WOMEN, WOMEN, EVERYWHERE.

ByGene Markey '18. New York: Bobbs-Merrill Co., 1964. 306 pp. $4.50.

What happened to Roger Quill is hardly likely to happen to you or me, or to anyone else for that matter. But if it did, I think you would agree it would be folly to write about it.

Roger, wet behind the ears (despite a Cornell degree), and as innocent as a mama's boy from Wichopokee, Wis., could possibly be, falls heir to a fantastically weird legacy. His little-known but vastly wealthy grandfather wills him $4,000,000 with the proviso that he first travel round the world to learn at first hand all that one can be taught about the art of making love.

The carnal carnival that follows reads like a travel bureau itinerary of one-night jumps and grinds with hula and belly dancers, geishas, and assorted females of obligingly fast action. One readily suspects each had known grandpa in his day, and had not forgotten which side her bed was buttered on.

Lest one thinks the book is an expose of the arts and sciences of the boudoir, I hasten to add it isn't. Doors are politely closed and bamboo shades drawn while author Markey chronicles one conquest after another with the high-pitched fever of a man about to miss his next plane. And, yes, a thinly-disguised plot involving mama's private eye helps keep the show on the road.

For those who appreciate light-hearted absurdities, an idle hour or two with Women, Women, Everywhere would be diverting.