But after all, even Negroes sunburn—even Papuans get lazy.
Around one o'clock I began to feel—not hungry but empty—and I went in to check on Paul. He was still snoring and sweating.
Four and a half grains of sodium amytal, by itself, wouldn't have knocked him that flat that long. He'd have wakened in six or seven hours, I thought—feeling fuzzy and feeble and maybe a little sick. He still seemed good for more time, to me. It showed just how much sleep he'd left out in the past weeks, past months—worrying about that girl and worrying about making weapons with his beloved mathematics. It was possible, of course, that he'd explode awake any moment—look at his watch—throw an outside loop—and get going like a jet plane.
I wrote him a note saying I was downstairs in the Knight's Bar and that I had a new search in progress. That would bring him.
I got dressed. The gabardine was like wet newsprint.
This time, air conditioning was a relief. I sucked in a lungful and Jay came up.
"Want to sit with Mrs. Prentiss?"
"Sure."
Exactly two days before, she had leaned over the same table, an immaculate grooming operation—hurt, snooty, aloof, reading her disguised book. A Cinderella. Avid and anxious—haughty and pretty hateful—beautiful and not much good. I could say what was different about her now but it would be difficult to convey the true impression of that. Her hair, for one thing. It was just neatly combed—just casual, gold-blonde hair whose owner hadn't taken pains for once, with every single filament. Her dress. Another plain, costly print—but the body inside it was relaxed and not subconsciously trying to avoid creases. It didn't seem to fit quite as perfectly, and yet it suited her better: it made—would make—anybody, any man, look at the girl inside and the clothes after—not the other way around. The Musak was giving out with "Dardanella" and her foot was keeping time under the table.
"Hello, Yvonne."