I never told her word one, but she kept pestering me. So one night I took her out to a French place, and over the brandy and espresso I put it to her straight.

"Laura," I said, "I like you, and we've had a lot of laughs together.

But if you keep digging into my private business I'm going to dump you.

I'm sorry, but that's the way it is. I've worked hard to build up my career, and I'm not telling you or anyone else how I manage it.

Okay?"

She took out one of those long, thin cigars she smoked, and I held a light for her. I noticed her hands were shaking.

"Willie," she said, "you've always treated me square, and I don't want you to dump me. It's true I've been trying to nose into your business, and now I'm going to tell you why."

And she told me that Big Bobby Gurk had put her on the pad to find out who my contact was at Mcwhortle Laboratory. She didn't know what the deal was between me and Gurk, all she knew was that he wanted to cut me out.

"Uh-huh," I said. "I figured it might be something like that. I admire your coming clean with me. I owe you a big one."

"Jesus, Willie," she said, "you won't tell Gurk, will you?

He's got some muscle in his organization, and they'll feed me to the sharks if he finds out I snitched."

"Of course I won't tell him, Laura. What kind of a rat do you think I am? You just keep stalling him until I figure out how to handle this. it's got to be something cute because Gurk can be a mean bastard when he's crossed."

I gave it some heavy thought for the next few days, but I couldn't finagle a way to dump Gurk. If I expected to score by betting on fighters and football teams that had been doped with ZAP, I needed Bobby because he knew bookies all over, the country and could cobble up a giant swindle.

Then I got a call from Jessica Fiddler, and I went over to her pad in the early evening. She told me she had balled Mcwhortle that afternoon.

"The old man came on like a young stud," she said. "And when I asked him how come he had so much juice, he told me he just watched a TV tape of some mice who had been injected with that testosterone stuff.

According to Mcwhortle's story, the injected male mouse had kept porking female mice until he fell over in a dead faint.

Then, after he rested awhile, he started all over again.

"That's interesting," I said. "You mean the ZAP injection gave the mouse a rat-sized hard-on?"

"That's what Mcwhortle said. He also told me the chemist working on it is trying to cut down on the Spanish fly effect because they want the pill to produce killers, not rapists."

"It must be powerful stuff. Did he say when it would be ready in pill form?"

"No, but he said it might be tested on human volunteers in a couple of months."

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

"No," she said, "he didn't."

"Try to find out, will you, less. It's very important."

"How much important?" she asked.

This doll was developing a galloping case of the gimmes, but there was nothing I could do about it. She was a key player, and I needed to keep her happy.

"An extra grand for the chemist's name," I told her.

"Come on, Willie," she said. "You can do better than that."

"Get the chemist's name first," I said, "and then we'll talk business.

Okay?"

She nodded, and we left it at that.

I drove back to Laura's place to dress for a big affair at my private club. it was called Waltz Night in Old Vienna, and I had bought a lovely bouffant ballgown in peach-colored taffeta.

Laura had promised to set my strawberry blond wig in a Veronica Lake style.

I was excited about Waltz Night, of course, but I was even more excited by what Jessica Fiddler had told me. If the ZAP pill produced a sexual rush, there was more money to be made from that than from feeding it to some palooka heavyweight or secondrate football team.

What I had in mind was getting hold of a sample pill, having it copied, and bootlegging it all over the country as the first space-age aphrodisiac. You know how much men would pay to get it up whenever they wanted and keep it up as long as they liked?

Millions!

The best thing was that I didn't need Big Bobby Gurk to pull off that caper, I could do it myself. Why, I could even peddle the stuff mail order as a vitamin or diet supplement before the Feds shut me down or thieves moved in, swiped the formula, and began hawking cut-rate imitations. I figured to make a mint before either of those things happened.

"Hey, Willie," Laura said, as she helped me with my mascara, "you're really high tonight. Good news?"

It's The Luck," I said. "It hasn't deserted me yet." must confess I was horrified by my reaction to direct inhalation of oxytocin in its aerosolized form. When I plugged that soaked inhaler into my nostrils, I had no idea what the results might be.

But all ethical researchers must test new products on themselves before recruiting other human volunteers.

My behavior after inhaling the hormone was extremely embarrassing. The odd thing was that I was fully aware of my ridiculous conduct at the time but unable to control it. I knew I was being overly affectionate toward Greg Barrow, my daughter, and my husband, but I could not resist the urge to exhibit my love.

Fortunately my excessive elation proved to be temporary. It ended when I suddenly became so sleepy I feared I might collapse if I didn't get to bed immediately. When I awoke the next day, I could discern no aftereffects other than a slight dryness of the nasal passages.

It was obvious to me that aerosolized oxytocin was much too powerful to be used in a perfume in an unadulterated form. But its ability to modify mood and behavior convinced me that in the proper strength it would be a unique and valuable base for the new fragrance I was creating. it could truly make Cuddle the warm, intimate, caring scent it was intended to be.

And so I set to work on the long trial-and-error process of combining a diluted measure of the hormone with more conventional essences. I recall that during this period of experimentation I didn't doubt for a minute that I would achieve my goal of producing a perfect Cuddle. I never stopped to consider the consequences, and that eventually proved to be a nearly fatal error.

But meanwhile I was faced with a worsening crisis at home.

My husband's drinking and philandering had become so outrageous that I was driven to an open and possibly final confrontation.

It began with the cliched cause of so many marital discords, Herman forgot our wedding anniversary, the tenth. I had prepared a fine dinner, a roast beef, twicebaked potatoes, and haricots verts with almonds, to be served with a very expensive bordeaux bottled the year we were married. Herman didn't come home for the anniversary dinner, of course, and poor Tania and I were forced to make the best of it and pretend it was a special party.

Herm finally arrived around ten-thirty, after Tania had gone to bed-thank God! He wasn't completely inebriated, but it was obvious he had been drinking heavily. I was seated in the kitchen when he came in.

He headed directly for the refrigerator-for a cold, beer, I presumed-but then noticed the unopened hottle of wine on the countertop.

"Hey," he said, picking it up to examine the label, "what the hell is this? Expensive stuff."

"Note the vintage?" I asked.

"Sure. It's ten years old. So?"

I looked at him, and his face froze in a goofy grin. "Oh, shit," he said. "The year we got married. Is today our anniversary, lion?"

I didn't answer.

"Well, what the hell," he said. "I'll make it up to you.

Maybe we'll go out tomorrow night for a nice dinner."

"I prepared a nice dinner," I told him. "A roast beef. But you didn't come home."