It was one of those perfect days which so rarely come to England. The first day of June. The sun was golden, the Channel deepest sapphire, the air drowsy with bee hum and bird song. The Dorset littoral was a rolling quilt of mustard and dun over which cuckoos wheeled and emitted their plaintive cries, searching for foster nests.

Richard Blade, sunning himself in the skimpiest of breech cloths, lay on his hard flat belly and squinted over the corundum waves that came lazily in, wearing flecks of lace at their throats. Far out, under a canopy of brown smoke, a coaster was making for the Thames and London. Blade, who had read poetry at Oxford and promptly forgotten most of it, found some of Masefield's popping unbidden into his mind.

… dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack … with a cargo of ivory, and apes and peacocks, sandalwood and cedarwood acrd sweet white wine…

No matter that the poet had not written it so-Blade's version better fitted the day. He turned over and closed his.eyes, peering into the red lagoon at the dark shadow play. He drowsed, relaxing, watching the sciomachy behind his eyelids, the amorphous and fluid Rorschach blots that melded and intersticed and-and blotted out the sun? His face was in full shadow now although there were no clouds in the sky. A trickle of sand, hourglass slow, bounced off hig muscled belly like a miniature avalanche.

He had not heard her approach.

Blade's first impression, when he opened his eyes and stared up into hers, was of green glacial ice. Not so much a coldness as a reserve, narrowed at him in a mix of curiosity and indifference. From a small brown fist she continued to pour sand on his stomach. Blade said nothing.

«They told me in the village that this cove is usually deserted at this time. I came here because I wanted to be alone. Now I find a huge creature like you taking up practically all of it.»

Her supply of sand ran out and she dusted her hands. Blade, whose training made such observation automatic, noted that her hands were ordinarily well kept but now had crescents of dirt beneath the nails. She was wearing a simple looking mini-dress which he guessed was expensive. Her feet were bare, as were the long slim legs vanishing into brief black pants. He gave her a faint smile.

«Well-intentioned of the locals,» he said. «And ordinarily they would be right. I don't usually come here at this time. Today-well, today is a little special.»

J had called that morning. Lord Leighton had the master computer ready. The next day, Blade was due to go through the machine for the seventh time. To explore another Dimension X.

For a moment she pouted, and the pursed small mouth spoiled her face. Then she smiled and was beautiful again. The ice-green eyes watched him with a glint of private amusement.

«You're looking up my dress,» she said.

Blade nodded. «So I am. Considering our relative positions it would be hard not to. Of course you don't have to stand like that. I have an idea that you are what is commonly known as a lady. Ladies are supposed to be fairly modest, are they not?»

She tilted her head to one side and stared down at him. She had a Grecian beauty, narrow-faced, full-mouthed, straight high-bridged nose. Her arms were slim and well formed, rather muscular, and Blade doubted that she was wearing a bra. Their glances locked and held for a long moment. She was the first to laugh, displaying small even teeth that were white but did not dazzle.

«I'm not, very,» she said.

«Not what? Modest?»

«Uh huh. I have never been. Mother was always at me about it, but it never took. Anyway it doesn't really matter, does it? I do have pants on.»

Blade nodded. He had the impression, gone immediately, that he had seen this girl before. Or someone very like her. He yawned and clasped his big hands beneath his head. The girl put her toe in his armpit and tickled the black hair.

«You don't shave under your arms.»

Blade closed his eyes. He shook his head. «No.»

She continued to tickle his armpit with her toe. «Do you think it is unmanly or something?»

«No.»

Blade was silent. He kept his eyes closed. He could smell her body, a compound of clean woman flesh and light sweat. She took her toe away and for a moment there was silence.

She said, «You aren't going to go away and let me have this little beach, are you?»

«No.»

«You aren't exactly a gentleman, are you?»

He did not open his eyes, but had to grin. «Sometimes I am. In some matters. Depends on the place and time and the people, and my mood. In this case you are the interloper, not me.»

«Interloper? I like that! Anyway this is not a private beach. Anyone can use it. They told me so in the village.»

Blade smiled. «You have stumbled on the one village in England in which all the inhabitants are idiots. This is a private beach, but they will never admit it. Makes sense, I suppose, from their viewpoint. They are all descended from smugglers. Some of them are still at it, without doubt. I've had the cottage for five years now and they still think I'm with Her Majesty's revenue. A spy. But I do own the beach rights.»

«I came down here because I fancied a swim.» She sounded pouty again. She went on, «Do open your eyes. I can't abide people who don't look at me when they talk.»

Blade opened his eyes. He propped himself up on an elbow. The affair had to be straightened out. Obviously she was not going to go away. He was not quite sure, looking at her again, that he wanted her to. Tomorrow he'd go through the computer. Today was, well, today. And his life of late had been monastic.

She stood very near him, hands on her hips, wide-legged, black pants still plainly in view. He stared pointedly until she twisted about and fell to her knees beside him, trying to pull the mini-skirt down with no success at all. Her inner thighs were tender brown velvet, rubbed and polished.

The green eyes considered him and seemed not so glacial now. «You do look at a person, don't you. But somehow I get the impression that you are a gentleman. Even if you are so huge.»

Blade chuckled. «I've never heard that size kept a man from being a gentleman.»

«No-o. I suppose not. But there is such a lot of youl And muscles. Are you an acrobat or an athlete or something?»

Blade, who had taken blues (similar to American letters) in every major sport at Oxford, nodded. «I was an athlete. In my long lost youth. Never an acrobat. And never a something, whatever that is.»

«All right.» She nodded vigorously, her brown hair rippling about her slim shoulders. «I will take it that you are a gentleman. And I wish to swim. I have no suit. So you will let me have the beach, please? I promise I won't be long. No more than half an hour.»

Something in her eyes-some hint of tease, or promise? — caused Blade to answer as he did. It was, — he divined, the answer she wanted to hear.

«Swim all you like,» he said. «With my permission. But I intend to remain here. This is my beach, remember.» He grinned. «I have no intention of being evicted by an interloper.»

She feigned indignation well. «But I have no suit! I told you that. I, well, I can hardly-«

There was no mistaking the tease in her green eyes. She leaned toward him, chin in hand. «You really don't know who I am, do you?»

Blade was about to admit his thought of a few minutes earlier, that she was vaguely familiar, but checked the impulse. It just might, somehow spoil the game that was slowly, but gaining points every moment, developing between them. Blade was, suddenly very much interested in the game. He was not a man to be unappreciative of what the gods send.