"I shall. I had no idea I was living next door to a misogynist, and a brutal one at that."
"I don't like women," Kerran said emphatically. "They're all alike. Fickle. Deceivers. Everything about them artificial. Lips, color, shape."
The girl rose and stood over him. "I'm not wearing make-up," she asserted. "You flatter yourself in thinking I would put on my face to come across the hall."
"Your shape! Your hips aren't that neat!"
The color rose in her cheeks. She lifted a hand as though to strike him. The hand trembled. She lowered it to her side. "I do not wear a girdle. Want to feel?"
"No," he said, his own color rising. "Go on home."
Ignoring the pneumatic, she crossed to the door, snatched it open, marched into the corridor. Through the open doorway he heard the knob turn on her door. He went to the pneumatic, picked up the sugar, strode across the corridor and knocked. In a moment her head appeared, then the door swung wide.
"You forgot something," he said contritely. "Sorry I was rude. I'm a natural woman-hater, and a moment before you came in some wench on television triggered my feelings on the subject.... Just keep on your own side of the fence and I'll stay on mine. I'll even speak to you occasionally, if you wish, but that's as far as I'll go in neighborliness."
"Thanks," she said. "You're more than kind. But I shan't trouble you. I've just become a man-hater."
Kerran turned to go. Halfway across the corridor he felt something tug at him. It was a steady and increasingly powerful pull, forcing him into the girl's apartment. He lost his balance, reeled through the doorway, came to a halt against the table, noticed that the force still drew him toward the girl on the far side of the table.