"Every century has its advantages and itsdrawbacks," he said. "We, for instance,have bred out sexual desire.And, as for you people ..."
YOU DON'T MAKE WINE
LIKE THE GREEKS DID
By DAVID E. FISHER
ILLUSTRATED by SUMMERS
On the sixty-third floor ofthe Empire State Buildingis, among others of itstype, a rather small office consistingof two rooms connectedby a stout wooden door.The room into which the officedoor, which is of opaque glass,opens, is the smaller of thetwo and serves to house a receptionist,three not-too-comfortablearmchairs, and a disorderly,homogeneous mixtureof Life's, Look's and NewYorker's.
Donald was determined to make Mimi go back totheir world—dead or alive!The receptionist is a youngwoman, half-heartedly prettybut certainly chic in the mannerof New York's women ingeneral and of its workingwomen in particular, perhapsin her middle twenties, with apaucity of golden hair whichis kept clinging rather backon her skull by an intricatenetwork of tortoise-shellcombs and invisible pins. Sheis engaged to a man who is inturn engaged in a position foran advertising firm justthirty-seven stories directlybelow her. Her name is Margaret.She often, in periods whenthe immediate consummationof the work on her desk is notof paramount importance, asis often the case, gazes somnolentlyat the floor beside herlarge walnut desk, hoping tocatch a lurking image of herbeloved only thirty-seven storiesaway. She rarely succeedsin viewing him throughthe intervening spaces, butshe does not tire of trying; itis a pleasant enough diversion.There is an electronicsfirm just five stories above herfiance, and perhaps, she reasons,there is interference ofa sort here. Someday maybeshe will catch them with alltheir tubes off. Margaret is aromantic, but she is engagedand thus is entitled.
Beyond the entrance that isguarded by the stout woodendoor is a larger room, darker,quieter, one step more removedfrom the hurrying hallway.A massive but neat desk isplaced before the one set ofwindows, the blinds of whichare kept closed but tilted towardthe sky so that an auraof pale light is continuallyseeping through. The main illuminationcomes from severallamps placed in strategiccorners, their bulbs turnedaway from the occupants ofthe room.
To one side of the desk is acomfortable-looking deepchair, with leather arms anda back quite high enough tosupport one's head. In frontof this is the traditionalcouch, armless but well-upholsteredand comfortable. Atthe moment Dr. Victor Quinkwas sitting not in the deepchair but in the swivel chairbehind the desk. His glasseswere lying on the desk next tohis feet, the chair was pushedback as far as it might safelybe, his arms were stretchedout to their extremity, and hismouth was straining open, asif to split his cheeks. Dr.Quink was yawning.
His method of quick relaxationwas that of the blankmind; he was at this very momentforcibly evicting allvestiges of thought from hishead; he was concentrating intentlyon black, on depth, onabsolute silence. He was ableto maintain this discipline forperhaps a second, or a secondand a half at most, and thenhis mind began, imperceptiblyat the first, to slip offalong a path of its own liking,leading Dr. Quink quietly andunprotestingly along. Thepath is narrow, crinkly, bendingback upon itself. It is nota path for vehicles, but oneworn by a single pair