"What's the matter, darling?" It was Beth's voice, behind me. "You look positively grim. Aren't you having a good time?"

I turned to look at her, and she looked pretty enough to take your breath away. She was what you might describe as a tallish, willowy girl-well, after bearing three children I guess she was entitled to be called a woman, but she looked like a girl. She had light hair and clear blue eyes and a way of smiling at you-at me, anyway-that could make you feel seven feet tall instead of only six feet four. She was wearing the blue silk dress with the little bow on the behind that we'd bought for her in New York on our last trip East. That had been a year ago, but it still made a good-looking outfit, even if she was starting to refer to it as that obsolete old rag-a gambit any husband will recognize.

Even after all this time in the land of blue jeans and squaw dresses, of bare brown legs and thong sandals, my wife still clung to certain Eastern standards of dress, which was all right with me. I like the impractical, fragile, feminine look of a woman in a skirt and stockings and high heels; and I can see no particular reason for a female to appear publicly in pants unless she's going to ride a horse. I'll even go so far as to say that the side-saddle and riding skirt made an attractive combination, and I regret that they passed before my time.

Please don't think this means I'm prudish and consider it sinful for women to reveal themselves in trousers. Quite the contrary. I object on the grounds that it makes my life very dull. We all respond to different stimuli, and the fact is that I don't respond at all to pants, no matter who they may contain or how tight they may be. If Beth had turned out to be a slacks-and pajamas girl we might never have got around to populating a four-bedroom house.

"What's the matter, Matt?" she asked again.

I looked in the direction Tina and her gorilla had taken, and I rubbed my fingers and grimaced wryly. "Oh, those strong-arm guys just get my goat. The louse almost broke my hand. I don't know what he was trying to prove."

"The girl is rather striking. Who is she?"

"A kid named Herrera," I said easily. "She's writing the Great American Novel, or something, and would like a few pointers."

"No," Beth said, "the older one, the slinky one with the black gloves. You looked quite continental, shaking hands with her; I thought you were going to kiss her fingertips. Had you met her somewhere before?"

I glanced up quickly; and I was back again where I didn't want to be, back where I was watching myself every second to see how I was going over in the part I was playing, back where every word I spoke could be my death warrant. I was no longer working my facial muscles automatically; the manual control center had taken over. I signaled for a grin and it came. I thought it was pretty good. I'd always been a fair poker player as a boy, and I'd learned something about acting later, with my life at stake.

I put my arm around Beth casually. "What's the matter, jealous?" I asked. "Can't I even be polite to a good-looking female… No, I never saw Mrs. Loris before, but I sure wish I had."

Lie, Mac had said, look her in the eye and lie. Why should I obey his orders, after all the bloodless years? But the words came smoothly and convincingly, and I squeezed her fondly, and let my hand slide down to give the little bow at her rear an affectionate pat, among all those chattering people. Briefly, I felt the warm tautness of her girdle through the silk of her dress and slip.

"Matt, don't!" she whispered, shocked, stiffening in protest. I saw her throw an embarrassed glance around to see if anyone had noted the impropriety.

She was a funny damn girl. I mean, you'd think that after more than a decade of marriage I could pat my wife on the fanny, among friends, without being made to feel as if I'd committed a serious breach of decency. Well, I'd lived with Beth's inhibitions for a long time, and normally I'd have thought it was just kind of cute and naive of her, and maybe I'd have given her an additional little pinch to tease her and make her blush, and she'd have wound up laughing at her own stuffiness, and everything would have been all right. But tonight I didn't have any concentration to spare for her psychological quirks. My own demanded my entire attention.

"Sorry, Duchess," I said stiffly, withdrawing the offending hand. "Didn't mean to get familiar, ma'am… Well, I'm going over for a refill. Can I get you one?"

She shook her head. "I'm still doing fine with this one." She couldn't help glancing at my glass and saying, "Take it easy, darling. Remember, you've got a long drive tomorrow."

"Maybe you'd better call Alcoholics Anonymous," I said, more irritably than I'd intended. As I turned away, I saw Tina watching us from across the room.

For some reason, I found myself remembering the wet woods at Kronheim, and the German officer whose knife was in my pocket, and the way the blade of my own knife had snapped off short as he flung himself convulsively sideways at the thrust. As he opened his mouth to cry out, Tina, a bedraggled fury in her French tart's getup, had grabbed his Schmeisser and smashed it over his head, silencing him but bending the gun to hell and gone..

CHAPTER 5

A SHORT, dark individual in an immaculate white jacket was presiding over the refreshment table with the grace, dignity and relaxed assurance of an old family retainer,' although I knew he was hired for the occasion as I'd been meeting him at Santa Fe parties for years.

"Vodka?" he was saying. "No, no, I will not do it, seсorita! A Martini is a Martini and you are a guest in this house. Por favor, do not ask me to serve a guest of the Darrels the fermented squeezings of potato peelings and other garbage!"

Barbara Herrera answered the man laughingly in

Spanish, and they tossed it back and forth, and she agreed to settle for another honest, capitalist cocktail instead of switching to the bastard variety from the land of Communism. After he'd filled her glass, I stuck mine out to be replenished from the same shaker. The girl glanced around, smiled, and swung about to face me with a clink of bracelets and a swish of petticoats.

I gestured towards her costume. "Santa Fe is grateful to you for patronizing local industry, Miss Herrera."

She laughed. "Do I look too much like a walking junk shop? I didn't have anything else to do this afternoon, and the stores just fascinated me. I lost my head, I guess."

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"California," she said.

"That's a big state," I said, "and you can keep all of it."

She smiled. "Now, that isn't nice."

"I've spent a few months in Hollywood from time to time," I said. "I couldn't take it. I'm used to breathing air."

She laughed. "Now you're boasting, Mr. Helm. At least we get a little oxygen with our smog. That's more than you can say up here at seven thousand feet. I lay awake all last night gasping for breath."

With her warm dark skin and wide cheekbones, she looked better in her squaw dress than most. I looked down at her, and sighed inwardly, and braced myself to do my duty as an elder statesman of the writing profession.

I said in kindly tones, "You say you've been doing some writing, Miss Herrera?"

Her face lighted up. "Why, yes, and I've been wanting to talk to somebody about… It's at my motel,

Mr. Helm. There's a rather pleasant bar next door. I know you're leaving in the morning, but if you and your wife could just stop on your way home and have a drink while I run over and get it… It's just a short story, it wouldn't take you more than a few minutes, and I'd appreciate it so much if you'd just glance through it and tell me…''

New York is full of editors who are paid to -read stories. All it takes to get their reaction is the postage. But these kids keep shoving the products of their sweat and imagination under the noses of friends, relatives, neighbors, and anybody they can track down who ever published three lines of lousy verse. I don't get it. Maybe I'm just a hardened cynic, but when I was breaking into the racket I sure as hell didn't waste time and effort showing my work to anybody who didn't have the dough to buy and the presses to print it on-not even my wife. Being an unpublished writer is ridiculous enough; why make it worse by showing the stuff around?