Men, I had thought, must enjoy putting a woman thus through her paces. Some of the shots were almost naughty. I think, too, given the absence of a brassiere and panties, and the skimpiness and tightness of the shorts, and the tightness of the blouse, doubtlessly calculated features of my apparel, there would be little doubt in the minds of the observers as to the lineaments of my figure. I did not object, however. In fact I rather enjoyed this. I think I am rather pretty.

I was now standing in the sand, my left side facing the men, my chin lifted. The lights were hot. To my left were the lights, the tangles of cord, the men. To my right, in contrast, there seemed the lovely, deserted beach.

"She is pretty," said one of the men.

"She is pretty enough to be a Kajira," said one of the men.

"She will be," laughed another.

I did not understand what they were talking about.

"Do not see such a woman merely in terms of such predictable and luscious commonalities," said the first man.

"You see clearly her potential for us, do you not?"

"Of course," said the second man.

I did not understand them.

"Turn on the fan," said the first man.

I then felt a cool breeze, blown by the large fan in front of me. In the heat of the lights this was welcome.

"This coin, or medal, or whatever it is, is very puzzling," had said the gentle, bespectacled man, holding it by the edges with white, cotton gloves, and then placing it down on the soft felt between us. He was an authenticator, to whom I had been referred by a professional numismatist. His task was not to appraise coins but to render an informed opinion on such matters as their type and origin, where this might be obscure, their grading, in cases where a collaborative opinion might be desired, and their genuineness.