since the base had
become operative.

In a specialty restaurant over freshly arrived seafood from San
Francisco, Grant tried to persuade Bridget to stop teasing him about the
navigational foul-up and set him straight. He had put up with it as long
as he did only because she had worn an off-shoulder yellow gown, snugly
fitted, that made the uniform seem like the design of a Mid-Victorian
prude.

Grant, exasperated, brought her teasing up short. "I've been priding
myself on keeping up the myth I'm a wide-awake young man and pilot.
Never have I passed out before--never. I feel like a washed-out cadet.
You've had your fun baiting--now, what made me blank?"

Bridget cringed as he tore a slice of French bread in half with one
hostile, meaningful bite.

She waved her cigarette haughtily. "We in psychology have found certain
stimuli productive of consistent human response. Especially true in
tactile sensation, this, however, is not as true in the auditory and
visual."

"You're being technical," Grant interrupted. "Just let me know
simple-like, if you don't mind."

"Consequently," she continued, "the problem presented to the
investigating psychologist was one of seeking an involuntary response to
one or more stimuli, in sequence or grouped. Traditionally--"

"Miss Ashley--" Grant held up the small, square tissue-wrapped box, tied
with a bow--"I would like to have you open this tonight, but obviously
you're not going to have time what with the thesis, and all." He
deliberately put the box back in his coat pocket.

Their eyes held over her swordfish momentarily.

"So, O.K., I looked around for nasty stimuli, that's all," Bridget went
on. "There were lots of possibilities, but I sorta picked two or three.
Part of our pilot interviews was for getting descriptions from the men
on what the conditions up there felt like, sounded like, looked like,
smelled like, and so on. Completely individual, mind you. From that we
spotted negative elements held in common by them."

Grant reached for her arm and blocked the upward motion of her
fish-loaded fork.

"You can eat after," he said.

"I threw the nasty ones at you when you began tiring, because that's
when the body's stimulus-response setup starts pulling away from
conscious direction. I saved the one I had the hunch on for the last."

"The navigation exercise, you mean? I still don't get what that has to
do with my leg cramp."

Bridget laughed. "Oh, that. One of those le