"Not always. Sometimes they resented me, because they needed help and felt dependent on me. Also, they often resented hiring a temporary partner they had to pay. They know they're paying Dr. Freeberg five thousand dollars for the course of treatment. They know that from that fee, he will be paying each of us seventy-five dollars an hour or one hundred and fifty dollars for a two-hour session. Sometimes patients don't like that aspect of it. One of my patients once said to me, 'You're on the payroll, Gayle. I can't see myself relating to you as a caring person.' But eventually he did, and so did the others. I learned that if they trusted Dr. Freeberg, they invariably soon trusted me. It's really not a big problem."

Then she went on again.

"The big problem is the inadequate male's attitude. Once he's had trouble, with every new encounter, he takes on the role of spectator during his own sexual act, with no spontaneity, just waiting to observe if anything will happen, if he can make it work. That's the real problem. As Dr. Masters said, 'An impotent male is traumatized infinitely more above the neck than he is below the belt.'

"I found out that most disorders began when the patient was young, perhaps in his teens. At that time, the young man realized he didn't need to give or receive any touching or caressing because he could get aroused quickly and could go right at it. He was usually able to find a willing partner who thought that was what sex was all about and was ready to reinforce his bad habits. But as our young man grew older, no longer nineteen but now forty-nine, he found that his poor training in foreplay was working against him. A woman's bare breasts no longer turned him on as they once did. Arousal and erection were more difficult to attain. Because he never depended on touching, only on what he saw and wanted, he ceased being turned on as fast. He began to panic. He began to look for younger and sexier women, and when that stimulus also ceased to work, the man's entire sexual system broke down. He became dysfunctional.

"All this can be changed, through the exercises, by getting the patient in touch with his feelings, so he enjoys the pleasures of intimacy. At no time are the exercises enough. You will learn, as I have learned, that you must communicate with the patient steadily-not as a technician but as a human being, through constant caressing, cuddling, and being sensual."

She searched her mind to see if there was more to say. There did not seem to be. From now on, for the surrogates, there remained the relationships and their actions.

"Tonight," said Gayle, "I will undertake my first case in Hillsdale. It will not be an easy one. Mine involves an adult young man who has a problem involving impotency that naturally is affecting his work. The patient's impotency, I am told, grows from an obsessive self-concern that his penis is too small."

"Is it?" Paul Brandon asked from the group of surrogates.

For an instant, Gayle stopped, startled. Her eyes held on the speaker, the one male in the surrogate group. She spoke to him directly, trying to keep her tone even. "Mr. Brandon, there is no such thing as too small. Certainly you know that. I'm sure my patient will, eventually, do as well as anyone-as even yourself."

Still annoyed, Gayle turned away from him to conclude with the others.

"Tomorrow, you all begin. I hope you derive as much happiness from what you will be doing as I have. Dr. Freeberg has already wished you luck. To that I can only add, I wish you success."

At promptly three thirty in the afternoon, Suzy ushered Adam Demski into Dr. Freeberg's office.

Freeberg shook hands with the first patient who had come to his Hillsdale clinic several days earlier. He greeted the man cordially and pointed him to a comfortable chair across from his desk.

Returning to his own swivel chair, Freeberg was secretly pleased that Demski had arrived at all today, let alone promptly. After their first meeting, Freeberg had wondered if this patient, referred by a Chicago psychoanalyst, would go through with it and actually show up. In their first confidential meeting, Demski had been diffident, nervous to the point of being almost inarticulate, and only after the most artful questioning had Freeberg been able to learn the details of his patient's impotency.

At the end of the initial meeting, Freeberg had packed Demski off to get a physical examination from Dr. Stan Lopez, the general physician he trusted and intended to use in all his cases. The purpose had been to learn if Demski's condition was organic or the result of psychological factors. Demski's personal physician in Chicago had indicated that he had found no organic problems during earlier examinations. Still, Freeberg had to be doubly certain of this and had requested Dr. Lopez to reexamine the patient. If the problem did have some organic cause, Dr. Freeberg had expected to divert Demski to physicians who would treat his sexual dysfunction from a medical view. If, on the other hand, his visitor's problem were psychological, Freeberg planned to go ahead and apply sex therapy with the use of his most experienced sex surrogate.

This afternoon's second meeting was for the purpose of reviewing Dr. Lopez's report on Demski's physical condition and then introducing him to Gayle Miller and discussing with him the procedure that would be followed in surrogate treatment.

Through the thick lens of his spectacles, Freeberg could see that Demski was again exceedingly apprehensive. Demski, rather anemic in appearance, sat uneasily in his chair, his lanky frame fidgeting as he kept his gaze fixed on the carpet.

