Shyly he put his hand out and stroked her flaming hair. Then he asked, "What's your name?" "Patience and Fortitude Mather." She was still busy trying to arrange her torn clothing. He gulped. Noticing his surprise, she said, "But just call me Pat. What's your name?" But before he could answer she said, "Don't tell me you're a friend of...." Nodding, he said, "Yes, I'm one of Bowdler's rebels." Then he identified himself. "I should have known." "Why," he asked with some asperity, "didn't you join us at Bowdler's house?" "I couldn't shake off the R.A. who was following me and I wouldn't jeopardize the sanctum." "Of course. But what made you decide to get up and carry on the way you did at the meeting?" "When I finally did get away from the R.A. it was too late. It was past the time that Bowdler said I would be able to get through the force field. I knew I was lost and I decided I might just as well go down to defeat saying the things I'd always wanted to say." "In case," Comstock said, "just in case, there is any chance of an escape from our present situation, and we should become separated," and he told her about the two times of the day when it would be possible to get to Bowdler's house. * * * * * The temperature went down as they sat on the cold stone and became acquainted. S.x was the farthest thing from Comstock's mind when he moved closer to the girl and held her in his arms to try and preserve their mutual body heat. At least s.x was far from his mind in the beginning of the long night. But as the evening hours wore away and the insane moon moved higher and higher in the sky, he found that hunger and thirst, cold and fear were not enough to keep certain thoughts from his now over-heated brain. Just sitting so close to her was the most exciting experience he had ever had. Below them the Hydra-head of the angry multitude began to murmur as he disregarded some of the conventions on which he had been raised. "Shameful," "Disgusting," "Perverted," "Horrible," were some of the milder epithets that were thrown through the air. Her skin he found on investigation put any flower he had ever beheld to shame. Her breath was sweet on his nostrils. The feel of her was unlike any thing he had ever dreamt of. He said, his voice as low as his intentions, "Pat, do you think what I feel for you is love?" Snuggling closer to him, she answered, "If it isn't, it's as good an imitation as we're likely to find." Then her inquisitive lips met his. It was, he thought, even as he was experiencing it, a highly unlikely place in which to enjoy a honeymoon. The shamelessness of their conduct was not lost on the waiting throng. At one point even the R.A. who had joined the mob and whose hand had never left the butt of his stun-gun, found it necessary to walk away. None of the onlookers, as a matter of fact, could bear to watch.