Intelligence was not restored until the day I suspected there were bats in my bell tower. Slowly and reluctantly I proved to myself that the bell was not sending messages to me, but was only responding to whatever messages I relayed to it. Like a Univac machine, it could always come up with accurate answers-provided accurate facts were fed to it. If the answer were "Doubtful..." it meant the pros and cons that had been thrown into the hopper had practically cancelled each other. If "Definitely!" or "No!" it meant the facts it had received were not only accurate but overwhelming in their implications. For the first time I began noticing scores of things about male deportment which formerly had been pertinent only to my subconscious. And by constantly pin-pointing and comparing the smallest of details, I eventually was able to label each one feminine, masculine, or neuter. Expressions of the face, postures of the body, use of the eyes, movement of the hands, types of apparel, pitch of the voice-they were all a part of my study, and more informative, I believed, than facial features, whether those features were "pretty," nondescript, or ruggedly masculine.

here the bartender lifted my bottle and held it to the light. Replacing it,

he said: "Drink up-the next is on the house."

Before I could again withdraw into my thoughts, a man whom I guessed was about 23 years old came in and sat at the bar two stools away. Draped himself at the bar, that is. His face could have belonged to any plain and overly self-conscious girl, and when he ordered a draft beer the lyric timbre of his voice did nothing to dispel the illusion. His black leather jacket with its bulky lines would have been out of character had he worn it in the usual manner. Instead, it was thrown around his shoulders in the fashion of a cape-and I knew that sooner or later he would be pulling it close against the ravages of some naughty little draft, after first touching the collar to be sure it stood up in the back. A dark out-cropping at the roots of his fluffy peroxide hair sugegsted he was slovenly, or maybe just tired of being a blond.

I have never had any real understanding of this sort of person and there was a day when I detested any semblance to his kind. Now, thank God, I felt a kinship with him. I knew that if the two of us were ever to be accepted by society, the likes of him must first be accepted by the likes of me; accepted without condescension, accepted with the conviction that the only true measure of "right" behavior and "wrong" is whether one's actions are harmful to himself or to others. A virile facade wouldn't have changed the weight of this man's mind, the structure of his emotions, or the shape of his soul, and though I would always reserve the right to avoid his type in forming friendships, I knew we were brothers.

"Just where," the voice of logic interrupted, "does he fit into the Margin Theory?"

"He doesn't," I argued glibly. "He and all others like him will be the exceptions that prove my rule."

Sensing that I was being watched, I glanced up to catch the frank stare of the same fellow. His gaze was neither impudent nor personal, but as usual the experience was disconcerting. Averting my eyes, I fought an unexpected nostalgia. Although his delicate features above the sweep of long thin neck held no conscious appeal for me, he ironically reminded me of Johnnie, whom I had found tremendously appealing. I also remembered that, long ago and far away, the premise of the Margin Theory had been used in a bizarre experiment to work a miracle...

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