Carolyn Pierce glanced at her watch. It was nearly 4:00. One more interview, well, two more, and she would head home. Dinner would be simple, a warmed-over meat loaf. Still, she wanted to get home in plenty of time to have it ready when Bill walked in. For that matter, she was driving, and she wanted to get back to Evanston before the rush hour hit.

According to the Yellow Pages, there were two book stores on the same block fairly near here. She needed to know what the owners reported on the cohesive forces which brought them together and the -- evidently weaker -- dispersive forces which made that propinquity inconvenient. She found a parking space on that block, luckily, considering the heat wave, and flipped a mental coin.

Second Foundation Books specialized in science fiction and fantasy. Despite its name, the space seemed to be allocated three-to-one to new books. The store had one browser, and the owner was willing to talk. He was a tallish man -- she'd guess 5' 10" -- in his fifties with a thin comb-over.

"I get some local trade. I lived three blocks away when I opened the store -- live upstairs now -- and I knew some neighbors in the fan clubs. But you can't make a living selling SF to people who live in walking distance. You'll notice -- there are parking spaces on the block. I wouldn't have taken this space if that wasn't usually true. I advertise; I'm in two fan clubs and I know the leaders of most of the others in the city. Word of mouth is important, too. SF fans know each other, and the fans of particular authors sometimes know each other much better. Despite the name, everybody carries Asimov. If a Bester is in print, it's in this store, and people half way to Waukegan come here because of that. For that matter, if a Bester went out of print in the last five years, I'm likely to have got some of the remaindered copies."

"And how do you get along with Preloved Books?"

"Fred counseled me when I was thinking of starting up. I used to sell him used books when I was willing to part with them -- some of us run book stores 'cause it gives us an excuse to keep so many around. I don't touch magazines, and I tell people who want to sell used magazines to go down the street. Fred carries a good selection, and he's almost always ready to buy some."

"Do you get many of the same customers?"

"Well, if you want a new book to give for Christmas to a nephew who's just starting out as a fan, you don't go to Fred. If somebody's looking for a particular used book, or otherwise my used-book selection doesn't please, they can go down the block. That's especially true of fantasy. I encourage that, really. I want the fans to say, 'Go to John Darling, and you're almost certain to get the book you want.' Now, I don't make a profit if they get the book from Fred, but I get customer satisfaction. And customer satisfaction is almost more important. And, really, I have a greater selection, so they come to me first the next time.

"Even in fantasy, I probably have a somewhat better selection. This, really, is a store for SF books that also carries fantasy."

She thanked him and, despite the heat, smoked her third cigarette of the day before going into Preloved Books. The proprietor looked up as she came in, but didn't welcome her, although she was his only customer. The counter was at the front of the store, but facing towards the back. She walked around it until she was standing in front of him. He was a heavy man, no taller than her 5' 6".

"Can I help you? The description of the sections is on the signs at the tops of the shelves."

"I'm here to pick you brain. I'm writing a dissertation in Regional Economics, and I'm interested in how book stores spread and cluster."

"Well, this is a local book store. If you want to talk about regional issues, you'd do better talking to Krochs."

"Regional Economics is a study of the economics of location, on any grain. People, not me, study why the grocery store is on the corner instead of the middle of the block. You're a local bookstore; that's location. What does that mean?"

"It means that more than half my customers walk here. I'll have people walk in a few minutes before closing and tell me that they're desperate -- they just finished a book. I say, 'Okay, I'll stay open, but this time buy two. What if you'd finished it a half hour later?' There's one guy who gets off the bus, saunters in, and looks at my shelves for maybe half an hour almost every night. He must know my inventory better than I do. Most nights, he doesn't buy anything. Some nights, he buys two or three books. The next night he's back looking. Most of the people within a five-block radius, I never see in here. The ones I do, I generally see often."

"Yet, you've never seen me before, and you didn't greet me or offer any help until I stood in front of you."

"People either know what they want or not. If they know what they want, most of them can find it. If they don't know what they want, they don't want to say so. It's between them and the books. I don't want to interfere."

