So she danced, and we looked at each other, and something that had started building at the PAUL meeting clicked neatly and finally into place, and we both knew that the evening was going to end properly. Because the special magic was there. It is not often present, and without it there is really no reason on earth why a man and woman should bother having anything to do with one another. But when it is there, it is a very welcome thing indeed. It was there now, for both of us, and we both knew it and we both seemed happy.

“This step shows that the villagers are rejoicing that the great father has sent down rain.”

“The record jacket says it’s a war chant.”

“You may believe what you wish, Bwana.”

“You’re a fraud, Tuppence.”

The record went on, and Tuppence went on dancing, and I moved around the room turning off lights until only the shallow glow of one small lamp illuminated the room. My couch is one of those clever contrivances that turns into a bed when the occasion demands it. The occasion demanded it, so I pulled the proper levers and effected the desired metamorphosis. Then Miss T’pani Ngawa changed the leitmotif of the dance slightly, incorporating within the structure of basic African tribal rhythms certain dance patterns generally associated in times past with Union City, New Jersey.

Which is to say that she took off all her clothes.

“Bwana approve?”

“Bwana approve.”

“Ah! What Bwana doing?”

“Bwana going to integrate you,” I said.

“Oh, wow-”

Her skin was black velvet. I stroked her and she purred. “We are about to miscegenate,” I explained.

“Oh, groovy,” she said “Oh, like, wow. Bwana sure do know how to miscegenate. Oooo-”