Fifteen seconds later the door opened and Miss Austin walked in, a Manila folder in one lovely hand. As usual she was in an immaculately white uniform. _White for purity?_ he wondered. It was a tight-fitting garment that clung to every curve as though hanging on for dear life, and on second thought he mentally erased the purity inscription on his mind's slate. Miss Austin had a beautiful walk, and beautiful legs to walk on. He stared at them as she approached the desk. He always stared at them, fascinated, and she always knew he did, and she smiled that enticingly mad smile of hers that always made him want to give vent to an emotional catharsis. _God_, he thought, _how I'd love to psychoanalyze that woman! What a beautiful ego she must have. What a gorgeous id._ Carefully she deposited the folder on his desk, leaning forward strategically so her perfume could glide over him in intoxicating currents. "Will that be all, Doctor Rawlings?" she asked in her honey-liquid tones. "For now," he said, reaching for her hand and finding it. "But don't go away." She smiled again, and gently freeing her hand, swept from the room. She looked even better from the back, if that were possible; after a few seconds deliberation he decided it wasn't possible. But it was women like Miss Austin that made him want a chicken farm, among other things. Miss Austin and a little tract of land far out in the country would be just perfect. In such a paradise he wouldn't even have to worry about the pecking order of hens. In fact, he might even get engrossed in raising things other than chickens. Sighing again, he studied the folder before him, which did not take very long. The patient was still quite young even though he had already made a mark of sorts on the world. A theoretical mathematician, apparently. Probably thought himself a square circle on an adding machine. The psychiatrist browsed through the folder's contents again, then jabbed the buzzer. "You can send Mr. Moore in now," he said and snapped the intercom off before Miss Austin could answer. The present moment was no time to be distracted. Dr. Rawlings held his head in his hands and stared morosely at the desk. Then he picked up a pencil and began tapping it against an inkwell. An incongruous thought surely, pencil and inkwell--what would Freud say about that? He decided in the same thought that he didn't give a particular damn what Freud thought about inkwells. There were times in fact when he didn't care what Freud thought about anything. There were times when all we wanted to think about was a small chicken farm, with maybe a gorgeous honey-blonde like Miss Austin to help sow a few seeds.