It was almost four when the cab dropped me off in Forest Hills to keep the appointment. The S.M.U.T. regional office was in a luxury apartment building. Later I learned that the Highman living quarters were part of the same premises.
A male receptionist greeted me. He had acne and sweaty palms. His gait was suspiciously mincing as he went to tell Mrs. Highman's secretary that I had arrived. Maybe it was unfair, but I pigeonholed him as the sort of sexual reject who just naturally seeks an outlet with an outfit like S.M.U.T. A moment later he returned and led me into an inner room where Mrs. Highman's secretary was waiting.
The secretary was a dried fig labeled female by the clothing she wore, but decidedly asexual otherwise. She was juiceless and overage, joyless and as gray and drab inside – I would have bet – as was the shapeless knot of hair topping her wrinkled features. Her voice was chalk-on-a-blackboard as she told me Mrs. Highman would see me immediately. Her step was a geriatric hobble as she led the way into yet another room.
Up to then, the personnel of S.M.U.T. was just about what I would have expected. But Mrs. Prudence Highman was something else again. My first glance told me she was no stereotype of comstockery. And a second look confirmed that I had no ready pigeonhole for her.
She was younger than I had expected, although the clothes she wore were obviously intended to stress her more solid matronly qualities. Her hair as brown with just a hint of a red glow which had been played down but not snuffed out altogether. She wore no make-up, but there was something sensual about her face. The horn-rimmed glasses she wore couldn't conceal a certain subdued
Her age was a well-kept secret. She might have been as young as 25, or as old as her late thirties. It was impossible to tell.
My observation that she had a good figure was at least half a guess. The suit jacket buttoned over her bosom couldn't conceal its largeness, but it revealed nothing of its shape. The way it hung over her hips told nothing about them or of the waist above them. Her skirt was worn longer than the current style, and while her calves were admirable, any judgment of her legs was impossible.
Her voice was as it had been over the phone, formal and with each syllable enunciated with a bell-like clarity. 'Won't you sit down, Mr. Victor?' As I took her up on it, she turned to the secretary. 'That will be all, Eloise,' she said, dismissing her.
The secretary shot me a look which said I wasn't to be trusted, and then left us alone.
'So you are the man from O.R.G.Y.,' Mrs. Highman said when we were alone. She pronounced each letter individually, rather than speaking them as one word.
'And you are the lady from S.M.U.T.' I pronounced it as a word.
Her forehead creased with distaste, but she ignored it. 'As I understood you over the phone, Mr. Victor, you are anxious to enlist in our cause and you feel that your special field of knowledge might be helpful to us. Is that correct?'
'That's the general idea.'
'Why, Mr. Victor?'
Well, she was obviously no fool. It was a good question, and it demanded an answer. A very careful answer. 'Because my researches have convinced me of the tightness of your cause,' I said cautiously. It was more of a feeler than an answer.
'Have they, Mr. Victor? I should have thought that someone in your profession would automatically be against our work.'
'But why?' Now it was my turn to play cat-and-mouse.
'By studying and reporting frankly on sexual practices, there can be no doubt that you tend to encourage them.'
She didn't know it, but she'd pointed the way for me with that statement. 'What you say has been true,' I granted. 'But it is a side effect, rather than anything which was planned. Pure research knows no consequences, only truth. It was in this spirit that I have always conducted my activities. Still, I have been increasingly aware of what you just pointed out. It has disturbed me greatly. That's why I would like to work with your organization. I would like to redress the balance of permissiveness which I have been instrumental in creating.'
'If you are sincere, Mr. Victor -' she looked at me shrewdly – 'then there can be no doubt that you can be extremely helpful to us. As one who has been identified with the other side, your remorse would have great publicity value. Not just locally with the chapter I head, either,' she mused. 'Your importance could be countrywide, even worldwide, to our organization. Just how far are you willing to go with your public support of our case?'
'I'm not sure.' I didn't want to appear over-eager. 'That will depend on just how much is asked of me.'
The caution implicit in my answer seemed to reassure her. 'That's understandable,' she agreed. 'Then perhaps we should start out small, limit your activities to the local level at first. There will always be time to enlarge them.'
I guessed that she was thinking it would be a feather in her cap to be able to use me under her personal sponsorship as a spokesman for her particular chapter of S.M.U.T. 'That sounds like a good idea,' I agreed. Her next words confirmed my guess.
'I shall have to work very closely with you myself,' she said. 'And I think we should keep your activities secret at first so that the impact will be greater when we do make your participation public. Yes, there are many things we should discuss, you and I.' She glanced at her wristwatch. 'The office will be closing soon,' she told me. 'I wonder if you might take dinner with me tonight, Mr. Victor?'
'I'd be delighted.'
'Good. My quarters lie just beyond these offices. We may as well go in now.'
Dinner was to be promptly at six. I mention that because the cooking of it was something to behold. It began, in a sense, when Prudence Highman led me from the office to the apartment behind it.
The apartment was quietly expensive. The furnishings were utilitarian with no frills. There was nothing at all frivolous about them. Everything was functional in the living room to which I was first conducted. Even the landscapes on the walls contained hidden light tubes to justify their having been hung.
It was dusk when we entered, and the room was dim. Mrs. Highman clapped her hands and immediately there was light. 'They call it Sonuswitch,' she explained. 'It reacts to certain sounds and turns on lights and sets all sorts of electrical appliances in motion.' She consulted her watch. 'Come into the kitchen and you'll see,' she told me. 'My husband is about to cook dinner.'
I followed her into the kitchen. There was a telephone on the wall nearest to the stove. As we entered, it started to ring. Mrs. Highman stood half-smiling as it rang fifteen times. As the last ring sounded, a tray with a roast on it slid into the oven. The oven door closed, and the electric stove went into action. One of the burners on top grew red, and a fry-pan containing potatoes slid into place atop another burner which was heating. And a gadget beside the stove began tossing a salad positioned beneath it.
'I thought you said your husband was cooking dinner,' I said to Mrs. Highman.
'He is. That was him on the phone. By the time he gets home there will be nothing for him to do but put the food on dishes and serve it. I think you'll find our household very well-organized, Mr. Victor. Sonuswitch has enabled us to regulate almost all of the tasks of daily living.' She led me back into the living room. 'Would you like a cocktail?' she asked.
The question took me by surprise. I would have bet Mrs. Highman was teetotal. Still, never look a gift drink in the mouth. 'Yes,' I nodded.
She walked over to a massive buffet and snapped her fingers. I stared at it as she returned to me. Two bottles and a cocktail shaker had popped to the surface of it. Now metal fingers picked up the bottles and poured. The shaker was capped and began to agitate itself. After a moment two cocktail glasses snapped into place and the shaker uncapped itself and poured its contents neatly into the tumblers.
'Well, I'll be damned!' I exclaimed as Mrs. Highman went to fetch the drinks.
'Please, Mr. Victor,' she said sternly. 'If you are to join S.M.U.T., you must renounce the use of all profanity.'
'Sorry. I promise I'll be more careful.' I accepted the drink she handed me and took a hearty swallow.
'Gosh darn it to heck and back!' I exploded, still managing to remember to restrain my natural profanity. 'What the blue blazes is this stuff?'
