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had gone through. The girl playing Man of War had been dramatizing the celebrated race in which Man of War, that great thoroughbred, had suffered the only defeat of his magnificent twenty-one race career by losing in a head finish to another two-year-old named Upset, and, in the course of simulating the actions of racing while carrying a jockey, this girl had been the subject of certain demented acts by the small actor playing the jockey which Susan simply did not want to watch. That was the whole point. She did not want to think about anything that had gone on that day. It was a day’s work. That was all there was to it and tomorrow would be another day and in five or six days they would finish the film and then her career would start. But her career was not something about which she could worry under the present circumstances.
    The director let them go at six in the evening telling them that the first day’s work had been disgraceful, an absolute abomination and signaled the end of all his hopes if this level of performance continued. He advised them to be back at eight in the morning prepared to act seriously. The technicians, still giggling (they were always giggling) perched now at rest on their equipment like monkeys and sneered at them as one by one they got into their clothing and left the loft. Susan received invitations to go for coffee or drinks from Frank and Murray as well as a third actor whose name she never caught who had played the jockey in the horse racing sequence. She declined them with thanks. Outside, however, turning the corner, she received another invitation from Phil who seemed to have been lying in wait for her, and, for reasons which she could not rationalize, she decided that she better not pass this one up and followed him without a word to the restaurant where he had taken her before, wondering if everybody in New York was looking at her intently, knowing exactly what she had been through that day. She doubted it. You could do absolutely anything at all in New York and then go out on the streets and, for all that it mattered to the people surrounding you, you might not have been there at all because they had been through exactly the same thing. That was why she liked New York and why she hated it.

CHAPTER XXVII
    “The industry is at a turning point,” Phil says to her, stirring his coffee. He looks down at the table, inscribes small circles with the free hand. “It is at a crucial instance. The next year will turn the tide. This is something that I firmly believe.”
    “Yes,” Susan says, taking some more coffee of her own and trying to look attentive for Phil although he has not looked her in the eyes yet even once. “I think I know what you mean.”
    “Pornography will either become an art form within the next year or it will collapse,” Phil says. “The market has been overextended, it has been overexploited by the worst kind of people, and now it is being reduced again to its natural audience which, as we all know, is composed of freaks. It will not be legislated against; it will merely wither away like the leaves on the branches from winter trees. Unless it can find and hold the larger audience which is now its opportunity. If it can break the limits.”
    “I agree with you absolutely. I know just what you mean.”
    “These people for whom I’m working believe that the ship will not sink. They are not along for a fast buck, they are serious, they wish to do meaningful work. Pornography can be a meaningful art form and can break forth into new areas of experience. That is the intention of this film on which you’re working.”
    “Yes,” Susan says. She feels drowsiness overtake her, shakes her head, braces herself in the seat. What she wants is to go to sleep but this is impossible; she is in no position, after this day, to risk Phil’s disapproval. “I happen to agree with you.”
    “The first reports, however, are not good. They are extremely discouraging, in fact. The