Fred, whose name she knew only from John Darling's report, was a fountain of information. Much of it didn't apply to her dissertation; some of it was helpful context; some of it had direct application.

On competition and resulting dispersion: "There are a hundred, well dozens anyway, of kinds of bookstore inventories. You can't pay the rent selling only one, and nobody has the space to offer them all. Maybe Krochs has the space, but they don't use it for that. There's a bookstore downtown that only carries publications of the federal government -- of course, they're government themselves, so they don't have to worry about paying the rent. So do you compete with me? Not necessarily because you're running a bookstore."

On sharing customers and resulting cohesion: "Some people love to read. Every adult you see can read. Only some of them do, and only some of those who do read for pleasure. Maybe a tenth of those buy half the books -- half the used books, anyway. I've heard people in the business bitch about libraries. I'm not bothered by libraries. People who love books read library books and buy from me. People who wouldn't darken the door of a library seldom come in here, either. You go to a university. You don't see the non-readers." She wasn't sure about that. Absolute illiterates were kept out, but she'd known plenty of students who never read for pleasure. "So you get a place which services readers. Sure that book he buys from you he isn't going to buy from me. But you feed his jones, and he's likely to come to me to feed it, too. And, of course, used-book stores couldn't live without new-book stores."

About his relation with Second Foundation Books: "John's a great guy, used to be a customer, well a seller. There are some people who never buy used books but sell them to me. There are others who buy from me and never sell. I'd love to see where they keep them. Lots of people both buy and sell. Anyway, John was one of those who bought new, and only had so much room in his apartment. I'll swear that was the only reason he ever sold. Of course, that meant that I only got the books that he liked least. Still, tastes vary. Anyway, he wanted to sell books, and I told him what I know. Considering his different tastes, it wasn't a whole lot. People who drive far to his store sometimes come in here, too. Most times not, but I'd never see any of them if he weren't here. Some of the locals shop in his used section, but I don't lose much because of that, and lots of those books come through here, afterwards. As I said, some people buy used books and sell them again.

"And they don't sell them to him?"

"Well, I'm sure that some do -- his buddies from the SF fan clubs, especially. But we pay the same, and lots of people are used to dealing with me. They only go to John because they have to see all the books that they can. Then, too, if you have a variety of books to sell, John will only take the science fiction and fantasy. So John contributes to the flow of used books in the neighborhood. If he knows this, and I don't think he does, he'd be happy. John is a seller because he couldn't eat otherwise, but he's an evangelist by nature. He wants you to read science fiction. If I sell more of it, he's pleased."

More on the book-store owners' motivations: "As far as I know, grocers don't enjoy eating any more than you and I do. But you don't open a book store because you want to go into retail and books look like a rich market. You open a bookstore because you love books. You'd like to eat, too, but you get to live with books. John says that he used to have a fetish; now he has an inventory."

Fred kept talking when customers came in unless they came to the counter. When a third customer came in the store while two were already there, she tumbled that people had come home from work. She looked at her watch -- after 5:30. These must be people who worked close. Still...

"Look, this has been fascinating," she told Fred. "I however, have obligations that I'm not going to meet on time. May I come back?"

"Certainly. We open at one every weekday. Weekend hours are longer, but I might not be able to give you as much attention."

"You've been wonderful." And she went out. The street wasn't that busy, but she could see that the next four-lane street was. She needed to get home, and she didn't know whether the expressways would be useful or parking lots. When she was moving in the car, she turned on the radio.

Instead of the traffic report, she got the national news. In testimony before the impeachment committee, Alexander Butterfield -- the name didn't bring any details to her head -- had admitted that Nixon had taped almost all conversations at the White House.

She was incensed. Then she thought that Bill would be devastated. Bugging the Democrats was understandable, a crime, but an understandable crime. Nixon could deal with the Russians and the Chinese; they were competitive superpowers. The Democrats, on the other hand, were the enemy -- certainly Bill thought so. But bugging his own people? Could even Tricky Dick stoop so low?

