How beautiful!

During the night, Sir Stephen vanishes from the Casino.

But not before telling Slothrop that his erections are of high interest to Fitzmaurice House.

Then in the morning Katje comes storming in madder than a wet hen, to tell Slothrop that Sir Stephen’s gone. Suddenly everybody is telling Slothrop things, and he’s barely awake. Rain rattles at the shutters and windows. Monday mornings, upset stomachs, good-bys… he blinks out at the misted sea, the horizon mantled in gray, palms gleaming in the rain, heavy and wet and very green. It may be that the champagne is still with him—for ten extraordinary seconds there’s nothing in his field but simple love for what he’s seeing.

Then, perversely aware of it, he turns away, back into the room. Time to play with Katje, now… .

Her face is as pale as her hair. A rain-witch. Her hat brim makes a chic creamy green halo around her face.

“Well, he’s gone then.” Keenness of this order might work to provoke her. “It’s too bad. Then again—maybe it’s good.”

“Never mind him. How much do you know, Slothrop?”

“What’s that mean, never mind him? What do you do, just throw people away?”

“Do you want to find out?”

He stands twisting his mustache. “Tell me about it.”

“You bastard. You’ve sabotaged the whole thing, with your clever little collegiate drinking game.”

“What whole thing, Katje?”

“What did he tell you?” She moves a step closer. Slothrop watches her hands, thinking of army judo instructors he’s seen. It occurs to him he’s naked and also, hmm, seems to be getting a hardon here, look out, Slothrop. And nobody here to note it, or speculate why… .

“Sure didn’t tell me you knew any of that judo. Must of taught you it in that Holland, huh? Sure—little things,” singing in descending childish thirds, “give you away, you know… .”

“Aahh—” exasperated she rushes in, aims a chop at his head which he’s able to dodge—goes diving in under her arm, lifts her in a fireman’s carry, throws her against the bed and comes after her. She kicks a sharp heel at his cock, which is what she should’ve done in the first place. Her timing, in fact, is drastically off all through this, else she would likely be handing Slothrop’s ass to him… it may be that she wants her foot to miss, only scraping Slothrop along the leg as he swerves now, grabs her by the hair and twists an arm behind her, pushing her, face-down, on the bed. Her skirt is up over her ass, her thighs squirming underneath him, his penis in terrific erection.

“Listen, cunt, don’t make me lose my temper with you, got no problems at all hitting women, I’m the Cagney of the French Riviera, so look out.”

“I’ll kill you—”

“What—and sabotage the whole thing?”

Katje turns her head and sinks her teeth in his forearm, up near the elbow where the Pentothal needles used to go in. “Ow, shit—” he lets go the arm he’s been twisting, pulls down underwear, takes her by one hip and penetrates her from behind, reaching under to pinch nipples, paw at her clitoris, rake his nails along inside her thighs, Mister Technique here, not that it matters, they’re both ready to come—Katje first, screaming into the pillow, Slothrop a second or two later. He lies on top of her, sweating, taking great breaths, watching her face turned ¾ away, not even a profile, but the terrible Face That Is No Face, gone too abstract, unreachable: the notch of eye socket, but never the labile eye, only the anonymous curve of cheek, convexity of mouth, a noseless mask of the Other Order of Being, of Katje’s being—the lifeless nonface that is the only face of hers he really knows, or will ever remember.