He looked down at himself and emitted a bleat of anguish.
His physique had not changed in any way!
Whimpering with disappointment, he pulled off his jacket and shirt and confirmed the awful discovery that his body was the same substandard assemblage of frail bones and assorted scraps of fatty tissue he had always known. When he tried to flex his right bicep it, as always, continued to snuggle along his upper arm like two ounces of hog belly. Bryant was glowering at it, his disappointment turning to anger against T. D. Marzian and the criminal organisation for which he worked, when he heard a low whistle from somewhere close behind him.
“Take a gander at that physique,” a man’s voice said in tones of awe. “Say, I’ll bet you that’s Mister Galaxy.”
“Nah,” said another male voice. “Mister Galaxy can’t match those deltoids—he must be Mister Cosmos.”
Bryant whirled round, saw two oddly attired little men gaping at his torso and his rising fury spilled over into words. “Are you trying to be funny?” he demanded. “Because if you are…”
The little men cowered back with a convincing show of fear.
“Not us, sir,” one of them babbled. “Forgive us for making comments, but we’re both physical-culture freaks from way back, and we’ve never seen a human powerhouse like you before.”
“That’s right,” his companion put in fervently. “I’d give a million zlinkots for a build like yours. Two million.”
Bryant glared from one to the other, still convinced he was being hazed; then a curious fact was borne home to him. Malicious fate had saddled him with a body that was undersized and puny, but that was nothing to the trick it had played on these strangers. They barely came up to his shoulder, and their clinging garments revealed concave chests and legs which would have looked more appropriate on stick insects. Bryant looked beyond them and saw that all the other men strolling in the plaza were jerry-built on similar lines, and the first glimmers of understanding came to him.
If what he saw was a representative sample, if all the men on this world looked alike, then there was every likelihood that he was the most perfectly developed specimen of the lot.
Alterealities Incorporated had fulfilled its contract after all, but not in the way he had anticipated.
“I can’t get over those pectorals,” the first man commented, his gaze fixed admiringly on Bryant’s chest.
“And how about those lats?” the second one added. “He must work out for hours every day.”
“Oh, I like to keep in shape,” Bryant said modestly, preening himself. Then a new thought came to him. “Do you think the girls would go for a body like mine?”
“Go for it!” The first man rolled his eyes. “You won’t be able to fight them off.”
As if to verify his words, there came a series of gasps, giggles and other sounds of feminine delight from somewhere off to Bryant’s right. He turned and saw a group of six or seven young women approaching him at considerable speed. They were wide-eyed and pink-cheeked with what appeared to be unbridled desire. After a brief pause, during which they ogled his body from close up, they began to touch him with eager fingers. Others jostled for position, and in less than ten seconds Bryant was at the centre of a scrimmage. As he struggled to keep his feet in the confusion, hands clutched at various parts of his anatomy with disconcerting lack of finesse, bodies ground against him, lips were pressed urgently to his, and his ears were bombarded with proposals, the least bold of which required him to nominate his place or hers.
The situation might have been highly gratifying to one with Bryant’s history of frustration, except for one unfortunate fact—the women of this world were, if anything, less well-endowed than their menfolk. Sharp elbows and knees beat painful tattoos all over his frame; bony fingers threated to remove pieces of his flesh. The overall effect was akin to being attacked by rapacious skeletons. Moaning in panic, Bryant lunged for freedom, groping in his jacket pocket for the flat shape of the Probability Normalizer.
He found it, pressed the button, and on the instant—his jacket and shirt still draped over his arm—he was standing on the silvery disk in Alterealities Incorporated’s New York office. T. D. Marzian and Miss Cruft were gazing at him, the former with cool surprise, the latter with some degree of consternation.
“Were things not entirely to your satisfaction, sir?” Marzian asked blandly.
“Satisfaction?” Bryant quavered, heading unsteadily for the nearest chair. “My God, man, I nearly got torn to pieces!”
He began to relate what had happened, but had uttered only a few words when it came to him that he was partially nude in the presence of Miss Cruft. Embarrassed, he struggled into his clothing and finished his story.
“Most unfortunate,” Marzian said in matter-of-fact tones. “But now you can appreciate the value of our Triple Chance facility—you still have two free transfers in hand.”
“Two? You mean you’re going to count that…shambles?” Bryant was shocked and indignant. “You sent me into a completely wrong sort of universe.”
“It was the one you specified. We have your instructions here in your own writing.”
“Yes, but when I said I wanted to be the most perfectly developed man in the world, I meant I wanted a new physique. One like Mister America’s.”
Marzian gave him a barely perceptible shake of the head. “The Probability Redistributor doesn’t work that way. You are you, sir. You are one invariant point in an ocean of probabilities, and nothing can be done to alter that fact. The only realities in which you can exist are those in which you are short of stature and…um…somewhat underpowered.”
Bryant, having invested practically every penny he owned, refused to be put off so easily. “Aren’t there any realities in which all the men are scrawny midgets, like the two I told you about, and all the women are…well…normal?” Making sure Miss Cruft was not watching, Bryant made ballooning gestures in front of his chest so that there would be no doubt about what he meant by “normal“.
“That’s hardly logical, is it?” Marzian’s voice now had an edge of impatience. “The males and females of any species have to be compatible, to share similar characteristics; otherwise that species couldn’t exist.”
Bryant’s shoulders slumped. “Does that mean I’ve wasted all my money? All I wanted was to live in a reality where beautiful women would fall over themselves to get at me. Was that too much to ask?”
Marxian stroked his chin with the air of a man intrigued by a professional challenge. “There’s no need to despair, Mr Bryant. Just take a look around you at our own reality. There are lots of extremely unprepossessing men who have more women than they know what to do with. The common factor is that these men can do something better than most others. Women go for success, you see. It doesn’t have to be in anything marvellous—singing, dancing, hitting a ball, driving a car … Is there anything you are particularly good at?”
“I’m afraid not,” Bryant said dolefully.
“Well, is there anything you are; fairly good at?”
“Sorry.” Bryant took his newly-signed contract from his pocket and began scanning the small print. “What’s your policy about refunds?”
“How about acting? Or shooting pool?” Marzian was beginning to sound anxious. “Can’t you even write stories?”
“No.” Bryant shuffled the contract’s pages, then paused with a sheepish expression on his face. “There was one thing I could do at school—better than anybody else—but it’s too stupid for words.”
“Try me,” Marzian urged.
“Well…” Bryant gave him a tremulous smile. “I could blow bubbles off my tongue.”