. . . the whole scene shimmering in the hard, almost tangible noonday glare.

That cry again. Gazing upwards, Rick saw that it had come from a girl who was standing on the terrace. It was Nina Pleschkov. Even across the quarter mile or so that separated them Rick could see that she was beautiful. She was slim, with high, pointed breasts. Her tawny hair fell about her sunburnt shoulders. Her lips seemed somehow very red in that glaring white light, and the eyes that moved almost humorously beneath the delicate, dark eyebrows were green. She had a delicately carved chin, with a nose that promised its owner had a mind of her own, and high, pointed cheeks. The boyishness of her slim thighs was set off by the very feminine promise of the shirt casually but deeply open at her neck.

Her ears were small, but firm. Her elbows, coming at the mid-point of her arms, looked almost like a young boy’s . . .

Again Rowe stopped. Navel, knees, calves, toes, thumbs, shoulder-blades – still all undescribed! Not to mention her clothes. Not a word yet of her height, or of any identifying marks! Was he interested in her as a woman or not? If he didn’t get it all down, wouldn’t every reader in the land immediately leap to the conclusion that she had knobbly knees, or three thumbs, or a deformed navel? Never mind. Get on for now to the next bit of action – and that, allowing for the material still to be put in, would bring him right through to the last few lines of the first chapter.

He fetched himself a cup of tea, and then wrote them:

Again the cry rang out from the terrace. In that clear, still air, every syllable was plainly audible where Rick stood. Indeed, they had been perfectly audible the first time, but one could not react too quickly when there was so much to be explained, so much described.

‘Lunch-time!’ cried Nina.

And still the hard, almost tangible noonday glare beat down.

23

‘Yes,’ said Rowe, but on reflection that sounded a shade facile, and he rephrased it. ‘Y-e-e-e-e-s,’ he said.

‘I mean,’ said Macintosh, ‘there are plenty of other people in the Institute who’ve got their eye on the new wing. Oh, yes. I’m told there’s a group – no names, no pack drill – who want to hold some sort of huge sexual orgy in there.’

‘Yes, so I hear.’

‘They’ll never get away with it, of course. I’m told Nunn’s furious about it. It makes you think, though. I mean, the things I could use that wing for if only I had the time! If only I could get away from my damned Samaritans for a week or two! Did I ever tell you about my idea for programming a computer to write pornographic novels? Well, I sometimes wonder if you couldn’t programme machines to perform a great deal of human sexual behaviour. It would save a lot of labour.’