'I beg your pardon,' he said. 'Would you rather I used the Icelandic or Hebrew word for it? In either language, the word stands for the same vile human excretion: sweat!'

Mary put her hands to her ears, ran into the unmentionable, and slammed the door behind her.

He threw himself down on the thin mattress and put his arm over his eyes so the light would not get into them. In five minutes, he heard the door open (it was beginning to need oiling but would not get it until their budget and that of the Olaf Marconis could afford to buy the lubricant). And if his M.R. went down, the Marconis might petition to move into another apartment. If they could find one, then another, even more objectionable couple (probably one that had just been elevated from a lower professional class) would move in with them.

Oh, Sigmen! he thought. Why can't I be content with things as they are? Why can't I accept reality fully? Why must I have so much of the Backrunner in me? Tell me, tell me!

It was Mary's voice he heard as she settled into bei beside him. 'Hal, surely you aren't going to stick to this unshib?'

'What unshib?' he said, though he knew what she meant.

'Sleeping in your dayclothes.'

'Why not?'

'Hall' she said. 'You know very well why not!'

'No, I don't,' he replied. He removed his arm from his eyes and stared into total blackness. She had, as prescribed, turned off the light before getting into bed.

Her body, if unclothed, would gleam white in the light of lamp or moon, he thought. Yet, I have never seen her body, never seen her even half-undressed. Never seen any woman's body except for that picture that man in Berlin showed me. And I, after one half-hungry, half-horrified look, ran as swiftly as I could. I wonder if tha Uzzites found him soon after and did to him whatever they do to men who pervert reality so hideously.