Man-Trap — Themes and Context

Jerry vowed no woman would ever entice him into matrimony. But of course, that was before Professor Madigan's invention, the--

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy December 1953 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Jerry Kerran watched the news analyst fade from the screen to be replaced by a woman who looked directly at him and said, "Listen, girls! Professor Madigan's greatest invention. A new kind of magnetism more powerful than gravity. Works as a supplement to a natural magnetism. Can be controlled--"

Kerran switched off the current. "Women," he growled. "Bah!"

He had three rules concerning woman: a) if she won't stay home and neck on the sofa get rid of her; b) if she will stay home and neck on the sofa suspect her of matrimonial intentions and get rid of her; c) don't monkey with her to begin with and avoid the nuisance of bothering with the first two rules.

He rose to his lanky six feet of height, brushed the unruly red hair out of his eyes, strode to the door and turned the knob. The door swung wide. He glanced about briefly, then looked down and saw the girl.

She had, he realized, removed her highheels. Ordinarily the top of her platinum hair came an inch above his shoulders. Not that he was in the habit of getting close enough to determine this factor accurately, but he couldn't help seeing her enter and leave the apartment across the way from time to time.

"You knocked?" he said bruskly.

Her head was tilted back, her blue eyes wide. "I need a pound of sugar," she said. "My pneumatic is out of order. Can't get deliveries."

"You mean, you cook?" He stared in awe.

"I'm making a cake," she breathed, inching closer.

He backed out of the doorway and she entered. Without giving him another glance, she went to the pneumatic, cut in the phone and ordered a pound of sugar. She turned back to him.

"It shouldn't be a minute. I'll wait--if you don't mind."

He had tried to keep himself from studying her. Despite this, his eyes told him that her figure was just about perfect and as both a counteraction and a stimulant to the mounting tension in him, her smile was surprisingly bright and full. There was little danger of the flavor of her warpaint confusing a man. She wore little, if any. Her bright lips and cheeks seemed to need no added color.

"Don't bother to stand," she said considerately. She waited until he had lowered himself to the couch, then dropped down beside him, a trifle too close to allow him to put his mind on other things.

"I hope I haven't troubled you." Her hand brushed his.

"Not at all." He drew his hand away.

"From the looks of your side-board," she went on cheerily, "you were just getting ready to mix a drink. I'm an expert. Shall I mix a couple?"

He resisted the inclination to rise when she did, and deliberately kept his eyes from following her. He snatched up the paper, rustled it noisily and tried to concentrate on the headlines.

Two things distracted him. One was the faint scent of perfume and the other was the chinking of ice and glasses. He put the paper aside, tried to put his mind on distant things. This soon palled. He was about to get up and pace the floor when she returned and handed him a cool glass.

"Thanks," he said and leaned back.

She sat down again, so close that her shoulder brushed his. He edged over against the arm of the couch, putting an inch of space between them, glanced sidelong at her, and drank. He rolled his eyes ceiling-ward, smacked his lips and drank again.

"What did you put in it?"

"About a spoonful of creme de menthe, a couple drops of bitters and about two ounces of rye. Like it?"

He scowled deliberately, armoring himself against his feelings. "It's fair--for a woman's mixings. You should have put in more liquor."

"Of course. I'll learn."

"Not from me," he snapped. "I'm a woman-hater."

She leaned toward him. "Why?"

He tossed off the balance of the drink, set the glass on the table and made a sweeping gesture. "They're all alike," he said brutally. "Fickle and treacherous. Deceivers. Always flinging their sex around."

"Not all women," she countered. "Take this Professor Madigan who discovered that new adhesion force."

"Of course. Professor Madigan is a scholarly young woman. Her sex appeal might not win a beauty contest, but she discovered a perfectly wonderful man-catcher."