"Ho, ho!" Fay mocked. "Everything that has a material side has a mental side," he chanted. "Everything that's a body is also a spirit. Gussy, that dubious old metaphysical dualism went out centuries ago." "Maybe so," Gusterson said, "but we still haven't anything but that dubious dualism to explain the human mind, have we? It's a jelly of nerve cells and it's a vision of the cosmos. If that isn't dualism, what is?" "I give up. Gussy, are you going to try out this tickler?" "No!" "But dammit, Gussy, we made it just for you!--practically." "Sorry, but I'm not coming near the thing." "Zen come near me," a husky voice intoned behind them. "Tonight I vant a man." * * * * * Standing in the door was something slim in a short silver sheath. It had golden bangs and the haughtiest snub-nosed face in the world. It slunk toward them. "My God, Vina Vidarsson!" Gusterson yelled. "Daisy, that's terrific," Fay applauded, going up to her. She bumped him aside with a swing of her hips, continuing to advance. "Not you, Ratty," she said throatily. "I vant a real man." "Fay, I suggested Vina Vidarsson's face for the beauty mask," Gusterson said, walking around his wife and shaking a finger. "Don't tell me Trix just happened to think of that too." "What else could they think of?" Fay laughed. "This season sex means VV and nobody else." An odd little grin flicked his lips, a tic traveled up his face and his body twitched slightly. "Say, folks, I'm going to have to be leaving. It's exactly fifteen minutes to Second Curfew. Last time I had to run and I got heartburn. When _are_ you people going to move downstairs? I'll leave Tickler, Gussy. Play around with it and get used to it. 'By now." "Hey, Fay," Gusterson called curiously, "have you developed absolute time sense?" Fay grinned a big grin from the doorway--almost too big a grin for so small a man. "I didn't need to," he said softly, patting his right shoulder. "My tickler told me." He closed the door behind him. As side-by-side they watched him strut sedately across the murky chilly-looking park, Gusterson mused, "So the little devil had one of those nonsense-gadgets on all the time and I never noticed. Can you beat that?" Something drew across the violet-tinged stars a short bright line that quickly faded. "What's that?" Gusterson asked gloomily. "Next to last stage of missile-here?" "Won't you settle for an old-fashioned shooting star?" Daisy asked softly. The (wettable) velvet lips of the mask made even her natural voice sound different. She reached a hand back of her neck to pull the thing off. "Hey, don't do that," Gusterson protested in a hurt voice. "Not for a while anyway." "Hokay!" she said harshly, turning on him. "Zen down on your knees, dog!" III It was a fortnight and Gusterson was loping down the home stretch on his 40,000-word insanity novel before Fay dropped in again, this time promptly at high noon.