"Damn the Donation," Tropile said calmly. "After all, what is it but
sticking a pipe into a man's backbone and sucking out the juice that
keeps him alive? It's killing, that's all."
The Keeper turned literally white. Tropile was speaking blasphemy and
he wasn't stopping.
"I want to tell you about my wife," Tropile went on, assuming a
confidential air. "Now there's a real _woman_. Not one of these
frozen-up Citizenesses, you know? Why, she and I used to--" He
hesitated. "You're a man of the world, aren't you?" he demanded. "I
mean you've seen life."
"I--suppose so," the Keeper said faintly.
"Then you won't be shocked," Tropile lied. "Well, let me tell you,
there's a lot to women that these stuffed-shirt Citizens don't know
about. Boy! Ever see a woman's knee?" He sniggered. "Ever kiss a woman
with--" he winked--"with the _light on_? Ever sit in a big armchair,
say, with a woman in your _lap_--all soft and heavy, and kind of warm,
and slumped up against your chest, you know, and--"
He stopped and swallowed. He was almost making himself retch, it was so
hard to say these things. But he forced himself to go on: "Well, that's
what she and I used to do. Plenty. All the time. That's what I call a
real _woman_."
He stopped, warned by the Keeper's sudden change of expression, glazed
eyes, strangling breath. He had gone too far. He had only wanted to
paralyze the man, revolt him, put him out of commission, but he was
overdoing it. He jumped forward and caught the Keeper as he fell,
fainting.
* * * * *
Tropile callously emptied the water pitcher over the man. The Keeper
sneezed and sat up groggily. He focused his eyes on Tropile and
agonizedly blushed.