"Hoo-hah! Shrinkers are the other race from me," the Firebird said. "They're the people who quail at shaking hands, who never slap a back nor playfully pinch. They hate to be crowded, don't like to be touched. My sort of people, though, tend to cuddle like puppies, or like cattle in a thunderstorm; we take comfort in the closeness of other humans. We're not erotic about this, Johnny. Not necessarily erotic, I mean. We have our moments, too, or the Shrinkers would long since have taken over the world in spite of their dreadful handicap. We're the people who make brilliant barbers. The kind who say hello to you with a Roman handshake and a clasp on the shoulder. We're the doctors with the healing touch, the most tender nurses. We're the Flesh-Pressers." She gently squeezed my shoulder-muscle again to demonstrate. "Tell me what's the matter, Johnny. Maybe I can help." * * * * * "No magic touch will cure my trouble," I said. "Anne and I are through. It was hopeless. I was like the goldfish in love with the cat. So I called our romance to a halt today and drove home in my little green sports-car, feeling a little green and hardly sporty at all. Please don't mention this again, Firebird; not till I'm old and bald and my wound has healed to a thin white scar." "Can I say one thing?" "You will, so do." "I'm really sorry, Johnny." "Thank you, Firebird," I said. "The Chief promised to send some therapeutic juices through the Seitz filter. If you've a mind to sample a little sterile White Horse, perhaps tie one on with me this evening, you'd be most welcome." "I'll be proud and happy," the Firebird said. She scooted even closer. I found her propinquity not at all unpleasant. Was I perhaps of the Flesh-Presser clan myself? The girl smelled good, the faint wholesome feminine odor of my Lapin foster-sisters--a perfume an outside wench, host to a universe of bacteria, could approximate only with Pepsodent and the most meticulous attention to her underarms, I gather from TV. "How am I to entertain you, sir?" the Firebird asked me. "I have current gossip, vintage scandal, clever anecdotes lifted from the steaming pages of my autoclaved _Reader's Digest_, imitations of bird-songs--heavy on the mating-calls, these--and sheer adoration." She paused. "Scratch that last offering, Johnny," she said. "It's un-hygienic for a girl to wear her heart on her sleeve, even here." "I've lost touch with the Big Tank social whirl these last few weeks," I said. "I've been spending all my alive-time in the greater world of Valparaiso, Indiana. Bring me abreast of the local gossip, Firebird, if you please." "Gladly. First there's the case of Mary deWitte. She's still on the trail of her basketball star--a fellow named Lofting--confident that somehow they'll manage to compromise her hateful purity.... Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned Mary," she said, seeing that I was frowning.