"Phooey on you, Jeanne Peterson!" Jeanne said aloud, and sat up in bed, surprised at the loudness of her own voice. She was imagining things. It wouldn't be as bad as all that. Exploitation for a few months--and a small fortune, if not the great wealth that Dan promised. And the physical comforts made possible by whatever she earned would, over a period of time, smother Tom's anger. Still, the one honest emotional experience which somehow had penetrated deeper than the veneer she exposed to the world had been her relationship with Tom. But she could make money, make herself happy, make Tom happy--if not immediately on his return then eventually. But.... Soon after the milkman pulled his truck to the curb down on the corner, Jeanne fell asleep. * * * * * "Hold it! Hold it!" The agency director of photography, a small, round man with a thin voice, waved the photographer off his camera impatiently and scowled at Jeanne. "You're a nice girl, Miss Peterson. That's a nice nightgown, filmy, but not so filmy it won't get by the censors. You got a nice figure and the country will love you. So why don't you be a nice model too? "That ain't just a mattress you're on, Miss Peterson. How many times I gotta tell you that's the mattress you're waiting for Tom on? 'I miss Tom so, I'd never sleep, thinking of him so helpless and far away, the first Man in the Moon. Except for my _Beautysleep_ mattress which induces sleep with its special inner-spring construction.' I ain't no copy-writer, Miss Peterson, but it will be something like that. So, cuddle up on that mattress like it will have to do till Tom comes home from the moon. Cuddle nice, Miss Peterson, cuddle nice." It took Jeanne exactly fifty-five minutes longer before she could cuddle nice. They then took the picture in a matter of seconds, and Jeanne was allowed to change into her street clothes. Hurrying, she was only fifteen minutes late for her luncheon engagement with Lubrano. "Three months," Lubrano said, after they'd settled themselves over cocktails. "Not bad, honey. Know how much we grossed, including the _Beautysleep_ account?" "Yes," Jeanne told him. "Twenty-eight thousand, three hundred and four dollars." "Not bad," said Lubrano. "It takes the right kind of press, naturally. That's me, honey, the right kind of press." "Yes," said Jeanne. "We're a good combination, Dan. You're right, it can't miss." "Funny, you never sound excited about it." "Maybe that's the way I am. I don't excite easily. So what?" "So nothing." Lubrano began cutting his pork tenderloin. "What's next on the agenda?" Jeanne wanted to know. "Maybe I lasso the moon with smoke rings blown from _Buccaneer_ cigarettes?" "Maybe you do eventually. Not right now. Right now you have to hop a plane for New Mexico and have a chat with the boyfriend." "What?" Jeanne felt something flip-flop madly in the pit of her stomach. "Dan! Oh, Dan!"