Running his fingers through his bristly, unruly dark hair, Dr. Freeberg then stroked his short graying beard as he once more scrutinized the results of Dr. Lopez's physical report.

Wearing his most engaging smile, Freeberg said, "Well, Mr. Demski, I think I can reassure you about one thing. Your disorder has no organic basis. That is something to be grateful for." He tapped the report on his desk. "Dr. Lopez seems to have done a very thorough job. I see he even had an excellent urologist, Dr. Gerald Clark, look you over."

Demski nodded. Then he said, "Yes."

"All right," Freeberg went on, "let's consider Dr. Lopez's findings together, just to be sure I've not overlooked anything."

Demski nodded unhappily. Somehow, Freeberg could see, his patient did not feel reassured.

Freeberg brought the physician's report up closer to his myopic vision. "I see you were tested for the possibility of undiagnosed diabetes. Such a condition could hurt your blood vessels and possibly make normal physical response difficult. But Dr. Lopez tells us you are not a diabetic. So we can rule that out. Next"-Freeberg's eyes ran down Dr. Lopez's report-"he looked into your vascular condition."

"Vascular?" asked Demski, puzzled.

"Like hardening of the arteries-the penile arteries-which would slow down the blood flow to the genital area and could obstruct an erection." Freeberg shook his head. "Not a thing wrong in that area. The urologist, Dr. Clark, confirmed that by testing the blood pressure of your legs and penis."

Demski nodded unhappily, apparently remembering with embarrassment that genital test.

Freeberg rattled the two sheets in his hand. "Everything else seems clear. You take no antidepressants or tranquilizers. You do not drink to excess. No mood-altering drugs, like cocaine. No amphetamines, barbiturates. No prostate or bladder surgery. No damage at any time to your pelvic area, genitals, or spinal cord." Freeberg paused. "Testosterone level, fine. You are in your forties, aren't you?"

"Forty-two."

"So your libido has not been affected at all. I see here that the urologist did not think a prosthetic implant was called for."

"No."

Freeberg dropped the report on his desk and gazed at the patient squarely. "Plainly, Mr. Demski, your condition does not evolve from an organic impairment."

"It-it comes from something."

"Certainly it does. But not from any physical cause. That has now been confirmed. Your problem, it appears, is a psychological one that continues despite your psychotherapy. Probably after your first failure, there were more failures and an inability to focus on your sensations. This is something I can likely reverse and normalize through diminishing your anxiety. It requires only your full cooperation every step of the way."

"I came here," mumbled Demski.

"You did, and that means you can be helped. As you know, insight or talk therapy can be useful, but often it is not enough. After you had such therapy in Chicago, it proved to be not quite enough. That is why your analyst recommended that you come to California to see me. I will work with you almost daily, of course, but I won't be alone. I will be assisted by a sexual surrogate, a trained woman who will guide you and teach you under my close direction. You know about these partner surrogates from what you learned at home and what you heard from me. You know the functions of a sexual surrogate, don't you?"

"I-I think so, yes," Demski said in a small voice.

"Very well. I've assigned my very best and most experienced sexual surrogate to you. Her name is Gayle Miller, a young lady you should find most agreeable and useful. She's prepared to begin your exercises with you."

"W-when?"

"This evening at seven o'clock at her residence."

Demski looked pale and stricken. "Tonight?"

"Yes. You're ready to start. Now I want you to meet Gayle Miller. She knows your case, of course. She's read the transcript of our first meeting, and I've elaborated upon it personally with her. She will join us; sit in on the rest of our meeting, as I explain to you precisely the program laid out for you and the exact exercises you will undergo with Miss Miller."

Freeberg picked up his receiver, pressed down the intercom button, and said, "Suzy, please send Gayle Miller into my office. We are ready for her now."

The afternoon had waned, and the surrogates, including Gayle Miller, had left for their homes. The Freeberg Clinic was all but empty, except for Freeberg himself, putting away his papers, and Suzy Edwards next door proofing the pages of case histories that she had transcribed from tapes.

Dr. Freeberg, his briefcase in hand, poked his head into his secretary's office. "How goes it, Suzy?"

She lifted her head from her pages, pushing the stray strands of red hair away from her forehead. "Almost done, Doctor. Just catching a few typos. I hear it went well with the surrogates."

"Very well, I think."

Suzy fingered the sheaf of pages on the desk before her. "I must tell you, Doctor, even though I knew what you were doing, I had no idea how difficult and fascinating your cases would be."

"I agree with you. They are fascinating. I never get tired of the human maze, the confusion, the conflict, even the suspense. Yes, they are difficult, every one of them, but I'm confident they'll all make out."

