Only a second before being shown into the district attorney's office did Chet Hunter feel any unsteadiness in his legs. This, he was sure, came not from nervousness about the momentous step he was taking but from the exhaustion engendered by his second roll in the hay with Suzy Edwards. It had been better than the first, far more prolonged, and much better.

Now, his shoulders back, feeling strong and certain, he walked into the district attorney's office.

The Reverend Josh Scrafield was there, of course, off to one side, beaming at him. Hunter detoured to shake Scrafield's hand, then continued on to the district attorney's desk.

Hoyt Lewis was standing, his hand extended. Hunter took it briefly.

"Congratulations!" Lewis boomed out. He tapped the copy of the last installment of Hunter's journal lying on his desk. "A great job, an absolutely perfect job."

"Thank you," said Hunter.

"I've been eager to see you, Chet," said the district attorney. "I want to map out our strategy with you, before my press conference tomorrow. Sit down, sit down. Let's talk it over."

Hunter remained silently standing.

Lewis settled in his leather chair. "The main thing is that you testify on the stand just as you wrote it all out for me. We can't lose. You're going to make a magnificent witness for the prosecution. You're going to be an unimpeachable witness."

Hunter cleared his throat. "I'm afraid I won't be," he said simply.

Hoyt Lewis raised his head with a jerk, as if he hadn't heard right. "What?"

"I'll repeat it for you," said Hunter. "I'm not going to appear as a witness for you. I've come to the conclusion that Dr. Freeberg is not pandering and Gayle Miller is not engaging in prostitution. They should not be prosecuted. They're performing legitimate therapy. I participated in a cure with them, and it worked. They're good people, and they deserve to be left to continue their work."

Hoyt Lewis shook his head in disbelief. "Have you lost your mind, Chet? I can't be hearing you right."

From behind him, Hunter heard the angry shout. "Are you crazy or what?" bellowed the Reverend Scrafield. He strode across the office. "Did Freeberg pay you to do this?"

Hunter remained calm. "On the contrary. I paid Freeberg to put me together, and he did."

Scrafield had his hands on Hunter's lapels. "You back off, play turncoat, and I'll have your neck, I swear it!"

"Let go of him," ordered Lewis. The district attorney studied Hunter. "Chet, this may have been a momentary aberration on your part. I don't know what's behind it, but you deserve another chance. Are you going to stick to the script and be my witness?"

"No," said Hunter. "I absolutely refuse to testify for you."

"You can't refuse to testify," said Lewis evenly. "That's a crime in itself. If you won't testify voluntarily, then I'll have you subpoenaed to stand as a witness."

"You can do that, and I'll comply," said Hunter. "But the one thing you can't do is make me be a friendly witness for the prosecution. In fact, I'd be a very bad witness for you. The defense would be happy to have you put me on the stand. Need I say more?"

The district attorney sat silent and fuming in his chair. "I guess that's all there is to say," concluded Hunter. "I'd better go now. Hope to see you again one day-but it won't be in court."

With that, Hunter turned and left the office.

As Hunter entered the city hall corridor outside the district attorney's office, he felt a vast sense of relief. He had not known how he would stand up under the pressure from Hoyt Lewis and the Reverend Scrafield, and now he felt that he had stood up quite well. He had not been craven. He had shown courage. He suspected, as Suzy had suggested, that he owed Gayle more than merely his repaired sexuality. In restoring his manhood, Gayle had somehow restored his morality and his confidence in his future. He was pleased he had not sold her out.

Proceeding up the corridor, he thought that he heard his name called out. He halted, then whirled about to see if either Lewis or Scrafield was calling to him.

The person leaving the men's room, who was trying to get his attention, was neither Lewis nor Scrafield but someone else he had not expected to see again.

"Chet," said Otto Ferguson, approaching him, "I've been waiting for you."

"Waiting for me?" said Hunter with surprise.

Ferguson came before him. "I wanted to have a few words with you. I tried to find you and then guessed you probably came here. When I verified with Lewis's secretary that you were indeed here, I hurried straight over to stand by until you came out. I suspect you were having a heavy meeting in there."

"You're right," said Hunter, still confused by the editor's presence, "it was a very heavy meeting."

"What happened?" asked Ferguson, his gaze fixed on Hunter. "Did you tell them you'd be their witness, or did you change your mind?"

