And so on. Dull answers all the time. Evidently, nothing very catastrophic had ever happened to him. Now for a frontal attack on the fortress of sex itself.
“Women.” There was rather a long pause, four seconds, and then Dick replied, “Novelist.” Rogers was puzzled.
“Breast.”
“Chicken.” That was disappointing. Rogers could find no trace of those sinister moral censors, expurgators of impulse, suppressors of happiness. Perhaps the trouble lay in religion.
“Christ,” he said.
Dick replied, “Amen,” with the promptitude of a parish clerk.
“God.”
Dick’s mind remained a perfect blank. The word seemed to convey to him nothing at all. God, God. After a long time there appeared before his inward eye the face of a boy he had known at school and at Oxford, one Godfrey Wilkinson, called God for short.
“Wilkinson.” Ten seconds and a fifth.