Within the month, all three had expired of diseases stocked by the hospital research laboratory: Bubonic Plague, Botulism and Anthrax — in that order. The Anthrax, since it usually attacks sheep and cows, especially amused me; and it baffled even top medical minds in Manhattan. Isolating the toxins presented no difficulty for someone with my laboratory background.
Meanwhile, though, I had not heard from Computer-Mater again. The intellectual excitement generated by my experiments kept me from depression, but I was beginning to worry.
Then one afternoon I returned home from the hospital and found the cupid-adorned envelope stuffed into the back of my mailbox. Nervous excitement prickled on my palms. I licked my lips and tore it open.
“Dear Sir: (it began)
Your case is under careful consideration. Although we do not presently have a mate meeting your qualifications, the machine is carefully processing and screening applicants for your standards of compatibility. Be patient. You will hear from us shortly.
Yours with high hopes,
I was — rationally — prepared to wait. I rarely get apprehensive or edgy, but by midnight I found the words of the medical journal in front of me were blurring. At the back of my neck, muscular tension tightened like a thick knot. My plans — if not those for all mankind-seemed to hang so fragilely. What would I do if this scientifically-developed method didn’t work?
I had exhausted my resources. Had I, perhaps, been too impulsive? Was the world right and was I wrong? Well, it was too late to turn back. According to the conventional universe I was merely a criminal.
So when morning came, I renewed my determination. Clamping my teeth tightly onto my pipe stem, I dialed Computer-Mater. Two rings and a brief, staticky silence, then a crisp, feminine voice came on the line, offering to help me.
“Look,” I said, speaking slowly and distinctly, “this is more important than you realize...” and I outlined the procedure I followed in sending in the questionnaire, making appropriate threats about the Better Business Bureau.
“Just a moment, please. I’ll get your file.”
The telephone wire was coiling around my ankles and I stepped over it, sitting down in a straight-backed chair. In a minute she was back.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but our data-processing crew was just running early-morning applicants through the computer. None of them come very close to your qualifications.”
“You’ve already cashed my check,” I reminded her.
“Yes,” she said, “but so far we haven’t located any applicants fitting your needs. You want someone unencumbered by social con—”
“Let me speak to the company president,” I said firmly. One always wastes time with secretaries.
A brief pause; then the crisp voice continued, cutting through my rage. “I am the president of Computer-Mater and I have all the necessary information in front of me. Your anger is a pointless waste of energy since all possibilities are being thoroughly investigated. The problem is yours, rather than the computer’s.”
My pipe fell to the floor. The stem snapped and the bowl rocked crazily.
“Do you mean there’s nobody for me? It’s impossible that—”
“You’re not listening carefully,” the voice said sharply. “I said we had no applicants meeting your needs. However, I personally supervised your case, because I found your standards quite admirable. When our Mater rejected all of the people we fed into it, I thought of one person who might be your match. Someone who hadn’t made formal application, but—”
“Yes?”
“For my own interests as well as yours, I filled out a supplemental questionnaire and sent it through the computer. The result was,” she exhaled gently, “a success. Computer-Mater has matched us. We are mirror opposites, agreeing on virtually every subject introduced into the machine.”
There was a silence, the awed silence that attends birth.
“Well,” I said.
“My name is Lila Potterman,” she said.
“Well.” I stood up, wiping my hands on my trousers. “Well, well, well.” It was difficult to frame words on such an occasion. “Can I see you tonight? Dinner and a show?”
“Don’t be silly! I’m free after 7:30, but let’s not waste time with empty rituals of courtship. Obviously we want to assess each other’s character and answer any questions we failed to feed into the computer. The evening should be devoted to discussion, don’t you think?”
I agreed. We made our arrangements and I hung up the phone. A sensible woman!
At the appointed hour, I met Lila Potterman at a cocktail lounge downtown, one of those arty little Village places where people are encouraged to mar the wooden tables and beams with crudely carved hearts and initials. The irony of such a setting appealed to my sense of humor. She was sitting near the back, an ice-blonde with long, loose hair and a pink cashmere sweater draped around her shoulders.
I slid into the booth opposite her. Her eyes were pale and crystalline and she cocked her head to one side as I frankly appraised her.
“Are physical appearances that important to you?”
“Not at all,” I said stiffly. Nevertheless, for some inexplicable reason, I was pleased by her good looks. Aesthetic appeals, I decided, could not be hastily dismissed in creating a new world. What, for instance, if we had children?
As if she read my mind, she began talking.
“Do you believe in eugenics? I think we have to define our convictions immediately. Simple physical and personality attraction is insufficient for our relationship, and I’m interested in knowing where you stand on certain important issues.”
I signaled to the waiter and ordered drinks.
“I stand against tradition,” I said simply.
She nodded, and leaned back so that the sweater slid from her shoulder and revealed a graceful white arm. “So do I,” she said. “In fact, I believe that old values are simply perpetuating themselves out of inertia, even though they have lost their validity. But have you thought of what would happen if we peeled away slushy traditions? Would you personally object, for example, to the idea of starting from scratch?”
She wet her lips with a delicate pink tongue and leaned forward on the edge of her seat as she waited for my answer.
“Do you mean—” I began.
She rocked her head in assent. “I know you understand my meaning,” she said. “According to our Mater we have common goals. We’re almost exactly alike in our thinking. How would you propose to eliminate the old consciousness?”
I nodded and cleared my throat. Her concern for the problems of mankind made her eyes sparkle in the most delightful way. Her cheeks colored with excitement as I explained my ideas. She was following all the complexities of my theories perfectly.
As we sat, talking there in the dimly-lit cocktail lounge, I felt remarkably happy. Surrounded by the vestiges of useless tradition we, two visionaries, were able to see a clear light beyond. Lila Potterman had been well worth waiting for. I even caught myself trying to steal furtive glances at her shapely legs.
At one hour past midnight, we adjourned to her apartment to continue our conversation. I was a little intoxicated — elated perhaps — by the lucid quality of our communication, and while Lila prepared a late dinner for us both, I congratulated myself on the foresight that had brought us together. We were just finishing our steak au poivre, when Lila unfolded her ripe lips and smiled challengingly at me.