Free (1961) The Chapman Report by Irving Wallace Page A

write the final report.”
    Paul nodded, and dutifully jotted a sentence in the margin of his paper, even though twice before in the last month he had been requested to record the very same notation. Doing so, he wondered if Dr. Chapman was as tired as he, and Horace, and Cass. It was unlike him to be forgetful and repetitious. Perhaps the fourteen months of almost uninterrupted traveling, interviewing, recording, proofing, were taking their toll.
    Dr. Chapman was reading silently ahead. “Interesting,” he mused, “how close these East St. Louis figures are to the national average.”
    “I think it’s obvious women are the same everywhere,” said Cass.
     
    Horace turned to Cass. “How do you account for those lopsided percentages in Connecticut and Pennsylvania?”
    “It wasn’t a regional divergence,” said Cass. “Those women chased more because their husbands were commuting-and they had too much money and nothing else to do. It was social and economic.”
    “All right, boys,” said Dr. Chapman quickly, “let’s not start analyzing-“
    “I saw the advance sheet on The Briars,” continued Cass. “With that income level, I’ll lay two to one that we are approaching the land of the round heels.”
    Horace held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, Mother Shipton.”
    “I don’t like that kind of talk,” Dr. Chapman said firmly” to Cass. “We’re scientists, not schoolboys.” Cass bit his lip and was silent.
    Dr. Chapman regarded him quietly a moment, and then relented slightly. “We’re all overtired. I know that. Exhaustion creates impatience, and impatience makes objectivity go out the window. We’ve got to watch it. We’re not to permit ourselves snap judgments and unproved generalities. We’re in pursuit of facts-facts and nothing more-and I want you to remember that for the next two weeks.”
    Paul wondered how Cass was taking this. He glanced at him. Cass’s mouth was curled in a set smile that wasn’t a smile. “Sorry, teacher,” he said at last.
    Dr. Chapman snorted and returned to the digits before him. “Where were we?”
    Paul hastily answered. “Question. Do you feel any sexual desire at the sight of the male genitalia? Answer. Et cetera, et cetera.” “Do our figures jibe on that one?” asked Dr. Chapman. “Perfect with me,” said Paul. He looked at the other two. Both Horace and Cass nodded.
    “Let’s go on,” said Dr. Chapman. His stubby finger found his place on the page before him. He read aloud. “Question. Does observation of the unclothed male in that photograph of a nudist camp arouse you? Answer. Ten per cent are strongly aroused, twenty-seven per cent only somewhat, and sixty-three per cent not at all.” He lifted his head toward Paul. “Correct?” “Correct,” said Paul. Horace straightened, pulling his shoulders back to work loose
    his stiff muscles. “You know,” he said to Dr. Chapman, “that category keeps giving me more trouble than any other one. So often the answers are not clear cut.”
    “What do you mean?” asked Dr. Chapman.
    “Well, I can give you a dozen illustrations. Do you want me to go into one?”
    “If it’s pertinent,” said Dr. Chapman.
    “When we were in Chicago last month, I asked one sample if the art photographs or paintings of nude males I showed her aroused her. Well, this woman-she must have been about thirty-five-she said that nude art never affected her one way or the other, except one statue in the Art Institute-an ancient nude Greek. Whenever she looked at it, she said, she had to go home and have her husband.”
    “I should think that would indicate sufficient reaction to stimuli,” said Dr. Chapman. “How did you record the answer?”
    “Well, I wanted to be certain that some personal association didn’t make this statue an exceptional thing. I kept cross-checking, as we went along, with other questions. At last, I found out that when she was-sixteen, I think-she used to keep a magazine