Hunter blinked at the editor. "I changed my mind. I refused to cooperate with them."

"I'm mighty glad," said Ferguson. "If you hadn't I wouldn't be here speaking to you."

Hunter was now thoroughly bewildered. "What are you talking about, Mr. Ferguson? You're the one who got me into this whole thing in the first place."

"That's before I knew what Dr. Freeberg and his surrogates were really up to," said Ferguson. He pulled a roll of pages out of his jacket pocket and waved them at Hunter. "Now I know."

"What's that?" asked Hunter.

"Your own pages. The journal you sent over to me earlier today. Chet, when all this started, naturally I was suspicious of Freeberg's operation, but still I thought your story might be too raunchy for family reading. That's why I advised you to make it into a political issue. I felt that as a political issue it would be valid for me to run all the sex stuff, especially if the D.A. brought up charges of pandering and prostitution. But I was wrong. I was misguided by my lack of facts."

Hunter's bewilderment was total. "What do you mean?"

Ferguson shook the story under Hunter's nose. "I mean this. I read every word of it, and it really shook me up. You come through sounding like a decent, compassionate creature who desperately needed help, and Gayle comes out like an angel of mercy."

Hunter stared at Ferguson with disbelief. "You-you liked what I reported on the surrogate treatments?"

"I loved it! It has all the elements of a perfect story-a suffering hero filled with inner conflicts and defeat, a beautiful heroine who will do anything to save him, then boy meets girl, and after weeks of suspense, the boy is saved and we get a happy ending." Ferguson paused. "It's all true, isn't it?"

"Every word, Mr. Ferguson."

"Well, there are thousands and thousands of people out there, silently and secretly suffering from sexual disabilities, and your personal account could give them a chance for happiness."

Hunter's mouth had gone dry. He found breathing difficult. "What are you saying, Mr. Ferguson?"

"I'm saying I'm going to run your surrogate story almost in its entirety as a series of articles under your own byline. I may ask you to edit out a bit of the overt sexuality-some judicious cutting, a few euphemisms, might make it more acceptable without distorting or compromising the honesty of your narrative."

"You're going to let me edit it?"

"Of course, once you're behind your desk at the Chronicle." He grabbed Hunter's hand and shook it. "Congratulations, Chet."

"I can't believe it."

Ferguson winked. "As you grow older, my son, you'll learn that virtue is sometimes rewarded. Be in my office at ten tomorrow morning. We'll discuss your salary." He started away, then stopped and turned. "I hope you have someone who's going to benefit from all your newly acquired sexual wisdom."

"I have! We're getting married!"

"I hope Gayle gets to catch the bouquet thrown by your bride."

After Ferguson had left, Hunter stood in the corridor, dazed by the turn of events.

Then he started to run in search of a phone, to let Suzy Edwards know that they could now get married as soon as possible.

Inside the district attorney's office, Hoyt Lewis sat bent over, his elbows on his desk, his hands holding his aching head, a picture of utter dejection.

Only an hour before, he had never been happier. After reading what Hunter had uncovered and was ready to stand witness to, Hoyt Lewis's wildest dreams of his glorious future had seemed close to reality.

And now, because of a mushy-headed witness who had refused to testify for him, Lewis's ambitions had all gone up in smoke.

"Disgusting, absolutely disgusting," he muttered.

The Reverend Scrafield, who angrily continued to stride back and forth in front of Lewis's desk, agreed.

"I could kill that dumb sonofabitch," Scrafield growled.

Lewis took his chin off his hands and tried to straighten up. "Well, there's nothing we can do. Hunter's got us by the balls, so to speak. We'll have to call it quits."

"What about your press conference?" Scrafield wanted to know.

"I'll go through with it but make only a brief announcement stating that we were misinformed about Dr. Freeberg's operation and that we are dropping our charges. I'll have to say that although Freeberg and Gayle Miller are presently under arrest, we will drop the charges against them immediately."

Hoyt Lewis realized that Scrafield had stopped abruptly before his desk and was looking down at him. "Wait a minute," said Scrafield slowly, "I think I've got an idea that can resurrect our case."

"Yes?"

"You reminded me of something," Scrafield said, "that Gayle Miller is still under arrest for prostitution. She is under arrest, isn't she?"