Anyway, traffic was a mess and the radio wasn't much help. All the expressways were round-about anyway. They could get you from the Loop anywhere. To get from the Northwest Side to Evanston, you'd have to take two. She'd stick to the grid, but -- just now -- she was going west. She turned on Milwaukee, still going northwest. Then she got to Pulaski and a traffic light. She was now going north, crawling north, at least. Traffic was heavy.

Poor Bill would be worried. He expected her to be home before him, and she almost always was. And she still had dinner to fix, although that would be a breeze.

By the time she got to Dempster, it was nearly 6:30. Dempster was fine going east. (Westbound was a parking lot, but that didn't affect her.) She got to the street in front of the apartment house in minutes. Finding a parking space took longer.

"Sorry about this," she told Bill when she got in the door, "Last interview of the day turned into a gold mine. Have you eaten?"

"Eaten what?" His voice was surly. And there was no suggestion of a welcome-home kiss. Well, he might have neglected the food, but he hadn't neglected the drink. The kitchen cabinet which held the whiskey bottles was open, and one of the bottles was on the table in front of him.

"I told you that dinner would be meat loaf."

"You also told me that you'd fix it." He sounded like a kid about to cry.

"Well, I don't expect you to be able to cook. That takes the ability to understand a cook book. I do expect you to be able to warm up two slices of meatloaf." She, of course, would cook vegetables, warm up the potatoes, fix a salad and serve a dessert. Still, before she came along, he'd been content with one dish for a meal. And, nothing on her list required real cooking except the vegetables, and that only boiling water. For that matter, the potatoes in the refrigerator, without the warming, would be perfectly edible. Anyway, she was hungry. She started on the preparations. He didn't even get the dishes down.

"Look, I work all day and bring home a paycheck. I do some of the housework." Damned little, even including setting the table -- a task which seemed to be beyond him tonight. "We agreed that you'd have this year for your dissertation, but also that you'd take care of the house. I don't give a damn about the cleaning, but I do expect to eat dinner -- to, at least, see dinner cooking -- when I get home. I call you when I'll be late. And you're late for no other reason than you decided that your work was more interesting at the moment. And you don't even call." That was unfair. He had a phone on his desk. Should she have looked for a payphone instead of heading straight home?

"I'm real grateful that you condescend enough to set the table when I cook a meal. I suppose your neglecting that tonight is to teach me how much effort you make." The meat loaf for tonight had been wrapped separately in foil, and she'd put in the refrigerator this morning. She had just got it out of the 'fridge, unwrapped it, separated the three slices, and put each in the fry pan. "Well..." -- she got down the plates and glasses for the table, she got out the silverware and paper napkins, and she set the table -- "I'm not impressed. I've just spent an hour fighting traffic, I'm frazzled, I got a huge dump of information verbally that I haven't had time to write down. One of us is sitting down relaxing, and it's not me." When the meat looked warm enough, she turned each slice over with the spatula. She got enough potatoes for this day out of the dish from the refrigerator and put them in the frypan, too. She put the dish back in the refrigerator.

"And I am impressed. Look how fast you're working. And it's only an hour after the food was supposed to be ready. And such lavish attention to the preparation, too. Warm up the meal in one frying pan." That was unfair. She'd cooked this food, just not tonight.

"Well, I never claimed that operating the stove was an esoteric art. I even implied that even a man who needs someone else to find a file for him can learn to turn on the gas."

"I don't need someone else to find a file for me. They find the files because taking care of files is their job. It's just that I'm used to people who actually do their jobs -- not to people who decide that something else is more interesting for the moment and expect me to do their jobs for them." She was tearing the lettuce apart. She turned off the stove, but left the food in the fry pan and the cover on it. The potatoes would continue to warm up.

She started the peas boiling, got the salad ready and got the jar of salad dressing out of the refrigerator. When the timer rang, she dished up the peas, brought the other courses to the table, and sat down.

"Do you want to eat," she asked in her most saccharin tone, "or do you intend to get all your calories from alcohol?" He dished himself up a few potatoes and two slices of meat loaf. She'd intended the two slices for him, but it was a little selfish to take them right away.

"Well you drink, and don't pretend you don't."