"I'm sure they will."

"Well, I'm off to dinner. When you've finished, leave the transcripts on my desk. Before you leave, be sure to turn on the alarm and lock up. See you tomorrow, Suzy."

"Tomorrow," she said.

After he'd gone, Suzy stared at the door he had closed. Tomorrow, she thought. Why wait? There was still tonight, a long tonight, ahead. Quickly, concentrating, she finished her proofing and checked her pages to see that they were in order. Then, without hesitation, she reached for her telephone.

The decision to call Chet had come to her while she had been proofing. Only when her hand was on the receiver did she hesitate. She considered the call she was about to make and tried to imagine how he might react, not merely to her call but to what could follow.

She thought about Chet Hunter, her new boyfriend, her best, and pictured him as he'd been the first moment she had met him. It had been a month ago, in the Hillsdale Main Public Library. She had been at a reading table, going through some medical magazines to see if she could learn more about Dr. Arnold Freeberg, her new boss. This fellow, probably in his thirties, surely no more than five years older than she, was carrying some books from the shelves, and the only spot open was the chair next to hers. Apologetically, he eased into the chair tight against her own. She had been taken by him at once. He was of medium build, receding neat brown hair, high forehead, soulful brown eyes highlighted by steel-framed spectacles set near the tip of a pug nose, his manner reserved but obviously an intellectual type.

They had exchanged occasional whispered talk, mostly bookish talk, and at closing time, he had accompanied her out of the library, casting sidelong glances at her and, as they were about to part, suddenly asking if she'd like to have a cup of coffee with him. She had wanted to, indeed, and they'd sipped their coffees and become acquainted.

His work had been unclear to her-and in a way, still was. Two years ago he had founded, and still ran, something called the Acme Research Bureau. He was a full-time researcher, he had explained, digging up facts from countless sources for freelance writers, graduate students, magazines, newspapers. He worked on an hourly pay basis, poor pay, set barely at subsistence level, earning just enough to keep him in food, clothing, and a three-room apartment. She wondered what he researched and for whom. Just everything imaginable-who the only bachelor U.S. president was, for a political candidate; what the second highest mountain in the world was, for a travel writer; how advanced the process of cloning was, for a medical magazine; how many reported rapes there had been in Hillsdale and Los Angeles last year, for a Hillsdale attorney . . . She asked how he found his answers, and he explained that he did so by checking books in the library, corresponding with experts, interviewing specialists-why, he had even studied and trained to become a police reservist in the Hillsdale Police Force, to get closer to law enforcement material for many of his clients.

"A police reservist?" Suzy had wondered. "Whatever is that?"

"A part-time auxiliary policeman, a reserve police officer, the way a National Guardsman is a part-time soldier," Hunter had explained. "The police force needs added manpower. They take volunteers. Not easy to become a reservist. You're tested by a physician, then a psychiatrist, and if accepted you go to the Hillsdale Police Academy three nights a week for almost five months. Only two out of fifty of us graduated. At first I was a technical reservist, doing indoor work like taking reports at the police station. Then I studied for the line reserve and was trained in everything from use of firearms to criminal law. I wound up with a blue uniform and badge, a .38 Smith & Wesson pistol, handcuffs, and the rest. I work two eight-hour shifts a month and get fifteen dollars a month as pay. But I don't care about the pay. It's the firsthand research I'm interested in."

"You did all that for research?"

Hunter had considered Suzy's question. "Actually, there was another reason I went through it," Hunter had told her. "You see, this researching is only a stopgap, to keep me going until I can get what I want."

"What do you want, Chet?"

"I'm a born journalist, and I want to be one full-time. My one ambition now is to be a staff reporter on the Hillsdale Daily Chronicle. That's what I really want, really dream about. In fact, that's why I went through the whole heavy business of becoming a police reservist, to help get a lead on a big story and recognize it when it comes along. Otto Ferguson, he's the editor in chief at the Chronicle, he's not sure I'm ready yet. He feels I have to prove myself. So I keep trying and waiting, hoping for that big one. If I ever get it, I'm positive Ferguson will take me on." At this point, he had halted, embarrassed. "Forgive me, Suzy, for running off at the mouth like this. I haven't even asked you what you do. Are you an actress or something like that?"

She had blushed. "Of course not. I just took a job as a medical secretary."

"You could be, an actress, I mean."

Two nights later they had dated more formally. Suzy really liked him. He was the most interesting and darling man she had ever met. She had suspected he liked her, too. The night after that, after dinner, she had asked to see some examples of his work. She had gone up to his three-room apartment, and after two vodkas on the rocks, she had gone to bed with him.

