Monica Delaney was a heavy-bodied woman, with a good waist between wide shoulders and broad hips. Her bosom was full, her legs tapered to slender ankles. There was a soft sensuality about her, a physical warmth. Her ardor was not totally mental.

Thick black hair, with a sheen, was combed back from a wide, unlined brow and fell almost to her shoulders. She made no effort to pluck her solid eyebrows, and her makeup was minimal. She was a big, definite woman, capable of tenderness and tears.

Watching his wife's animation as she talked to the Boones, Edward X. Delaney felt familiar stirrings and wished his guests gone. Monica turned her head suddenly to look at him. As usual, she caught his mood. She winked.

"Tell me, Chief," Rebecca said in her ingenuous way, "what do you really think of the women's movement?"

He kept his eyes resolutely averted from Monica, and addressed his remarks directly to Rebecca.

"What do I really think?" he repeated. "Well, I have no quarrel with most of the aims."

"I know," she said, sighing resignedly. "Equal pay for equal work."

"No, no," he said quickly. "Monica has taught me better than that. Equal pay for comparable work."

His wife nodded approvingly.

"And what do you object to?" Rebecca asked pertly.

He marshaled his thoughts.

"Not objections," he said slowly. "Two reservations. The first is no fault of the feminist movement. It's a characteristic of all minority or subjugated groups that desire to be treated as individuals, not stereotypes. No argument there. But to achieve that aim, they must organize. Then, to obtain political and economic power, they must project as-as monolithic a front as they can. The blacks, Chicanos, Indians, Italian-Americans, women-whatever. To wield maximum power, they must form a group, association, bloc, and speak with a single, strong voice. Again, no argument.

"But by doing that, they become-or at least this is their public image-less individuals and more stereotypes. They become capitalized Women, Blacks, and so forth. There is a contradiction there, a basic conflict. Frankly, I don't know how it can be resolved-if it can. If the answer is fragmentation, allowing the widest possible expressions of opinion within the bloc, then they sacrifice most of the social, political, and economic power which was the reason for their organizing in the first place."

"Do you think I'm a feminist stereotype?" Monica said hotly.

"No, I do not," he replied calmly. "But only because I know you, am married to you, live with you. But can you deny that since the current women's movement started-when was it, about fifteen years ago?-a stereotype of the feminist has been evolving?"

Monica Delaney slammed her palm down on the top of the cocktail table. Empty coffee cups rattled on their saucers.

"You're infuriating!" she said.

"That's true," he said equably.

"What's the second thing?" Rebecca Boone said hastily, thinking to avert a family squabble. "You said you had two objections to the feminist movement. What's the second?"

"Not objections," he reminded her. "Reservations. The second is this:

"Women in the feminist movement are working to achieve equality of opportunity, equal pay, and the same chances for advancement offered to men in business, government, industry, and so forth. Fine. But have you really thought through what you call 'equality' might entail?

"Look at poor Sergeant Boone there-dead to the world." The sergeant grinned feebly. "I'd guess he's been working eighteen hours a day for the past six weeks. Maybe grabbing a catnap now and then. Greasy food when he can find the time to eat. Under pressures you cannot imagine.

"Rebecca, have you seen him as often as you'd like in the last six weeks? Have you had a decent dinner with him? Gone out to a show? Or just a quiet evening at home? Have you even known where he's been, the dangers he's been facing? My guess would be that you have not.

"You think your husband enjoys living this way? But he's a professional cop, and he does the best he can. Would you like a comparable job with all its demands and stress and strain and risk? I don't believe it.

"What I'm trying to say is that I don't believe that feminists fully realize what they're asking for. You don't knock down a wall until you know what's behind it. There are dangers, drawbacks, and responsibilities you're not aware of."

"We're willing to accept those responsibilities," Rebecca Boone said stoutly.

"Are you?" the Chief said with gentle sarcasm. "Are you really? Are you willing to charge into a dark alley after some coked-up addict armed with a machete? Are you willing to serve in the armed forces in combat and go forward when you know your chances of survival are practically nil?

"On a more prosaic level, are you willing to work the hours that a fast-track business executive does? Willing to meet the demands of bosses and workers, make certain your schedules are met, stay within budget, turn a profit-and risk peptic ulcers, lung cancer, alcoholism, and keeling over from a coronary or cerebral hemorrhage at the age of forty?

"Look, I'm not saying all men's jobs are like that. A lot of men can handle the pressures of a top-level position and go home every night and water the petunias. They die in bed at a ripe old age. But just as many crack up, mentally or physically. The upper echelons of the establishment to which women aspire produce a frightening percentage of broken, impotent, or just burned-out men. Is that the equality you want?"

Rebecca Boone was usually a placid dumpling of a woman. But now she exhibited an uncharacteristic flash of anger.

"Let us be the judge of what makes us happy," she snapped. "That's what the movement is all about."

Just as surprising, Monica Delaney didn't react with scorn and fury to her husband's words.

"Edward," she said, "there's a lot of truth in what you said. It's not all true, but there's truth in it."

"So?" he said.

"So," she said, "we recognize that when women achieve their rightful position in the upper levels of the establishment, they will be subject to the same strains, stresses, and pressures that men endure. But does it have to be that way? We don't think so. We believe the system can be changed, or at least modified, so that success doesn't necessarily mean peptic ulcers, coronaries, and cerebral hemorrhages. The system, the highly competitive, dog-eat-dog system, isn't carved on tablets of stone brought down from a mountain. It was created by men. It can be changed by liberated men-and women."

He stared at her.

"And when do you figure this paradise is going to come about?"

"Not in our lifetime," she admitted. "It's a long way down the road. But the first step is to get women into positions of power where they can influence the future of our society."

"Bore from within?" he said.

"Sometimes you're nasty," she said, smiling. "But the idea is right. Yes. Influence the system by becoming an integral part of it. First comes equality. Then liberation. For both women and men."

Sergeant Abner Boone rose shakily to his feet.

"Listen," he said hoarsely, "this is really interesting, and I'd like to stay and hear some more. But I'm so beat, I'm afraid I'll disgrace myself by falling asleep. Rebecca, I think we better take off."

She went over, took his arm, looked at him anxiously.

"Sure, hon," she said, "we'll go. I'll drive."

Chief Delaney went for hats and coats. The women kissed. The men shook hands. Farewells were exchanged, promises to get together again as soon as possible. The Delaneys stood inside their open front door, watched as the Boones got into their car and drove off, waving.

Then the Chief closed the front door, double-locked and chained it. He turned to face his wife.

"Alone at last," he said.