The Accused

Morlock said doubtfully, “I’d have to think about it.”

Dodson said scornfully, “Think, hell! We’ll just get in my car and go tomorrow night. We can be there by seven. You go in these places and order beer,” he said. “A dime. That’s all you have to spend while you look them over. They’ve always got a jukebox or a small band on weekends. I don’t mean bags when I say there’s stuff there waiting to be picked up. Young stuff, I tell you. Nineteen and twenty. And some of them Eyetalian and Polack girls will knock your eye out. Knockers on them like movie stars, and they jump around wiggling their little butts…” Dodson paused, his eyes bright. “Treat you like a king.”

And Morlock, even as he despised Dodson, agreed to go along.

Half a dozen times the following day, he was tempted to tell Dodson that he had changed his mind, but the recollected words, “young stuff,” held him back. Morlock convinced himself he would find a decent girl among Dodson’s more promiscuous Circes. He told himself that he would content himself with a mild affair with such a girl and let Dodson go to whatever extremes he wished. Morlock had made such plans before. More often than not, they had ended sordidly enough; nevertheless, he still hoped to fall in love one day. He did not belabour the obvious fallacy that such emotion was hardly likely to be found in the companionship or the haunts of Dodson, History II.

Later, he took some pleasure in telling Paul Martin of his plans. Martin, a chemistry instructor, had the sort of aloof dignity that Morlock would like to have. He had more than once sheepishly realized that he was involuntarily imitating Martin’s mannerisms of speech. He admired Martin, and he openly sought his friendship