"The question, Bill, is not whether but how much and when." She'd got pie-faced once in high school and once in college. Those had both been learning experiences, although you might have expected a bright girl to have learned from the first without needing the second. She drank socially, occasionally with Bill, and not more than two drinks a night.

"You drink and nag me about my drinking." This was the first time she'd been critical. "You smoke, and I don't. But you don't hear me nagging you." Bill didn't hear him nagging her; she sure did. That's because Bill never heard what he was saying.

"I smoke in my office so as not to annoy you. I'd have been home earlier if I hadn't taken time to smoke a cigarette when I wasn't in the car."

"And the smell doesn't go from your sacred office into the rest of the house? The door is open, even." She'd asked about that.

"The door is open because the room is an oven in the summer with it closed. The afternoon sun shines right in."

"When I'm home, you shut me out. When I'm not home, you let the smoke into the rest of the house." Well, she shut the door while she was smoking. If he expected her to be a housekeeper and cook in her spare time, it was ridiculous to expect her to keep the door closed from the office to the house she was supposed to clean and cook in.

"The door is closed to keep the smoke away from your oh-so-sensitive nose. It also allows you your pleasures while I'm at work at my job. Which doesn't stop when the clock hits five like some people's jobs do. You can watch TV while I'm collating information and looking up locations on the map. I notice that you didn't watch while I was gone. You only watch when the sound can distract me." Well, she sometimes watched with him, and sometimes slept in while he went off to work. But she damn-well didn't watch TV when he wanted to work on something.

"The only thing on television tonight is your pet liberals beating up on Dick Nixon. That isn't news; they've been doing it since he was VP in '52." Actually, although the election was in '52, Tricky Dick didn't get to be vice president until '53. But that wasn't the real problem with his statement -- not even one of the top ten.

"Poor Bill. Your idol has feet of clay. He not only bugs his enemies, he bugs his minions."

"He was making a record of what he said. Your pals always try to twist his words. Why shouldn't he have records of every word so he can set the record straight?"

"Fine. I wish I had brought a tape recorder with me today. But, if I had, I'd have told the guy I was recording. That's what you do. That's what honest people do."

"When you talk to the president of the United States, you're making an official report or an official recommendation. You should be willing to stand by your words. You don't have the inalienable right to remember that you'd recommended something else."

"And those aren't the country's few liberals you hear talking. They're the guys who are in the business of reporting facts. That's what gets you on the enemies list -- reporting facts."

"You mispronounced 'distorting.'" And dinner conversation went on from there, not finding any new ground, but finding plenty of occasion to fight over the old ground. The American Civil War had nothing on the Pierces' civil War. They had a second battle of Bull Run. The Pierces had a fourth battle of bull shit that very night. She dished half the remainder of the can of cherries from the refrigerator into a bowl and took it and the spoon with her to the office.

"If you want any," she commented as she left, "there's a can in the 'fridge. If a spoon is beyond your skill level, you could pour it into a bowl." She put down the spoon and bowl and went back to slam the office door.

She ate half the bowl and then put it aside to do some work. She wrote down what she could remember of what Fred had said, often pausing in her memories of the afternoon to fume over her memories of the evening. The sanctimonious bastard hadn't objected to the smell of tobacco when he'd taken her on this very desk. She had to keep her smoking out of the bedroom so he didn't have to smell it; he didn't have to keep himself out of here so he didn't smell the cigarettes she'd smoked here. With that thought, she lit her last one for the day.

Fred had been very insightful. What would it be like to live with a man who understood things, who had understandings to share with you rather than misunderstandings of what almost everyone else understood? Bill was getting shit-faced because his little tin god had broken, and he wasn't even willing to admit that he was broken. He didn't have anything to eat? The refrigerator was full, the pantry was full, the freezer was more than half full. There were, for God's sake, restaurants and diners within close walking distance. There were pizza places and Chinese places which delivered. The man was helpless -- and hopeless.