"Of course, but we can't proceed against her. Without a witness, we have no case."

"Hold it," Scrafield said. "I have an idea. What if I came up with a perfect witness, a witness twice as good as Hunter might have been?"

Lewis became alert. "Meaning whom?"

"Meaning none other than the little whore herself, Gayle Miller."

"Gayle Miller? I don't get it."

"You said that she's still under arrest for prostitution. She doesn't know you're not going to put her on trial."

"She'll know tomorrow after my press conference, when we drop charges."

"This is today," insisted Scrafield, "and she still doesn't know. I've seen your file on her. I remember one thing. She's applied to UCLA for a graduate scholarship. If word gets out that she's being tried for prostitution, she'll lose any chance of getting that scholarship. That girl's got a lot at stake in being tried."

"Reverend Scrafield, just what are you driving at?"

Scrafield came around the district attorney's desk and stood hulking directly above him. "Hoyt, this Gayle knows only that she's been arrested and is about to be tried as a hooker. She must be trembling in her boots. I bet she'd give anything to be unarrested, cleared, freed. Well, what if I go to her and offer her a proposition? Give her a chance to be free?"

"How would you manage that?"

"By going to see Gayle tonight and presenting her with this proposition: 'You're arrested, about to be put behind bars and your reputation ruined, but there happens to be one way you can save yourself and come out looking like Miss Purity. Turn state's evidence, Gayle join our side and become our leading witness against Freeberg and his surrogate whores. Claim you were misled into living that kind of life, that Freeberg is pandering and the other girls are behaving as prostitutes, and you want no more of it. Turn state's evidence, Gayle, be our witness for the prosecution, and the district attorney will dismiss all charges against you.' What about it, Hoyt? Would you make such a deal with her?"

"I sure would. Having her as a witness would make it for us."

"Okay, tonight," said Scrafield, "I'm going to see our friend Gayle."

"Do you think she'll go for it?" asked Lewis anxiously.

"She'll go for it," Scrafield replied grimly. "I'll see to that."

Chapter XI.

It was not quite eight thirty in the evening when the Reverend Josh Scrafield, having discarded his clerical collar for a blue knit tie and white shirt and conservative dark blue suit, reached the front door to Gayle Miller's house. He noted that the overhead porch light was on.

For a moment, Scrafield remained immobilized, considering carefully what approach he would take with Gayle Miller. Getting in to see her was the major hurdle. Once in her living room, he was certain that there would be no problem. His approach, of course, had to be elastic. So much depended on what kind of person this Miller woman proved to be. He had never seen her, and except for the information Hunter's journal and Hoyt Lewis's dossier had given him, he knew not a thing about her personally. There had been some indication, in Hunter's account, that she was attractive and forthright. But then, Scrafield assumed, all women in this line of work must be attractive and forthright-at least attractive, to be sure.

Getting into her house was the main step, and Scrafield began to feel more certain that he had the means to accomplish this.

His hand went to the doorbell, and he pressed it three times and waited.

He thought that he heard someone approaching from behind the door, and then a muffled voice inquired, "Who is it?"

The Reverend Scrafield pressed closer to the door. "I'm here to see Miss Gayle Miller on a business matter. Are you Miss Miller?"

The door opened a crack, just enough to make a portion of Gayle visible.

"I'm Gayle Miller," she said. "What do you want to see me about?"

For an instant, at the sight of her, Scrafield was too taken aback to speak. He had expected someone attractive, true, yet by the nature of her calling and from the fact that she had been arrested for prostitution, he had expected someone whose good looks would be cheapened and coarse. What he saw, instead, through the slit of the doorway, was a fresh and lovely young thing, startlingly lush and beautiful, gowned in some kind of pale green silk robe that indicated her body was a match for her face.

"There's some important business I have to discuss with you, Miss Miller," Scrafield said.

"I can't imagine what . . . But whatever it is, can't it wait until tomorrow? I have an appointment, and I have to get dressed."

"I'm afraid this is something that has to be settled tonight."

Gayle opened the door a little more and peered at Scrafield. She seemed to recognize him but couldn't quite place him.

"Who are you?" she wanted to know. "What kind of business?"

"I'm the Reverend Josh Scrafield."