He tossed off the balance of the drink, set the glass on the table and
made a sweeping gesture. "They're all alike," he said brutally. "Fickle
and treacherous. Deceivers. Always flinging their sex around."
"Not all women," she countered. "Take this Professor Madigan who
discovered that new adhesion force."
"A woman?"
"Of course. Professor Madigan is a scholarly young woman. Her sex
appeal might not win a beauty contest, but she discovered a perfectly
wonderful man-catcher."
"What?"
"A new force. Works like gravity--only it's different. Its strength
increases in ratio to the square of the distance."
"What are you talking about? Women don't understand things like that."
"No?"
"No! Need I spell it out for you? Your delivery should be in the
pneumatic by now. Why don't you pick it up and go home and make your
cake?"
"I shall. I had no idea I was living next door to a misogynist, and a
brutal one at that."
"I don't like women," Kerran said emphatically. "They're all alike.
Fickle. Deceivers. Everything about them artificial. Lips, color,
shape."
The girl rose and stood over him. "I'm not wearing make-up," she
asserted. "You flatter yourself in thinking I would put on my face to
come across the hall."
"Your shape! Your hips aren't that neat!"
The color rose in her cheeks. She lifted a hand as though to strike
him. The hand trembled. She lowered it to her side. "I do not wear a
girdle. Want to feel?"
"No," he said, his own color rising. "Go on home."
Ignoring the pneumatic, she crossed to the door, snatched it open,
marched into the corridor. Through the open doorway he heard the knob
turn on her door. He went to the pneumatic, picked up the sugar, strode
across the corridor and knocked. In a moment her head appeared, then
the door swung wide.
"You forgot something," he said contritely. "Sorry I was rude. I'm
a natural woman-hater, and a moment before you came in some wench
on television triggered my feelings on the subject.... Just keep on
your own side of the fence and I'll stay on mine. I'll even speak
to you occasionally, if you wish, but that's as far as I'll go in
neighborliness."
"Thanks," she said. "You're more than kind. But I shan't trouble you.
I've just become a man-hater."
Kerran turned to go. Halfway across the corridor he felt something tug
at him. It was a steady and increasingly powerful pull, forcing him
into the girl's apartment. He lost his balance, reeled through the
doorway, came to a halt against the table, noticed that the force still
drew him toward the girl on the far side of the table.
"Well?" she said.
"Er-uh, just dropped in. Going right back out."
He got halfway to the door before it again took effect. He leaned
against it, dug his feet into the carpet, pushed. He almost reached the
door. He could go no farther, knew he was going to be snatched back to
the table.
He turned, dug in his heels, braced himself, and then the girl came
flying over the table and directly into his arms. Instantly the force
released him and he fell with the girl on top.
The platinum hair was in his eyes, against his face, the scent of
perfume all about, the full weight of the soft warm flesh pressing him
down. Then she struggled up, stood erect.
Getting his feet under him, he said, "I want to apologize. Your shape
is natural. You don't wear a girdle. And now I'll be going."
He had scarcely turned before he felt it again. He swung back quickly,
saw that the girl was hanging on the sofa. He lost his balance, went
staggering toward her, flung out his arms, and the next thing he knew
she was pressing against him, standing on her toes, and her lips were
brushing his cheek, and they were moist and warm and soft.