She pulled the Yellow Pages in front of her and looked up some more addresses. For every Chicago address -- suburban book stores could advertise there, but not every one did, ruining it as a source for her purposes -- she put a pin in the large map of Chicago stuck to the cork board on the wall. She also made out a card. When a pin looked close to another pin, she got the card for that address and compared them. If the stores were on the same block, she put in a special pin -- a hat pin, really.

She went back to finish the cherries. Then she smoked another cigarette. She wrote down the last of what she could remember from Fred. She wondered how much of that she could use. She'd have to ask his permission to quote him -- ask him, since she hadn't taped his remarks, if they accurately reflected his opinion if not quite his words. She operated that way because she was an honest academic. Tricky Dick snuck around because he was a sneaky, tricky, dick head.

And, speaking of dick heads, who else thought with his prick? She'd bet anything that Bill would want to get his jollies off on her body tonight after calling her every name in the book. Well, he could think again -- if he thought at all. She lit another cigarette and went back to the Yellow Pages.

She was thirsty. You'd think the cherries and all that juice would quench her thirst. Instead, it made it worse. The juice was too thick. She started to snuff her cigarette out to go to the kitchen, but the hell with him. Puffing, she got a full glass of water. Still puffing, she left the glass in her office while she visited the john.

After coming back to the office and snubbing out the cigarette, she drank some of the water, the rest of the cherry juice from the from the bowl, and another long sip of water. She copied the last addresses from the Yellow Pages. With the pins all in the map, she put the new cards in alphabetical order by street name. Then she pulled the Chicago White Pages towards her. The front of the book had a street directory which told how far north, south, east, or west the grid streets were. She put the east-west number on the top right corner of the card and the north-south number on the top left corner. North and east were negative numbers. Then she ordered those cards and interfiled them with those she'd filled out earlier.

The map would let her see her information. The cards would put that information in verbal form. She would get the census info sometime soon. She'd put in an appendix of bookstores by census tract compared -- probably correlated -- with population. Some of these "bookstores" looked like porno shops to her. Well if they sold dirty books, they sold books.

Others were associated with Universities. She'd find someone to interview at Northwestern. They had some sort of obligation; she was a student and a long-time customer. She'd have an interview that she could evaluate to tell her what she should have asked. She'd ask those questions at the bookstores at the other universities and colleges. She wouldn't use the answers from Northwestern; they weren't in Chicago. Really, though, the location of university and college bookstores wasn't a question for regional economics. They were located near their institutions -- duh!

Her mind had already turned off when she lit her last cigarette of the evening. The ashtray looked full; what had happened to her 4-per-day ration? Well, Bill had happened to it -- that's what. Well, fuck Bill. Better yet, don't fuck Bill.

When she finished the cigarette and went out into the dining room, the rest of the apartment looked dark. She turned on the living room light to see into the bedroom without waking Bill. She didn't want more fighting. She got her nightie, robe, and slippers. Bill was sprawled across the bed under the sheet. It was a double bed, but he was on the diagonal so that there wasn't any room for her. Also, it was chilly. The air conditioner was, when she checked it, turned up to high. That machine had once cooled Bill's entire apartment; now it only needed to cool this room. A larger one was in the living room. He probably thought the chill would make her cuddle up against him when she was falling asleep. No way! She turned it off.

Done with her bathroom time, she turned off all the lights on her way until she got to the bedroom. She turned on the overhead.

"Whuh?" That was the most intelligent thing he'd said all evening.

"Move over to your own side." She took off the robe.

"Night gown? No way. You're not bleeding now, and don't pretend you are."

"What I'm not doing is having sex with an asshole who insults me. Move to your own side." When he did, she turned off the light and got into bed. She lay down near the edge of her side of the bed.

"You can't..." He touched her breast through the nightie.

"I can. What part of the word 'no' is too complicated for you to understand?" She slapped at the hand, but couldn't hit him hard because it would just hurt her breast. She turned away, and he stroked down her side towards her ass. "Go away," she told him. She turned onto her stomach. She felt the sheet being drawn away from her. "Some of us did some work this evening. I need to sleep."

