After two weeks of nearly constant work, Edfrank Custom Jewelry had produced its first finished batch. There the pieces lay, on two boards covered with black velvet, all of which went into a square wicker basket of Japanese origin. And Ed McCarthy and Frank Frink had made business cards. They had used an artgun eraser carved out to form their name; they printed in red from this, and then completed the cards with a children's toy rotary printing set. The effect -- they had used a high-quality Christmas-card colored heavy paper -- was striking.
 In every aspect of their work they had been professional. Surveying their jewelry, cards, and display, they could see no indication of the amateur. Why should there be? Frank Frink thought. We're both pros; not in jewelry making, but in shopwork in general.
 The display boards held a good variety. Cuff bracelets made of brass, copper, bronze, and even hot-forged black iron. Pendants, mostly of brass, with a little silver ornamentation. Earrings of silver. Pins of silver or brass. The silver had cost them a good deal; even silver solder had set them back. They had bought a few semiprecious stones, too, for mounting in the pins: baroque pearls, spinneis, jade, slivers of fire opal. And, if things went well, they would try gold and possibly five- or six-point diamonds.
 It was gold that would make them a real profit. They had already begun searching into sources of scrap gold, melted-down antique pieces of no artistic value -- much cheaper to buy than new gold. But even so, an enormous expense was involved. And yet, one gold pin sold would bring more than forty brass pins. They could get almost any price on the retail market for a really well-designed and executed gold pin. . . assuming, as Frink had pointed out, that their stuff went over at all.
 At this point they had not yet tried to sell. They had solved what seemed to be their basic technical problems; they had their bench with motors, flex-cable machine, arbor of grinding and polishing wheels. They had in fact a complete range of finishing tools, ranging from the coarse wire brushes through brass brushes and Cratex wheels, to finer polishing buffs of cotton, linen, leather, chamois, which could be coated with compounds ranging from emery and pumice to the most delicate rouges. And of course they had their oxyacetylene welding outfit, their tanks, gauges, hoses, tips, masks.
 And superb jewelers' tools. Pliers from Germany and France, micrometers, diamond drills, saws, tongs, tweezers, third-hand structures for soldering, vises, polishing cloths, shears, hand-forged tiny hammers. . . rows of precision equipment. And their supplies of brazing rod of various gauge, sheet metal, pin backs, links, earring clipbacks. Well over half the two thousand dollars had been spent; they had in their Edfrank bank account only two hundred and fifty dollars, now. But they were set up legally; they even had their PSA permits. Nothing remained but to sell.
 No retailer, Frink thought as he studied the displays, can give these a tougher inspection than we have. They certainly looked good, these few select pieces, each painstakingly gone over for bad welds, rough or sharp edges, spots of fire color . . . their quality control was excellent. The slightest dullness or wire brush scratch had been enough reason to return a piece to the shop. We can't afford to show any crude or unfinished work; one unnoticed black speck on a silver necklace -- and we're finished.
 On their list, Robert Childan's store appeared first. But only Ed could go there; Childan would certainly remember Frank Frink.
 "You got to do most of the actual selling," Ed said, but he was resigned to approaching Childan himself; he had bought a good suit, new tie, white shirt, to make the right impression. Nonetheless, he looked ill-at-ease. "I know we're good," he said for the millionth time. "But -- hell."
 Most of the pieces were abstract, whirls of wire, loops, designs which to some extent the molten metals had taken on their own. Some had a spider-web delicacy, an airiness; others had a massive, powerful, almost barbaric heaviness. There was an amazing range of shape, considering how few pieces lay on the velvet trays; and yet one store, Frink realized, could buy everything we have laid out here. We'll see each store once -- if we fail. But if we succeed, if we get them to carry our line, we'll be going back to refill orders the rest of our lives.
 Together, the two of them loaded the velvet board trays into the wicker basket. We could get back something on the metal, Frink said to himself, if worse comes to worst. And the tools and equipment; we can dispose of them at a loss, but at least we'll get something.
 This is the moment to consult the oracle. Ask, How will Ed make out on this first selling trip? But he was too nervous to. It might give a bad omen, and he did not feel capable of facing it. In any case, the die was cast: the pieces were made, the shop set up -- whatever the I Ching might blab out at this point.
 It can't sell our jewelry for us. . . it can't give us luck.
 "I'll tackle Childan's place first," Ed said. "We might as well get it over with. And then you can try a couple. You're coming along, aren't you? In the truck. I'll park around the corner."
 As they got into their pickup truck with their wicker hamper, Frink thought, God knows how good a salesman Ed is, or I am. Childan can be sold, but it's going to take a presentation, like they say.
 If Juliana were here, he thought, she could stroll in there and do it without batting an eye; she's pretty, she can talk to anybody on earth, and she's a woman. After all, this is women's jewelry. She could wear it into the store. Shutting his eyes, he tried to imagine how she would look with one of their bracelets on. Or one of their large silver necklaces. With her black hair and her pale skin, doleful, probing eyes, wearing a gray jersey sweater, a little bit too tight, the silver resting against her bare flesh, metal rising and falling as she breathed.
