bout it. "Look, you must
have _something_ you could wear."

"Get out of here, you vacant minded conformist! I _like_ Mort Lenny, he
makes me laugh; I _hate_ vodka martinis, they give me sour stomach; I
don't _like_ the current women's styles, nor the men's either." LaVerne
spun back to her auto-typer and began to dictate into it.

Larry glared down at her. "All right. O.K. What _do_ you like?"

She snapped back irrationally, "I like what _I_ like."

He laughed at her in ridicule.

This time she glared at him. "That makes more sense than you're capable of
assimilating, Mr. Walking Status Symbol. My likes and dislikes aren't
dictated by someone else. If I like corny music, I'll listen to it and the
devil with Brahms or Dixieland or anything else that somebody else tells
me is all the thing!"

He turned on his heel angrily. "O.K., O.K., it takes all sorts to make a
world, weirds and all."

"One more label to hang on people," she snarled after him. "Everything's
labels. Be sure and never come to any judgments of your own!"

What a woman! He wondered why he'd ever bothered to ask her for a date.
There were so many women in this town you waded through them, and here he
was exposing himself to be seen in public with a girl everybody in the
department knew was as weird as they came. It didn't do your standing any
good to be seen around with the type. He wondered all over again why the
Boss tolerated her as his receptionist-secretary.

He got his car from the parking lot and drove home at a high level.
Ordinarily, the distance being what it was, he drove in the lower and
slower traffic levels but now his frustration demanded some expression.

-------------------------------------

Back at his suburban auto-bungalow, he threw all except the high priority
switch and went on down into his small second cellar den. He didn't really
feel like a night on the town anyway. A few vodka martinis under his belt
and he'd sleep late and he wanted to get up in time for an early start for
Florida. Besides, in that respect he agreed with the irritating wench.
Vermouth was never meant to mix with Polish vodka. He wished that Sidecars
would come back.

In his den, he shucked off his jacket, kicked off his shoes and shuffled
into Moroccan slippers. He went over to his current reading rack and
scowled at the paperbacks there. His culture status books were upstairs
where they could be seen. He pulled out a western, toss