I rose to my feet. "Excuse me," I said, "but business-"

"Damn your business!" he said in heat, this confused and irritable man. "Your business isn't worth two cents compared with what I'm talking about!"

"Of course not, of course not," I said soothingly.

"I should hope so!"

Numb, numb. With boredom. Invisible. Chained.

"That's the trouble with you women, you can't see anything in the abstract!"

He wants me to cringe. I really think so. Not the content of what I say but the endless, endless feeding of his vanity, the shaky structure of self. Even the intelligent ones.

"Don't you appreciate what I'm trying to do for you?"

Kiss-me-I'm-a-goodguy.

"Don't you have any idea how important this is?"

Sliding down the slippery gulf into invisibility.

"This could make history!"

Even me, with all my training!

"Of course, we have a tradition to uphold."

It'll be slow.

"-we'll have to go slowly. One thing at a time."

If it's practical.

"We'll have to find out what's practicable. This may be-uh-visionary. It may be in advance of its time."

Can't legislate morality.

"We can't force people against their inclinations and we have generations of conditioning to overcome. Perhaps in a decade-"

Perhaps never.

"-perhaps never. But men of good will-"

Did he hear that?

"-and women, too, of course, you understand that the word 'men' includes the word 'women'; it's only usage-"

Everyone must have his own abortion.

"-and not really important. You might even say" (he giggles) " 'everyone and his husband' or 'everyone will be entitled to his own abortion' " (he roars) "but I want you to go back to your people and tell them-"

It's unofficial.

"-that we're prepared to negotiate. But it can't be official. You must understand that I face considerable opposition. And most women-not, you, of course; you're different-well, most women aren't used to thinking a thing through like this. They can't do it systematically. Say, you don't mind my saying that about 'most women,' do you?"

I smile, drained of personality.

"That's right," (he said) "don't take it personally. Don't get feminine on me," and he winked broadly to show he bore me no ill-will. This is the time for me to steal away, leaving behind half my life's blood and promises, promises, promises; but you know what? I just can't do it. It's happened too often. I have no reserves left. I sat down, smiling brilliantly in sheer anticipation, and the dear man hitched his chair nearer. He looks uneasy and avid. "We're friends?" he says.

"Sure," I say, hardly able to speak.

"Good!" he said. "Tell me, do you like my place?"

"Oh yes," I say.

"Ever see anything like it before?"

"Oh no!" (I live in a chicken-barn and eat shit.)

He laughed delightedly. "The paintings are pretty good. We're having a kind of Renaissance lately. How's art among the ladies, huh?"

"So-so," I said, making a face. The room is beginning to sway with the adrenalin I can pump into my bloodstream when I choose; this is called voluntary hysterical strength and it is very, very useful, yes indeed. First the friendly chat, then the uncontrollably curious grab, and then the hatred comes out. Be prepared.

"I suppose," he said, "you must've been different from the start-from a little girl, eh?-doing a job like this. You've got to admit we have one thing up on you-we don't try to force everybody into the same role. Oh no. We don't keep a man out of the kitchen if that's what he really wants."

"Oh sure," I said. (Those chemical-surgical castrati)

"Now you do," he said. "You're more reactionary than we are. You won't let women lead the domestic life. You want to make everyone alike. That's not what I visualize."

He goes into a long happy rap about motherhood, the joys of the uterus. The emotional nature of Woman. The room is beginning to sway. One gets very reckless in hysterical strength; the first few weeks I trained, I broke several of my own bones but I know how to do it now. I really do. My muscles are not for harming anyone else; they are to keep me from harming myself. That terrible concentration, That feverish brightness. Boss-Idiot has not talked to anyone else about his grand idea; he's still in First Cliche' stage and any group discussion, however moronic, would have weeded out the worst of them. His dear Natalie. His gifted wife. Take me, now; he loves me. Yes he does. Not physically, of course. Oh no. Life seeks its mate. Its complement. Romantic rubbish. Its other self. Its joy. He won't talk business tonight. Will he ask me to stay over?

"Oh, I couldn't," says the other Jael. He doesn't hear it; there's a gadget in Boss's ear that screens out female voices. He's moved closer, bringing his chair with him-some silly flub-dub about not being able to talk the length of the room. Spiritual intimacy. Smiling foolishly he says: "So you like me a little, huh?"

How terrible, betrayal by lust. No, ignorance. No-pride.

"Hell, go away," I say.

"Sure you do!" He expects me to act like his Natalie, he bought her, he owns her. What do women do in the daytime? What do they do when they're alone?

Adrenalin is a demanding high; it untunes all your finer controls.

"Get away," I whisper. He doesn't hear it. These men play games, play with vanity, hiss, threaten, erect their neck-spines. It sometimes takes ten minutes to get a fight going. I, who am not a reptile but only an assassin, only a murderess, never give warning. They worry about playing fair, about keeping the rules, about giving a good account of themselves. I don't play. I have no pride.

I don't hesitate. At home I am harmless, but not here.

"Kiss me, you dear little bitch," he says in an excited voice, mastery and disgust warring with each other in his eyes. Boss has never seen a real cunt, I mean as nature made them. He'll use words he hasn't dared to use since he was eighteen and took his first half-changed in the street, mastery and disgust mingling. That slavish apprenticeship at the recreation centers. How can you love anyone who is a castrated You? Real homosexuality would blow Manland to pieces.

"Take your filthy hands off me," I say clearly, enjoying his enjoyment of my enjoyment of his enjoyment of that cliche'. Has he forgotten the three lepers?

"Send them away," he mutters in agony, "send them away! Natalie can do them," forgetting gender in his haste. Or perhaps he really thinks they are my lovers.

Women will do what men find too disgusting, too difficult, too demeaning.

"Look," I say, grinning uncontrollably, "I want to be perfectly clear. I don't want your revolting lovemaking. I'm here to do business and relay any reasonable message to my superiors. I'm not here to play games. Cut it out."

But when do they ever listen!

"You're a woman," he cries, shutting his eyes, "you're a beautiful woman. You've got a hole down there. You're a beautiful woman. You've got real, round tits and you've got a beautiful ass. You want me. It doesn't matter what you say. You're a woman, aren't you? This is the crown of your life. This is what God made you for. I'm going to fuck you. I'm going to screw you until you can't stand up. You want it. You want to be mastered. Natalie wants to be mastered. All you women, you're all women, you're sirens, you're beautiful, you're waiting for me, waiting for a man, waiting for me to stick it in, waiting for me, me, me."

Et patati et patata; the mode is a wee bit over-familiar. I told him to open his eyes, that I didn't want to kill him with his eyes shut, for God's sake.

He didn't hear me.

"OPEN YOUR EYES!" I roared, "BEFORE I KILL YOU!" and Boss-man did.

He said, You led me on.

He said, You are a prude. (He was shocked.)

He said, You deceived me.