted to an increased sex drive."