She was a wild one, a big, heavy broad who smoked long, skinny cigars and had the voice and vocabulary of a trucker. Her current boyfriend was a guy named Bobby Gurk. I think he was in the rackets in Lauderdale, but I never asked questions.

We had a great dinner at the rib joint. Laura told me about the problem she was having with Gurk. He wanted her to stay home every night in case he suddenly decided to drop by. She told him to get lost, and they were always fighting about it. , "That elephant thinks he owns me," Laura said. "He doesn't pay enough to own, he just rents."

"Why don't you dump him," I suggested. "You should be able to do better."

"I'm working on it," she said. "I met a guy out at the club the other night who thinks he's God's gift to women. Married, of course, but he's got deep pockets. I gave him a freebie. The next time he comes sniffing around I'll tell him the facts of life, no pay, no play. it Then we started talking about new summer fashions, what was in and what was out. After a while it was time for me to leave.

We split the check and made plans to go to the beach on Sunday.

I got home around eight-thirty. My six-year-old Pontiac was making funny noises, and I decided I needed new wheels. I figured I'd drop a few hints to Mcwhortle. He knew all about no pay, no play.

Willie the Weasel showed up right on time, looking as nifty as ever.

That guy sure knew how to dress. All he wanted to drink was a glass of club soda, so I brought him that.

I told Willie about Mcwhortle's visit that morning. I didn't want to give him the whole jar of the new moisturing creme with bronzer in it, so I dug out a tablespoonful and wrapped it in aluminum foil. He said that would be enough for analysis. I also told him about Mcwhortle's client who wanted the lab to develop a suntan lotion combined with an insect repellent.

"Sounds good," he said. "See if you can get me a sample when it's finished."

He took the foil-wrapped moisturizer and gave me a white envelope containing my payoff – I guess handing me bare cash just wasn't his style, it had to be in a clean white envelope.

He started to leave, then suddenly stopped. "Oh, by the way," he said casually, as if he had just remembered, "anything new on that testosterone pill?"

It was a great performance, but it didn't fool me one bit.

I mean the guy was slick but I was slicker, I knew immediately that he was really interested in the ZAP thing, which meant big bucks were involved.

"Yeah," I said, "Mcwhortle talked about it some."

"What did he say?"

"Tell you what," I said, "I figure that project is something special.

Very important. Top Secret stuff."

He stared at me. "I told you there'd be an extra two big ones if you can get me a sample."

"So you did," I said. "But I prefer a pay-as-you-go plan.

How about an extra grand right now?"

His expression froze up. "You wouldn't be getting greedy on me, would you, Jess? "

"Nah, Willie," I said, "not me. I'm just doing what you do.

You told me you buy information from people who know and sell to people who want to know. Right? Well, I know and you want to know. Greed isn't involved. It's just business."

His face was still set, but he dug out his wallet and this time he handed over the cold cash, his hand to mine, no white envelope. I thanked him and told him what Mcwhortle had said about the injections making pit bulls out of mice.

"And does he think it's going to work on men? the Weasel asked.

"He said he doesn't see why it shouldn't if they can make it into a pill or powder."

"Did he happen to mention the name of the chemist who's working on it?"

The schmuck wanted me to show him my hole card? What did he take me for-a total twerp? I was going to feed him information all right, a little bit at a time. Cash on delivery.

"No," I said, "he didn't mention any name." Brevoort nodded, tucked his wallet away, and started out. He paused at the door.

"That's a very attractive frock you're wearing tonight, Jess," he said.

"Thank you," I said.

After the door closed behind him, I stood there a moment, still startled.

How many times have you heard a man use the word "frock"? I wondered, What's with this guy? must confess I had high hopes for a perfume based on oxytocin, the "cuddle hormone." If it succeeded, the wearer and anyone who sniffed it would become emotionally warmer, more affectionate, more caring. It seemed to me that in today's world such a scent would be of inestimable value to both sexes, but especially to men.

But Cuddle might have an even wider application. I was aware of the exciting things the Japanese were doing with what are called home fragrances or area fragrances. Perfumers were releasing scents through the ventilation ducts of homes, offices, and factories. It was claimed that certain tailored fragrances reduced stress, calmed anxieties, and improved the morale of workers assigned to boring routine jobs.

In other words, mood and behavior modification via the sense of smell! it was fascinating to imagine what effect Cuddle might have on a large gathering in an enclosed area. It was possible that such a mollifying scent, released, through air conditioning vents, could be used to control prison riots.

And sprayed in the hall of a diplomatic conference it might result in quick and friendly agreements.

Our supply department had to order the aerosolized form of synthetic oxytocin from Europe, and while awaiting its arrival I busied myself experimenting with top and central notes for the new perfume. Top notes are usually of the citrus family. They give the scent a fresh, tangy odor when first sniffed, but rarely last long. Central notes are the body of the fragrance, giving it richness and "heart." They are customarily floral scents.

The base or bottom note in the final meld is the longest lasting and gives each perfume its unique personality.

I started blending a lemony extract as a top note with lavender for the central. The oxytocin, if its scent was acceptable or if it had an objectionable odor that could be neutralized or masked, would be the distinctive foundation of Cuddle., When the containers of the aerosolized synthetic hormone finally arrived, I carried them into the lab and organized my private worktable. There were two other "noses" in the lab at the time, but they were intent on their own projects and paid no attention to what I was doing.

I prepared several strips of blotting paper and set up a drying rack.

Then, donning thin latex gloves, I held a strip of paper with wooden tongs and dampened the lower half with oxytocin spray. I passed the strip quickly beneath my nostrils and sniffed. I smelled nothing.

Then I brought the strip closer and inhaled deeply. I caught an odor that was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. I tried again.

The faint scent puzzled me. There was nothing in my experience as a perfumer that was even remotely similar. It was not citrus, floral, resinous, oily, or of animal origin. It really had no relation to any scent that I could recall.

I clipped the dampened paper strip to the rack to dry. Then I slowly walked along the shelves of bottled fragrances and extracts, reading labels and hoping to find one that might jog my olfactory memory and provide a clue to which family of scents the hormone belonged. I found nothing that could be compared. The oxytocin seemed to have a unique fragrance.

I returned to my table and sniffed my test strip again.

This time the distinctive odor was more pronounced, as it naturally would be since the liquid carrier was evaporating. Now the drying scent was more Pleasing and triggered a vague association in my mind I could not define. I sniffed once again and was convinced the scent was stirring a sensory memory. But I couldn't pin it down.