In fact, since then she had gone to bed with him twice more, most recently last night.

She had definitely fallen in love with him, but there was also definitely a problem.

She felt more certain than ever that it could be overcome. She lifted the phone and dialed his number, hoping he was in.

He answered the phone. "Hello . . ."

"Hi, Chet. It's Suzy."

"Suzy, why I-"

"Chet," she said quickly, "if you're free tonight, I'd like to come over and see you for a little while."

"You mean that? Of course I'm free. Gee, Suzy, I guess I didn't expect to hear from you again after last night. You know how much I want to see you."

"Don't be silly. I want to see you, too. Can I come over to your place after dinner? Say, maybe between nine and nine thirty?"

"I can't wait, Suzy. I'll be looking forward."

After hanging up, she sat there staring at the phone. She thought, I'll be looking forward too. Tonight was important, really important. Her whole future was at stake.

Gayle Miller, her legs tucked under her, sat on the couch she had shipped from Tucson and sewed a button on her blue cashmere sweater.

The electric clock, set on the mantel of the fireplace across the small but cozy living room of her newly leased bungalow in Hillsdale, registered a few minutes before seven o'clock in the evening.

If he weren't too frightened, Adam Demski, her very first patient in Hillsdale, should be arriving in a few minutes.

Her mind held only the vaguest picture of him, although she had met with him and with Dr. Freeberg for nearly an hour after the surrogate meeting this afternoon. She retained the impression of a slender, tallish, slightly hunched man, maybe forty, with a hangdog expression, a cadaver type of narrow, sunken countenance, a tentative person in every way, with his concern over a small penis. Two women, a new girlfriend and then a prostitute, had mocked him for it. So he had been unable to get it up after that. Not up at all. He had buried himself in his work, accountancy in Chicago, and avoided women socially. Had tried dating a few who were kinder, but that hadn't helped. His penis had remained flaccid. And recently, his work, or rather his attitude toward it, had become flaccid, too. It was then that he had consulted a psychoanalyst, but verbalizing had not solved his erectile problem. Determined to help him, the psychoanalyst had referred Adam to Dr. Freeberg. Now Adam Demski was in Hillsdale to be resurrected among the living.

The doorbell rang.

Hastily, Gayle gathered her sweater and sewing kit together, stuffed them into the drawer of the end table beside the sofa, then stood up and appraised herself in the wall mirror. She fluffed her hair a little, otherwise, everything was in place.

She went to the front door and opened it.

A pale youngish man, somewhat taller than she remembered, and thinner, stood there under the yellow porch light. "I-I'm Adam Demski," he said, his voice constricted. "I don't know if you remember."

"Of course I remember." Cheerfully, she put out her hand. "And in case you forgot, I'm Gayle Miller. We have a date. I hoped you wouldn't stand me up."

"I wouldn't," he muttered, pausing there, staring at her, not yet taking her hand.

Gayle was used to this, the standing and staring, because it had happened to her before. This happened, she guessed, because the patients had formed their own mental image of what a sex surrogate would look like. In Dr. Freeberg's office, Demski had scarcely looked at her. Probably he expected someone more hardened and professional, and least of all a fresh, clean, soft all-American girl, one who might actually be a date.

She pushed forward her hand again, and this time he took it in a brief handshake. Her hand went up to the sleeve covering his forearm. "Come in. Do come in," she said, drawing him into the living room. "It's so good to see you."

He stood in the middle of the living room, a bit bewildered. What had he expected? she wondered. A red satin bordello?

"It's-it's very nice," he said. "Homey."

"Oh, it's not really decorated yet," she said. "I just rented it and arranged some of my own furniture that came from Arizona-the sofa, the chairs, and the bed are old pieces. But I've been shopping. More will be coming in next week. Look, make yourself comfortable. You can take off your jacket, loosen your tie if you'd like." She gestured toward the couch. "Have a seat. I was about to heat up some water for my tea. Would you like a cup? Or maybe coffee or a soft drink?"

"Whatever you're having, Miss-Miss Miller."

"Gayle," she said. "Let's be friends, Adam. I'm Gayle from now on."

Awkwardly, he sat down, then remembered to loosen his tie as she went into the kitchen.

Minutes later she emerged with a tray bearing two cups of tea and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. He had taken off his suit jacket and folded it neatly over the back of the couch. He was thumbing the pages of the latest Vogue disinterestedly.

Gayle settled down on the couch, not too close to him, and handed him his cup of tea. She noticed his hand trembled as he took it.

"You're from Chicago, I recall," she said.

"Born there," he told her.

"Where in Chicago? I've been there a few times."

"North side."