"Can I not? Lennox. Mason and Dixon. Mason and Slidell. Lewis. Clark. But above all, Lennox. Lennox is the man. He pulls the strings. He controls the Eastern Cell." "Cell!" the gentleman exclaimed. "Indeed yes. The movement is beautifully organized ... from here through Washington, London, Paris, Rome ... straight up to our central headquarters--" A pair of hands blindfolded him. "Guess who," Olga said. "Goody Twoshoes," Lennox answered. He removed her hands from his eyes and continued. "Our headquarters on Mars. We're all Martians. We're going to--" He stopped. The strange gentleman had already removed himself, Lennox searched dazedly and saw him in a corner, unaccountably scribbling in a notebook. He shrugged, flexed his right arm to feel for his own gimmick book, then contemplated Olga. She had, in truth, poured herself into an evening gown; or better still, someone had painted it on her body and only given it one coat. Lennox handed her a 75. "What's this?" she asked. "Paint remover," he said. She drank it cautiously, finished it with appreciation and held out her glass for more. They emptied the pitcher and went over to Beekman Place to look in on a party thrown by one of Olga's friends. It was in a square apartment house, in a square apartment, and it turned out to be a Square party ... the men in one room telling dirty jokes, the women in another room shrieking with laughter and pulling up their skirts as they loaded up on martinis. "This is from hunger," Lennox muttered to Olga. "Leave us blow." "We'd better," she giggled. "It's the wrong apartment." So it was. They went downstairs to the right apartment which was identically square. The party was also identically Square. "I liked the first one better," Lennox said. They left and went uptown to the West side where Johnny Plummer owned a house opposite the Museum of Natural History. His party was more party-line than anything else. They were required to pay five dollars each as they entered ... in aid of some nebulous cause. No scotch was served in order to boycott Great Britain. Everyone sat around in tweeds and dirndls and sang the songs of the People to the accompaniment of an accordion and a mandolin. Lennox tried to drink up his five dollars in straight gin, but Olga gave him the out sign within half an hour. "My turn now," she said and took him to the East side and a cosmopolitan-type party conducted in French, Dutch, Italian, Flemish and Swedish. This one, Lennox loved. He ate lobster stewed in absinthe, drank aquavit, learned Swedish massage, how to cut diamonds, when to hear an opera entitled "Teresa's Teats," where Kafka was buried, who was whose mistress at the party, and the particular sexual foibles of each of the guests. But Olga was party-hopping and impatient. She dragged him out. "I liked it there," he complained. "Too respectable. Where next?"