Their knees touched under the table. He withdrew his as if the contact had burned. With a mind of its own, seemingly, Sage's foot searched for his. When they touched, he withdrew again. She finally managed to pin his ankle against the table leg.

Now they didn't seem to be able to look at each other.

There was a steady stream of food. Very small portions.

"I told him to bring us one of everything," he said. "If you don't like something, give it to me." "What does that OC mean on your collar?" "They call it the oxes," he said. "I suppose it stands for officer candidate."

"You're going to be an officer?"

He nodded, wondering if that would surprise her, and then hoping it might impress her a little. "When?"

"End of the month," he said. "Then what?"

"What do you mean, 'then what'?" "Where will you be stationed?" "I don't know," he said.

"I remember. It's all the Corps, and therefore it doesn't make any difference, right?" "Something like that."

We are both pretending, Sage thought. He is pretending that I am not playing anklesy with him, and I am pretending that I am not doing it.

"I can't eat another bite," she said, after a while. "I don't even know what I've eaten," McCoy said. "To hell with turkey anyway," Sage said. "This is what I'm going to do from now on on Thanksgiving."

For some reason, when they got to the street, Sage felt a little dizzy.

"This time a cab," she said.

"Where are we going?"

"West Third Street," she said.

"What's there?"

"Another Chinese restaurant I heard about, what else?"

She motioned him into her apartment and then closed the door and locked it.

He roamed the apartment, and when he came back, she was still leaning on the door.

"I like your apartment," he said.

"I'm glad," she said. "My father calls it my hovel."

"I was afraid you were going to turn out rich, like Pick."

"Would that have bothered you?"

"Yes," he said, simply.

They looked at each other, their eyes locking for a long moment.

"I don't know what the hell I'm doing," McCoy said. "All I know is that I don't want to fuck this up."

He's so upset that he didn't hear himself. Otherwise I'd have got an apology for the "fuck," and he would have blushed like a tomato.

"Neither do I," Sage said. "I don't expect you to believe this under the circumstances, but neither do I."

"I think maybe I had better go."

She pushed herself off the door and walked so close to him that she could smell the wet wool odor of his overcoat.

"There's a time and a place for everything," she said. "And this is the time and place where I think you should kiss me. If that goes the way I think it will, then I think you should pick me up and carry me into the bedroom."

"Pick you up?" he asked, incredulously.

"I could crawl, I suppose," she said.

He laughed, and scooped her up, and carried her into the bedroom. He lowered her onto the bed and then stood up.

He still hasn't kissed me. All we've done is play anklesy. And the way he's standing there with that dumb look on his face, nothing is going to happen.

Very deliberately, she reached for the hem of her sweater and pulled it over her head. He stared at her in marvel. She reached behind her back and unhooked her brassiere, so that he could look at her, naked to the waist.

"Now you," she said, very softly.

She looked at him then as he ripped the uniform off.

He's good at that. Very fast. He's probably had a lot of experience taking his clothes off in a hurry in situations like this.

And then he was naked.

"You're the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," he said.

"So are you," Sage said.

As McCoy came to the bed and put his arms around her and with a great deal more tenderness than she expected held her tight against him, Sage thought, I wonder if it's going to hurt as much as they say it hurts, and if there will be a lot of blood, and if that will embarrass him.

(Four)

Pick was sitting in his underwear having breakfast in the sitting room of Penthouse C when McCoy returned. "Been out spreading pollen, have you?" Pick said. McCoy didn't reply.

"I wondered what the hell had happened to you," Pickering said. "I took a chance and ordered breakfast for both of us."

"I'm not hungry," McCoy said.

But he sat down for a cup of coffee and wound up eating a breakfast steak and a couple of eggs and the half dozen remaining rolls.

"I thought you might take just a little bite," Pickering said, "for restorative purposes." "Fuck you," McCoy said.

"Then you didn't get any," Pickering said. "With your well-known incredible good luck, you fell into the clutches of one of our famous cockteasers."

"I got a goddamned cherry," McCoy said. "I didn't know there were any left," Pickering said without thinking, before realizing that McCoy wasn't boasting; that quite to the contrary, he was ashamed. "Who was she?" he asked.

"There were two poor people in here yesterday," McCoy said. "I found the other one."

"What has being poor got to do with getting laid?" Pickering asked. "Just looking around, I get the idea that poor people spend a lot of time screwing."

"She's a nice girl, Pick," McCoy said. "And I copped her cherry."

"Death," Pickering said, mocking the sonorous tones of the announcer in the March of Time newsreels, "and losing cherries comes inexorably in due time to all men. And virgins." "Screw you," McCoy said, but he was smiling. "Which one was it?" Pickering asked. McCoy didn't want to tell Pickering her name. "We're going to have lunch," he said. "I will, of course, vacate the premises," Pickering said. "Nothing like that, goddamn it," McCoy said. "She has to work this morning. She said she would meet me for a sandwich. Someplace called the Grand Central Oyster Bar. You know where it is?"

"Oddly enough, I do. The Grand Central Oyster Bar, despite the misleading name, is in Grand Central Station." He stopped himself from saying what popped into his mind, that McCoy's deflowered virgin had apparently heard of the aphrodisiacal virtues of oysters. "It's right around the comer from Brooks Brothers."

"She said twelve-thirty," McCoy asked. "Is that going to give us enough time?"

"Sure," Pickering said.

Platoon Leader Candidates Pickering and McCoy were not the first about-to-be commissioned Marine officers the salesman at Brooks Brothers had seen. More than that, he was pleased to see them. Not only was it a sale of several Hundred dollars (more if the customer wanted his uniforms custom made rather than off the rack), it was a quick sale. None of the salesman's time had to be spent smiling approval as the customer tried on one item after another. There were no choices to be made. The style was set.

"Uniforms, gentlemen?" the salesman said.

"Sure," one of the Marines said. "I thought it would be a good idea if you remeasured me. I have just gone through a rather interesting physical training course, and I think I ain't what I used to be."

"Oh, you have an account with us, sir?"

"Yes," Pickering said. "But I'm glad you brought that up. This is Mr. McCoy. He's just come from the Orient, and he doesn't have an account. I don't think he's even had time to open a bank account, have you, Ken?"

"I've got a bank account," McCoy said.

"In any event, you'll have to open an account for him," Pickering said.

"I'm sure that won't be a problem, sir," the salesman said. "I didn't catch the name?"

"Pickering, Malcolm Pickering."

"One moment, sir, and I'll get your measurements," the salesman said.

Pickering's measurements were filed together with his account. There were coded notations that payment was slow, but was always eventually made in full.

Brooks Brothers preferred to be paid promptly, but they were just as happy to have very large accounts (the last order from young Mr. Pickering had been for two dinner jackets, three lounge suits, one morning coat, a dozen shirts, a dozen sets of underwear, a dozen dress shirts and two pairs of patent leather evening slippers) paid whenever it was convenient for the affluent.