Grant at the medical officer's advice took a brief nap, which quickly cleared up his mental fuzziness. As a surprise to Bridget he ordered a rotocab from Barstow, the nearest town, booming since the base had become operative. In a specialty restaurant over freshly arrived seafood from San Francisco, Grant tried to persuade Bridget to stop teasing him about the navigational foul-up and set him straight. He had put up with it as long as he did only because she had worn an off-shoulder yellow gown, snugly fitted, that made the uniform seem like the design of a Mid-Victorian prude. Grant, exasperated, brought her teasing up short. "I've been priding myself on keeping up the myth I'm a wide-awake young man and pilot. Never have I passed out before--never. I feel like a washed-out cadet. You've had your fun baiting--now, what made me blank?" Bridget cringed as he tore a slice of French bread in half with one hostile, meaningful bite. She waved her cigarette haughtily. "We in psychology have found certain stimuli productive of consistent human response. Especially true in tactile sensation, this, however, is not as true in the auditory and visual." "You're being technical," Grant interrupted. "Just let me know simple-like, if you don't mind." "Consequently," she continued, "the problem presented to the investigating psychologist was one of seeking an involuntary response to one or more stimuli, in sequence or grouped. Traditionally--" "Miss Ashley--" Grant held up the small, square tissue-wrapped box, tied with a bow--"I would like to have you open this tonight, but obviously you're not going to have time what with the thesis, and all." He deliberately put the box back in his coat pocket. Their eyes held over her swordfish momentarily. "So, O.K., I looked around for nasty stimuli, that's all," Bridget went on. "There were lots of possibilities, but I sorta picked two or three. Part of our pilot interviews was for getting descriptions from the men on what the conditions up there felt like, sounded like, looked like, smelled like, and so on. Completely individual, mind you. From that we spotted negative elements held in common by them." Grant reached for her arm and blocked the upward motion of her fish-loaded fork. "You can eat after," he said. "I threw the nasty ones at you when you began tiring, because that's when the body's stimulus-response setup starts pulling away from conscious direction. I saved the one I had the hunch on for the last." "The navigation exercise, you mean? I still don't get what that has to do with my leg cramp." Bridget laughed. "Oh, that. One of those leads attached to your leg carried a little voltage--just in case you passed out. The benefits of current psychology, you know." * * * * * Grant repressed a smile. "Thanks for letting me know what brought me around, but you are still stalling about why I went under."