 God, she was vivid in his mind, right now. Every piece they made, the strong, thin fingers picked up, examined; tossing her head back, holding the piece high. Juliana sorting, always a witness to what he had done.
 Best for her, he decided, would be earrings. The bright dangly ones, especially the brass. With her hair held back by a clip or cut short so that her neck and ears could be seen. And we could take photos of her for advertising and display. He and Ed had discussed a catalog, so they could sell by mail to stores in other parts of the world. She would look terrific. . . her skin is nice, very healthy, no sagging or wrinkles, and a fine color. Would she do it, if I could locate her? No matter what she thinks of me; nothing to do with our personal life. This would be a strictly business matter.
 Hell, I wouldn't even take the pictures. We'd get a professional photographer to do it. That would please her. Her vanity probably as great as always. She always liked people to look at her, admire her; anybody. I guess most women are like that. They crave attention all the time. They're very babyish that way.
 He thought, Juliana could never stand being alone; she had to have me around all the time complimenting her. Little kids are that way; they feel if their parents aren't watching what they do then what they do isn't real. No doubt she's got some guy noticing her right now. Telling her how pretty she is. Her legs. Her smooth, flat stomach.
 "What's the matter?" Ed said, glancing at him. "Losing your nerve?"
 "No," Frink said.
 "I'm not just going to stand there," Ed said. "I've got a few ideas of my own. And I'll tell you something else: I'm not scared. I'm not intimidated just because it's a fancy place and I have to put on this fancy suit. I admit I don't like to dress up. I admit I'm not comfortable. But that doesn't matter a bit. I'm still going in there and really give it to that poop-head."
 Good for you, Frink thought.
 "Hell, if you could go in there like you did," Ed said, "and give him that line about being a Jap admiral's gentleman, I ought to be able to tell him the truth, that this is really good creative original handmade jewelry, that --"
 "Handwrought," Frink said.
 "Yeah. Hand wrought. I mean, I'll go in there and I won't come back out until I've given him a run for his money. He ought to buy this. If he doesn't he's really nuts. I've looked around; there isn't anything like ours for sale anywhere. God, when I think of him maybe looking at it and not buying it -- it makes me so goddam mad I could start swinging."
 "Make sure you tell him it's not plated," Frink said. "That copper means solid copper and brass solid brass."
 "You let me work out my own approach," Ed said, "I got some really good ideas."
 Frink thought, What I can do is this. I can take a couple of pieces -- Ed'll never care -- and box them up and send them to Juliana. So she'll see what I'm doing. The postal authorities will trace her; I'll send it registered to her last known address. What'll she say when she opens the box? There'll have to be a note from me explaining that I made it myself; that I'm a partner in a little new creative jewelry business. I'll fire her imagination, give her an account that'll make her want to know more, that'll get her interested. I'll talk about the gems and the metals. The places we're selling to, the fancy stores. . .
 "Isn't it along here?" Ed said, slowing the truck. They were in heavy downtown traffic; buildings blotted out the sky. "I better park."
 "Another five blocks," Frink said.
 "Got one of those marijuana cigarettes?" Ed said. "One would calm me right about now."
 Frink passed him his package of T'ien-lais, the "Heavenly Music" brand he had learned to smoke at W-M Corporation.
 I know she's living with some guy, Frink said to himself. Sleeping with him. As if she was his wife. I know Juliana. She couldn't survive any other way; I know how she gets around nightfall. When it gets cold and dark and everybody's home sitting around the living room. She was never made for a solitary life. Me neither, he realized.
 Maybe the guy's a real nice guy. Some shy student she picked up. She'd be a good woman for some young guy who had never had the courage to approach a woman before. She's not hard or cynical. It would do him a lot of good. I hope to hell she's not with some older guy. That's what I couldn't stand. Some experienced mean guy with a toothpick sticking out of the side of his mouth, pushing her around.
 He felt himself begin to breathe heavily. Image of some beefy hairy guy stepping down hard on Juliana, making her life miserable. . . I know she'd finally wind up killing herself, he thought. It's in the cards for her, if she doesn't find the right man -- and that means a really gentle, sensitive, kindly student type who would be able to appreciate all those thoughts she has.
 I was too rough for her, he thought. And I'm not so bad; there are a hell of a lot of guys worse than me. I could pretty well figure out what she was thinking, what she wanted, when she felt lonely or bad or depressed. I spent a lot of time worrying and fussing over her. But it wasn't enough. She deserved more. She deserves a lot, he thought.
 "I'm parking," Ed said. He had found a place and was backing the truck, peering over his shoulder.
 "Listen," Frink said, "Can I send a couple of pieces to my wife?"
 "I didn't know you were married." Intent on parking, Ed answered him reflexively. "Sure, as long as they're not silver."
 Ed shut off the truck motor.
 "We're here," he said. He puffed marijuana smoke, then stubbed the cigarette out on the dashboard, dropped the remains to the cab floor. "Wish me luck."
 "Luck," Frank Frink said.
 "Hey, look. There's one of those Jap waka poems on the back of this cigarette package." Ed read the poem aloud, over the traffic noises.