"Fine," She could feel the mattress quiver as he raised himself up. He tossed the bottom of her nightie up and rested his hand on her ass, through a couple of folds of it. She hit out at his arm and started to roll over. He pounced. His weight came down on her back, pressing her into the bed. His hand between her shoulder blades seemed to be bearing a good portion of his weight. The rest seemed to be on the hand pushing her ass down. Her breasts were getting squeezed. He should let up; he might not care about her, but he cared about her breasts. When she couldn't turn over, she began to kick back from the knees. He seemed to find that easy to avoid.

Bill stuck a foot between her kicking legs. Soon, he'd forced her legs apart. After jerking the nightie further up, he stroked her ass. His hand traveled down the ass crack and between her legs. She tried to close her legs, but he had most of one leg between them. She rolled her hips forward when a finger touched the back of her lips, but it went inexorably downward. He paused only to rub her lips against each other. Despite her discomfort, her body betrayed her; she could feel that friction get smoother as her liquids flowed.

He parted those lips and stroked over the edge of the inner ones. Then he parted those and stroked down to her clit.

"This is rape, you know," she warned him.

"Yeah!" Bill sounded happy -- more cheerful than he'd sounded in days. She kicked again, but now her left leg was trapped. He stroked his finger back and forth across her clit. He seemed to be trying to maintain a regular rhythm, but her kicks interrupted that. He kept stroking, though. She was getting tired of her ineffectual kicking. She tried lying quietly until he relaxed, but he didn't relax. She tried to work an arm out where she could scratch him, but her breasts hurt more when she didn't have the support of her arms holding up part of her weight.

Her determination to resist any response to his stroking had very little effect. She felt her arousal grow. Her hips pushed up and down, alternately driving her delta into the matress and raising her ass into his hand. The best she could hope for was that he'd think this was part of her struggles. She could feel herself get close.

When she flew, Bill didn't respond at all. He didn't even change his rhythm. She, however, shivered with the sensations of pleasure that coursed through her. The repletion afterwards was comforting even with Bill's weight on her. Meanwhile, the strokes continued, and the effects continued. And, after a couple of strong efforts to rise under his weight, she found herself getting close again. When she flew for the second time, he continued both the rhythm of the strokes and the pressure holding her down. As she was held there, somehow, the pleasure was confined as well. It filled her to overflowing.

After that, she lost count. Maybe she was in a continuous state of orgasm, but it didn't feel continuous. She could feel herself relax, then feel herself tense again. She could feel her ass shove back, lifting her delta off the sheet. Some time in this unmeasurable, unbearably delightful, inescapable series of orgasms, she was in relaxation when he shoved her legs apart. At another time, she was at the height of tension, her ass up in the air, when he spoke from above the middle of her back.

"Not really." Had she said something? His finger moved from her clit to play with her lips. Even that small change was a relief. Then he drove into her from behind. Little Bill went much deeper than he did when they were lying curled up with Bill behind her. She felt occupied, filled. He was heavier on her ass than ever before, but the hand between her shoulder blades pressed more lightly. Then he moved both hands to her sides. She could ease the pressure on her breasts as he grasped her elbows.

He moved almost out and all the way in again. As he established a regular. nearly metronomic, rhythm, she got close again. When she flew, her ass rose to meet his thrusts. He increased his pace and thrust even more strongly on the in strokes.

She barely had time to relax when she felt herself responding again. Her body was matching his rhythm. As she got close, her heart was pounding and she was breathing in gasps. Would she survive this time? If not, she'd die happy; the feeling was glorious when she flew. And she felt him pulsing deep within her.

They both sank to the bed together. Even with his weight pressing her down, the relief was welcome. She could feel him panting somewhere behind her head. When he finally moved off, she started to roll over onto her back.

"Oh, Carolyn, I love you."

"I love you too."

"You do? I thought you hated me." Hated him? Hated the man who'd brought her such pleasure, such intense, long-lasting, pleasure? On the other hand, the bastard who'd essentially raped her when she'd clearly said no, the two-faced hypocrite who insisted that her smoking be restricted to certain rooms and then got drunk in her kitchen, the last remaining apologist for Tricky Dick -- how could she not hate those Bills?

"Well..." He chuckled and kissed her shoulder.