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sooner when he’d sneaked in so silently?
    The surge of relief made his knees shake.
    He put out his arms. “Marcia!”

Chapter Three
Shadow of Ecstasy
    AS CARR WAS about to kiss her, Marcia moved back from him smoothly, hands on his shoulders, inspecting his face.
    “You’re looking well,” she said. “Mix us some drinks while I slip into a dress.”
    She coolly departed and shut the bedroom door behind him.
    Carr located a bottle of rye in the kitchen. Before doing anything else he had a straight shot. The little experience had certainly shaken him up. It was like, but worse than, those moments in childhood when everything seems strangely vivid and at the same time unreal. Chalk on a blackboard. Being outside and through a window watching adults reading newspapers in a living room at night.
    He put a tray of ice in the sink to melt, hunted up ginger ale for himself. Marcia of course would take water, not too much.
    He’d mention his experience to her, jokingly. On second thought, he wouldn’t. At least not right off. Sometimes Marcia wasn’t interested in the subjective. More practical. People, money, the latest news—things like that. Jobs.
    He frowned unhappily, remembering her phone call.
    He took a long time making the drinks, but the bedroom door was still shut when he brought them out. He sat down, holding them, not touching his. It was a bit like waiting in an office.
    When Marcia came in he jumped up, smiling. “Say, are we going to the Pendletons’ party Friday? Should be interesting.”
    She nodded. “You’re meeting Keaton Fisher there.”
    He tried not to hear that.
    Marcia sampled her drink. She had put on a black slip, but no bra. She sat down on the couch.
    “Is it all right?” he asked.
    “Of course,” she said. “Carr, this idea of Keaton’s—”
    “Say, Marcia,” he began moving over so that he stood in front of her, “the queerest thing happened to me this afternoon.”
    “—is a remarkable one,” she concluded.
    He gave up. “Well, what is it exactly?” he asked, starting to sit down close beside her. But she swung around toward him, so that he had to take the other end of the couch, leaving a business-like distance between them.
    “In the first place, this is confidential,” she began. “Keaton asked me not to tell anyone. You’ll have to pretend you’re getting it from him first hand, Friday night.” She paused. “It’s an editorial counseling service.”
    “What’s that?”
    “You’ll take ailing magazines of all sorts, newspapers, trade journals, etcetera, analyze them and their difficulties, conduct surveys of readers and advertisers, reshape their policies and modernize their methods, pump them full of new ideas—in short, sell them the advice that will put them on their feet.”
    Carr tried to look thoughtful. Marcia swept on, “Keaton has his plans all laid. He’s gone into it very carefully. He’s spotted some likely first clients—badly edited publications he knows it’ll be easy to improve. That way you’ll get a reputation right from the start. Once the circulation of those first publications begins to climb, watch the others flock to you! Even if you have to lose money to turn the trick, it will be worth it.”
    Carr frowned. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Magazine and newspaper guys have their own ideas. They don’t put much trust in the judgment of outsiders.”
    Marcia smiled with the faintest touch of pity. “Most publishers know that they can’t have editorial staffs that are the equal of Life or the Post, simply because they can’t pay the money. But they can have an editorial counseling service that’s that good, because dozens of other publishers will help to bear the expense.
    Carr shrugged. “If we were as good as Life or the Post, why wouldn’t we start a magazine of our own?”
    This time Marcia did not smile, although the suggestion of pity was if anything more marked. “Objections, again. Always objections. Next