"Hearing a cuckoo cry,
I looked up in the direction
Whence the sound came:
What did I see?
Only the pale moon in the dawning sky."

 He handed the package of T'ien-lais back to Frink. "Keeriiist!" he said, then slapped Frink on the back, grinned, opened the truck door, picked up the wicker hamper and stepped from the truck. "I'll let you put the dime in the meter," he said, starting off down the sidewalk.
 In an instant he had disappeared among the other pedestrians.
 Juliana, Frink thought. Are you as alone as I am? He got out of the truck and put a dime in the parking meter.
 Fear, he thought. This whole jewelry venture. What if it should fail? What if it should fail? That was how the oracle put it. Wailing, tears, beating the pot.
 Man faces the darkening shadows of his life. His passage to the grave. If she were here it would not be so bad. Not bad at all.
 I'm scared, he realized. Suppose Ed doesn't sell a thing. Suppose they laugh at us.
 What then?

 On a sheet on the floor of the front room of her apartment, Juliana lay holding Joe Cinnadella against her. The room was warm and stuffy with midafternoon sunlight. Her body and the body of the man in her arms were damp with perspiration. A drop, rolling down Joe's forehead, clung a moment to his cheekbone, then fell to her throat.
 "You're still dripping," she murmured.
 He said nothing. His breathing, long, slow, regular. . . like the ocean, she thought. We're nothing but water inside.
 "How was it?" she asked.
 He mumbled that it had been okay.
 I thought so, Juliana thought. I can tell. Now we both have to get up, pull ourselves together. Or is that bad? Sign of subconscious disapproval?
 He stirred.
 "Are you getting up?" She gripped him tight with both her arms. "Don't. Not yet."
 "Don't you have to get to the gym?"
 I'm not going to the gym, Juliana said to herself. Don't you know that? We will go somewhere; we won't stay here too much longer. But it will be a place we haven't been before. It's time.
 She felt him start to draw himself backward and up onto his knees, felt her hands slide along his damp, slippery back. Then she could hear him walking away, his bare feet against the floor. To the bathroom, no doubt. For his shower.
 It's over, she thought. Oh well. She sighed.
 "I hear you," Joe said from the bathroom. "Groaning. Always downcast, aren't you? Worry, fear and suspicion, about me and everything else in the world." He emerged, briefly, dripping with soapy water, face beaming. "How would you like to take a trip?"
 Her pulse quickened. "Where?"
 "To some big city. How about north, to Denver? I'll take you out; buy you ticket to a show, good restaurant, taxi, get you evening dress or what you need. Okay?"
 She could hardly believe him, but she wanted to; she tried to.
 "Will that Stude of yours make it?" Joe called.
 "Sure," she said.
 "We'll both get some nice clothes," he said. "Enjoy ourselves, maybe for the first time in our lives. Keep you from cracking up."
 "Where'll we get the money?"
 Joe said, "I have it. Look in my suitcase." He shut the bathroom door; the racket of water shut out any further words.
 Opening the dresser, she got out his dented, stained little grip. Sure enough, in one corner she found an envelope; it contained Reichsbank bills, high value and good anywhere. Then we can go, she realized. Maybe he's not just stringing me along. I just wish I could get inside him and see what's there, she thought as she counted the money.
 Beneath the envelope she found a huge, cylindrical fountain pen, or at least it appeared to be that; it had a clip, anyhow. But it weighed so much. Gingerly, she lifted it out, unscrewed the cap. Yes, it had a gold point. But. . .
 "What is this?" she asked Joe, when he reappeared from the shower.
 He took it from her, returned it to the grip. How carefully he handled it. . . she noticed that, reflected on it, perplexed.
 "More morbidity?" Joe said. He seemed lighthearted, more so than at any time since she had met him; with a yell of enthusiasm, he clasped her around the waist, then hoisted her up into his arms, rocking her, swinging her back and forth, peering down into her face, breathing his warm breath over her, squeezing her until she bleated.
 "No," she said. "I'm just slow to change." Still a little scared of you, she thought. So scared I can't even say it, tell you about it.
 "Out the window," Joe cried, stalking across the room with her in his arms. "Here we go."
 "Please," she said.
 "Kidding. Listen -- we're going on a march, like the March on Rome. You remember that. The Duce led them, my Uncle Carlo for example. Now we have a little march, less important, not noted in the history books. Right?" Inclining his head, he kissed her on the mouth so hard that their teeth clashed. "How nice we both'll look, in our new clothes. And you can explain to me exactly how to talk, deport myself; right? Teach me manners; right?"
 "You talk okay," Juliana said. "Better than me, even."
 "No." He became abruptly somber. "I talk very bad. A real wop accent. Didn't you notice it when you first met me in the cafe?"
 "I guess so," she said; it did not seem important to her.
 "Only a woman knows the social conventions," Joe said, carrying her back and dropping her to bounce frighteningly on the bed. "Without a woman we'd discuss racing cars and horses and tell dirty jokes; no civilization."
 You're in a strange moo............