Hot and Steamy by Jean Rabe Page A

it if I could. I am a clockmaker, you see, and I believe that miniaturization is the wave of the future. If you would be so very kind to allow me to visit you at home, perhaps tomorrow, or any other day that would suit your convenience?”
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    On the way home in the horseless carriage, Rosa felt her rage reaching a boiling point. If it were not for the quiet hiss-thump of the regulator beside her that kept it slow and steady, her heart would have been pounding like a tom-tom. She didn’t trust herself to speak.
    â€œYou are very quiet,” Aunt Jean said, steering the car with the electrostatic reins through the gaslit night toward the Rabenskis’ town house, where Rosa was living during the season.
    Rosa could not contain herself any longer. “How could you subject me to such a ridiculous person?”
    Aunt Jean’s face turned various colors as they passed electric advertisement signs lit by neon gas. “Well, my darling, he did ask to meet you. I had no good reason to say no. Everyone can see that you spend every single ball by yourself. Besides, if he can do anything to shrink your ‘companion’ there, I see no reason not to let him try. He is well known in his field. He trained in Switzerland, and his inventions have made him rather wealthy. Even you have heard of Tekno-Clocks.”
    â€œI . . . have,” Rosa admitted. Another thought struck her and made her cheeks burn. “But now everyone will think me a fortune-hunter!”
    â€œWhat do you care?” Aunt Jean said practically. “You have defied Death himself every day of your life. If nothing else, enjoy the novelty of having a gentleman caller.”
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    It was no good saying Rosa didn’t want one. The essence of normality was an elusive scent she had pursued all of her life. Her friends did their best not to treat her with pity, fearing her scorn, but she knew they felt it. She missed having private little notes dropped casually beside her on a couch or tucked into a bouquet. She longed for stolen kisses in the cinema or theater. But the heart regulator was the fiercest possible chaperone. No young man could pretend he didn’t know it was there. And, perversely, she was insulted that it was the regulator that drew Mr. Greenberg’s admiration.
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    Even so, the next afternoon, Rosa fussed over her garments and her toilette like any other young lady. She had just settled herself and the hissing regulator in a fetching tableau when the uniformed automaton strutted out of his sentry box in the timepiece on the mantel and announced, “Three o’clock post-meridian, madam and miss.”
    â€œThank you, Joyeaux,” Aunt Jean said. The mannequin bowed and retired. Almost as soon as she did, the doorbell rang. “There he is, like a clockwork himself!”
    Mr. Greenberg’s appearance did not keep with the theme of his precise arrival. His coat and trousers were slightly rumpled, and the brown leather valise in his left hand was battered by time and much usage. He bowed over Aunt Jean’s hand and turned to Rosa.
    â€œMiss Lind, how kind of you to let me come.”
    â€œMy pleasure, Mr. Greenberg,” Rosa said. In spite of herself, she did enjoy having a caller. Aunt Jean had gone to some trouble to whisper the news around the ballroom the night before. The speculative looks in Rosa’s way gave her a frisson of excitement. “Will you sit down?”
    â€œThank you.” The young man pulled a footstool up to Rosa’s knee and sat on it. He was so tall that his knees stuck up like a grasshopper’s. He opened the valise, and she saw neat rows of shining steel instruments, lenses, calipers and other small tools. “May I?” he asked.
    No clever small talk, nor inquiries as to whether she had enjoyed the previous evening’s entertainment. Ah, well, what in this world was perfect?
    â€œYes, of course,” Rosa said. She watched as he put on a