He had seen further confirmation in addition to Patricia, whose behavior he had discounted somewhat from a vague feeling that a tattooed lady might very well have odd habits about clothing. On coming into the living room they had passed a man headed the other way, toward the baths and the “little nests”—and he had worn less than Patricia by one snake and lots of pictures. He had greeted them with “Thou art God” and gone on, apparently as used to buff as Patricia was. But, Ben reminded himself, this “brother” hadn’t seemed surprised that Ben was dressed, either.

There had been other such evidence in the living room: a body sprawled face down on a couch across the room—a woman, Ben thought, although he had not wanted to stare after a quick glance had shown him that this one was naked, too.

Ben Caxton had thought himself to be sophisticated about such things. Swimming without suits he considered only sensible. He knew that many families were casually naked in their own homes—and this was a family, of sorts sorts—although he himself had not been brought up in the custom. He had even (once) let a girl invite him to a nudist resort, and it had not troubled him especially, after the first five minutes or so—he had simply regarded it as a silly lot of trouble to go to for the dubious pleasures of poison ivy, scratches, and an all-over sunburn that had put him in bed for a day.

But now he found himself balanced in perfect indecision, unable to make up his mind between the probable urbanity of removing his symbolic fig leaf . . . and the even stronger probability—certainty he decided—that if he did so and strangers came in who were dressed and stayed that way, he would feel all-fired silly! Hell, he might even blush!

“What would you have done, Jubal?” Ben demanded.

Harshaw lifted his eyebrows. “Are you expecting me to be shocked, Ben? I have seen the human body, professionally and otherwise, for most of a century. It is often pleasing to the eye, frequently most depressing—and never significant per se. Only in the subjective value the viewer places on the sight. I grok Mike runs his household along nudist lines. Shall I cheer? Or must I cry? Neither. It leaves me unmoved.”

“Damn it, Jubal, it’s easy for you to sit there and be Olympian about it—you weren’t faced with the choice. I’ve never seen you take off your pants in company.”

“Nor are you likely to. ‘Other times, other customs.’ But I grok you were not motivated by modesty. You were suffering from a morbid fear of appearing ridiculous—a well-known phobia with a long, pseudo-Greek name with which I shall not bore you.”

“Nonsense! I simply wasn’t certain what was polite.”

“Nonsense to you, sir—you already knew what was polite . . . but were afraid you might look silly . . . or possibly feared being trapped inadvertently in the gallant reflex. But I seem to grok that Mike had a reason for instituting this household custom—Mike always has reasons for everything he does, although some of them seem strange to me.”

“Oh, yes. He has reasons. Jill told me about them.”

Ben Caxton was standing in the foyer, his back to the living room and his hands on his shorts, having told himself, not very firmly, to take the plunge and get it over with—when two arms came snugly around his waist from behind. “Ben darling! How wonderful to have you here!”

He turned and had Jill in his arms and her mouth warm and greedy against his—and was very glad that he had not quite finished stripping. For she was no longer “Mother Eve”; she was wearing one of the long, all-enveloping priestess robes. Nevertheless he was happily aware that he had a double armful of live, warm, and gently squirming girl; her priestly vestment was no greater impediment than would have been a thin gown, and both kinesthetic and tactile senses told him that the rest was Jill.

“Golly!” she said, breaking from the kiss. “I’ve missed you, you old beast. Thou art God.”

“Thou art God,” he conceded. “Jill, you’re prettier than ever.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “It does that for you. But I can’t tell you what a thrill it gave me to catch your eye at the blow-off.”

“‘Blow-off’?”

“Jill means,” Patricia put in, “the end of the service where she is All Mother, Mater Deum Magna. Kids, I must rush.”

“Never hurry, Pattycake.”

“I gotta rush so I won’t have to hurry. Ben, I must put Honey Bun to bed and go down and take my class—so kiss me good-night now. Please?”

Ben found himself kissing good-night a woman still wrapped most thoroughly by a giant snake—and decided that he could think of better ways . . . say wearing full armor. But he tried to ignore Honey Bun and treat Patty as she deserved to be treated.