confession of love would have been met with. It was hot that Duval was insensible to either insult or to adoration; it was merely that he reacted to them when he had time, and he rarely had time.
It was not a scowl that he habitually wore on his face; it was rather the muscular contraction that came with thoughts that were elsewhere. Presumably all men have their escape from the world; Duval's was the simple one of concentration upon his work.
That route had brought him, by his mid-forties, to international renown as a brain surgeon, and to his scarce-realized status of bachelorhood.
Nor did he look up from the careful measurements he was making on the tri-dimensionalized x-ray photographs that lay before him when the door opened. His assistant came in with the accustomed noiseless steps.
"What is it, Miss Peterson?" he asked, and squinted even more painfully at the photographs. The depth-perception was plain enough to the eye, but measuring the actual depth called for a delicate consideration of angles, plus an advance knowledge of what that depth was likely to be in the first place.
Cora Peterson waited for the moment of additional concentration to pass. She was twenty-five, just twenty years younger than Duval, and her master's degree, only a year old, had been carefully laid at the feet of the surgeon.
In the letters she wrote home, she explained almost every time that each day with Duval was a college course; that to study his methods, his techniques of diagnosis, his handling of the tools of his trade was to be edified beyond belief. As for his dedication to his work and to the cause of healing, that could only be described as inspiring.
In less intellectualized fashion, she was perfectly aware, with almost the awareness of a professional physiologist, of the quickening of her heartbeat as she took in the planes and curves of his face bent over his work and noted the quick, sure, unwavering motion of his fingers.
Her face remained impassive, however, for she disapproved of the action of her unintellectual heart-muscle.
Her mirror told her, plainly enough, that she was not plain. Quite otherwise. Her dark eyes were ingenuously wide-set; her lips reflected quick humor when she let them do so-which wasn't often; and her figure annoyed her for its apparent propensity for interfering with the proper understanding of her professional competence. It was for her ability she wanted wolf-whistles (or their intellectual equivalent) and not for the sinuosity she couldn't help.
Duval, at least, appreciated her efficiency and seemed unmoved by her attractiveness and for that she admired him the more.
She said, finally, ""Benes will be landing in less than thirty minutes, doctor."
"Hmm." He looked up. "Why are you here? Your day's over."
Cora might have retorted that his was, too, but she knew well that his day was over only when his work was done.
She had stayed with him through the sixteenth consecutive hour often enough, although she imagined he would maintain (in all honesty) that he kept her firmly to an eight-hour day.
She said, "I'm waiting to see him."
"Whom?"
"Genes. Doesn't it excite you, doctor?"
"No. Why should it?"
"He's a great scientist, and they say he has important information that will revolutionize all we're doing."
"It will, will it?" Duval lifted the photograph on top of the heap, placed it to one side, and turned to the next. "How will it help you with your laser work?"
"It can make the target easier to hit."
"It already does that. For what Benes will add, only the war-makers will have any use. All Benes will do will be to increase the probability of world destruction."
"But Dr. Duval, you've said that the extension of the technique could be of great. importance to the neurophysiologist."
"Have I? All right, then, I have. But just the same I'd rather you got your proper rest, Miss Peterson." He looked up again (his voice softening just a bit, perhaps?), "You look tired."
Cora's hand lifted half-way to her hair, for translated into the feminine, the word "tired" means "disheveled." She said, "Once Benes arrives, I will. I promise. -By the way."
"Yes?"
"Will you be using the laser tomorrow?"
"It's what I'm trying to decide right now. -If you'll let me, Miss Peterson."
"The 6951 model can't be used."
Duval put the photograph down, leaned back. "Why not?"
"It's not reliable enough. I can't get it to focus properly. I suspect one of the tunnel diodes is faulty but I haven't located which one yet."
"All right. You set up one that can be trusted just in