Free (1961) The Chapman Report by Irving Wallace

lifeless in a Bel-Air swimming pool. The sorrow had been that which grieved over the human condition; the unfairness of the life-promise that held out so much alive and then withdrew it so quickly. This was her sorrow, and this only. But as for the man, the one whose name and child she bore, the tears she had shed were not tears of love but tears of relief. Who would understand that?
    “Maybe you’re right,” she said to Scoville at last. “Now what were the questions you wanted to ask?”
     
    THEY BRACED THEMSELVES against the lurching of the train as it scraped around a curve, and then, as it seemed to shake itself straight again and pick up speed beneath them, the iron wheels clacking rhythmically on the rails, they relaxed once more.
    They had been proofing the results of the week of sampling in East St. Louis, and now they were nearing the end of a five-minute recess, smoking in silence, making sporadic, inconsequential comments, waiting to resume.
    Paul Radford sucked noisily at his straight-stemmed pipe, then realized the tobacco was burned out, and began to empty the white ash into the wall tray. “Do you really think Los Angeles will wrap it up?” he asked.
    Across the way, Dr. George G. Chapman looked up from the sheaf of papers in his hand. “I don’t know for sure, Paul. Probably. We had a wire from that woman-Mrs. Waterton-president of the … the …” He tried to remember. There had been so many.
    “The Briars’ Women’s Association,” said Dr. Horace Van Duesen.
    Dr. Chapman nodded. “Yes, that’s it; she promised a hundred per cent turnout.”
    “It never works out that way,” said Cass Miller sourly.
    Dr. Chapman frowned. “It might. But let’s say we get seven per cent response-I think we’ve been averaging close to that well, that would be sufficient. We can cancel the optional engagement in San Francisco. We can just call it quits on the interviews and settle down to the paper work.” He forced a smile. “I guess you boys would like that?”
    There was no response. Paul Radford slowly rubbed the warm bowl of his pipe. Horace Van Duesen removed his horn-rimmed spectacles, held them up to the light, put them on again. Cass Miller chewed steadily at his gum, staring down at the worn carpeting.
    Dr. Chapman sighed. “All right,” he said, running a hand across his flat, slick gray hair, “all right, let’s get back to the proofing.”
    For a moment longer, his eyes held on the three younger men cramped in the gray and green train bedroom that smelled, of the now familiar smell of paint and metal. He could see the boredom and inattention on their faces, but he determinedly ignored this and, once more, bent his eyes closely to the typed manuscript in his hand. It was difficult focusing on the figures in the dim yellow overhead train light.
    “Now, then, we’ve incorporated the East St. Louis sampling. That means-according to what I have here-we’ve interviewed 3,107 women to date.” He glanced at Paul, as he usually did. “Correct?”
    “Correct,” repeated Paul, consulting the yellow pages in his hand. To Paul’s right, Cass and Horace also looked fixedly at the papers in their laps and tiredly nodded their agreement.
    “All right,” said Dr. Chapman. “Now, let’s check this carefully. It’ll save us a good deal of drudgery when we get home.” He shifted slightly in his chair, brought the manuscript closer to his face, and began to read aloud in a low, uncritical monotone. “Question.’ Do you feel any sexual desire at the sight of the male genitalia? Answer. Fourteen per cent feel strong desire, thirty-nine per cent feel a slight desire, six per cent say it depends on the entire physique of the man, forty-one per cent feel nothing at all.” Dr. Chapman lifted his head, pleased. “Significant,” he said. “Especially when you recollect our figures on male response to female nudity in the bachelor survey. Paul, make a note on that. I want to draw the analogy when I