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“Knives,” she said. “It was knives. Stan Carbo—that was his name. Why call him Mr. H?”

“To protect him—” said George, “to keep this all confidential—to protect anybody you might want to tell me about.”

She laughed. She stuck the tip of a finger through the screen, and she wiggled it at George. “You?” she said. “You’re going to protect Stan Carbo? I wish you could see him. I wish he could see you.”

“Well,” said George lamely, “maybe someday we’ll meet.”

“He’s dead,” she said. She didn’t sound sorry. She didn’t even sound interested.

“That’s too bad,” said George.

“You’re the first person who ever said so,” she said.

“In any event,” said George, looking at his notes, “while he was still among the living, Mr. H offered you a job as an exotic dancer in his nightclub in East Chicago—and you accepted.”

Gloria laughed again. “Honest to God, honey—” she said, “you should see your face. It’s bright red! You know that? Your mouth looks like you’ve been sucking lemons!” She shook her head. “Rollo—” she said, “tell me again what you think you’re doing here.”

George had been over the question several times before. He went over it again. “As I told you,” he said patiently, “I’m a student of sociology, which is the science of human society.” There wasn’t any point in telling her that the course was actually criminology. That might be offensive. There didn’t seem to be much point in telling her anything, for that matter.

“They made a science out of people?” she said. “What a crazy science that must be.”

“It’s still very much in its infancy,” said George.

“Like you,” she said. “How old are you, baby?”

“Twenty-one,” said George stiffly.

“Think of that!” she said. “Twenty-one! What is it like to be that old? I won’t be twenty-one until next March.” She sat back. “You know,” she said, “every so often I meet somebody like you, and I realize it’s possible for some people to grow up in this country without ever seeing anything, without ever having anything happen to them.”

“I was in Korea for a year and a half,” said George. “I think I’ve had a little something happen to me.”

“I tell you what,” she said, “I’ll write a book about your great adventures, and you can write one about mine.” And then, to George’s dismay, she took a pencil stub and an empty pack of cigarettes from her pocket. She tore the pack apart, flattened it out to make a sheet of paper. “All righty—” she said, “here we go, Rollo. We’ll call this The Thrilling Life Story of Mr. Z—to protect you. You were born on a farm, were you, Mr. Z?”

“Please—” said George, who really had been born on a farm.

“I answered your questions,” she said. “You answer mine.” She frowned. “Your present address, Mr. Z?” she said.

George shrugged, told her his address. He was living over the garage of the dean of the Divinity School.

“Occupation?” she said. “Student. One word or two?”

“Two,” said George.

“Stew dent,” she said, and she wrote it down. “Now, I’m going to have to investigate your love life, Mr. Z. That’s actually kind of the main part of your science, even though it is in its infancy. I want you to tell me about all the hearts you’ve broken during this wild, wild life of yours. Let’s start with Miss A.”

George closed his notebook. He gave her a bleak smile. “Thanks for your time, Miss St. Pierre,” he said. “It was good of you to talk to me.” He stood.

She gave him a blinding smile. “Oh, please sit down,” she said. “I haven’t been nice at all—and here you’ve been so nice to me, no matter what awful things I say. Please—please sit down, and I’ll answer any question you ask. Any question. Ask me a real hard one, and I’ll do my best. Isn’t there one really big question?”

George was fool enough to relax some, to sit down again. He did have one big question. He had no more dignity, no more anything to lose, so he asked it—asked it flat out. “You’ve got a very high I.Q., Miss Pierre. Why is it that somebody as smart as you are should live the way you do?”

“Who says I’m smart?” she said.