"Not unless you're a lot richer than I am," Yuri was disappointing his listeners. "They only let me have her on credit. I can make enough renting her as a dancer on the live circuit to pay for her and to live on, a lot more than I'm getting now. Naturally Dr. Birrel didn't want to go into the business. He's retired, you know."
"But when they go to making 'em by the thousand, that'll put you out of business, won't it?" asked one young man in formal evening dress.
"Well, not out of business," Yuri said, watching Sugar's twinkling hooves. "I'll have considerable mass by then. I could buy up a lot and promote them—they will be a lot cheaper. But you're right; I'll have to get the credit while I can; androids will be common soon. In fact, I think it's only a matter of time before every record company in the entertainment industry is producing its own special androids, and all kinds of other animals, too."
"Don't bet on it," said one old man in the background. The crowd of eager young men turned to look at him. He was sucking a reeking black pipe, had several days' growth of beard, and should have been sitting on a bench in front of a general store a century and a half ago. His voice was dry, sour, pessimistic with a lifetime's knowledge of human beings. "They'll change the law fast enough," he said dryly. "I don't mean they won't make more. But they won't be bought and sold."
"Why not? You don't call 'em human, do you?" asked one loudly-dressed youth incredulously. Yuri had a brief daydream in which legions of loudly-dressed youths died in agony.
"Got nothin' to do with it," grunted the oldster. "If you were married, which you ain't by your words, you'd know one argument without being told. Bringing a thing like that home, regardless of what it's called, is grounds for divorce. And how!" He pointed at Sugar with his pipestem. Sugar, flushed and joyous, caught Yuri's eye, her laughing glance sweeping the group.
"My wife'd beat my skull in if brought her a, uh, housemaid like that," agreed a middle-aged man with a round, red face.
"How about if you're just free-married?" challenged one of the optimists.
"Just makes it easier for the little lady to throw you outta the house."
"Wouldn't need a wife anyway," grunted one of the youngsters. He looked Sugar over carefully, added, "And how!" Yuri had another brief daydream.
"All it takes is six months' practice," Sugar said jerkily, her feet pattering softly on the gem-hard floor.
"Anybody can do it. As you can tell by me. You just need hooves. And a tail," switching it outrageously, turning in the air on each bound. "The horns just come natural. Lots of people have 'em. But the thing you need the most is an audience. Like this one." She leaped straight up beside a shy, plain woman holding a big-eyed baby, put her hands on the woman's shoulder, kissed the baby on the fly, and was gone. Pausing for breath, she grinned around at them, picked out a strong young girl in pants and said, "Give me a hand. Catch me and toss me straight up." The other was dubious, but game. Standing just in front of her, she leaped into the air, folding her legs; the other caught her by the knees and heaved. Another girt might have gone over her head, but Sugar put both hands on the head and pushed away lightly. Landing on her hooves, she bounded forward onto her hands just in front of the startled girl again, pushed off hard, turned half-over in mid air and caught the girl's shoulders just as she was backing away. The girl was nervous but beginning to realize Sugar's precision; she halted and Sugar dressed her turn, landing lightly and easily in front of her, laughing into her eyes.
She was dancing hopscotch with a group of pre-teen girls when Yuri finally decided they'd done enough. An intense, hostile silence closed around him as he threaded into the group of women; they all pulled away from him. His bright smile became a toothy travesty. Calling on all the aplomb learned as a cub reporter in Free Los Angeles, he said heartily, "Time to go, Sugar. Bedtime for you." That was an unfortunate remark. If looks could have killed, there'd have been nothing left of Yuri Koeppels but a spot.
"Really?" she asked. "I don't feel sleepy; just a little tired."
"Mustn't get too tired," he said, straining his smile wider. "After all," he said to the frozen-faced women, "you're only seven months old and must get a lot of sleep, ha-ha!"
"If you say so," said Sugar reluctantly. "It still seems early to me." Yuri writhed at that, but she came away. Taking his hand, she innocently wrapped his aim around her, smiled and waved at her friends saying good-bye as she went. There was an agonizing wait while she kissed every pre-teener in the room, then they were at the door. Sugar flashed one last bright smile back, and they were out, Yuri's back feeling as if he were being stabbed with a thousand icicles.
"Are you trying to get me lynched?" he croaked, imagining the sudden explosion of the women into scandalized speech behind him.
Sugar giggled. "Doing O.K., aren't I?"
"So good you're the most popular person in the building and I'm the most unpopular." She skipped happily. "Good. That's like you outlined it. You're very sharp, you know?" looking up at him worshipfully.
"Yeah," he grunted. "So sharp I scare myself."
In his apartment, Yuri headed for the refrigerator. His electrosynthesizer, working on air, produced sugar, starch, flour (cellulose for bulk), fats and oils, including cream—and ethanol. lust the basics. Right now ethanol was the basic. Pouring out a glass of mix—carbonated ethanol and water—he drank it straight, like medicine.
Sugar watched curiously. "Got some for me?" she asked.
He looked down at her in surprise. "Uh, that's not good for little girls," he said after a moment, then turned red, thinking of the women.
"I'm a capriform, remember? It won't hurt me," she told him.
"Don't you get drunk?"
"Heavenly orbits, no. Bad for the reflexes." She looked around at the clock, frowning. "It is bedtime, though. Energy drinks keep me awake."
"You drink alcohol for energy?"
"Sure. Ethanol, that is. We have liver-type tissues surrounding our intestines—you know the kind. They oxydize the alcohol before it gets into the blood."
She went off to take a shower, whipping off her blouse and looking around in puzzlement for the cleanser. Yuri winced at the thought of taking her clothes down to the laundromat. He set the electrosynthesizer to ethanol and sat down, brooding. He just hoped it would work. If it broke the public's resistance to androids, he couldn't really complain. The personal contact should do it, from what they'd already seen. But he dreaded taking her around the live circuit. He could afford to hold out for the fashionable nightclubs—with a large percentage of women in audience.
Sugar came out glowing, toweling herself. For a moment it almost seemed worth it; her fresh, appealing innocence brought a lump to his throat. Then she glanced distastefully at the couch, resentfully at him, and wistfully at his bed. He froze inside, ignoring her glance. She brought out her brushes and combs, came and stood in front of him, and prattled cheerfully about all the wonderful people she had met, currying herself entrancingly. Yuri found he couldn't ignore her.
Finished, she came and sat down on the chair arm. "I think this is a lot better than being an A/V star; don't you?" she asked musingly, leaning against him.
He became conscious of her warm bare body, the faint sweet scent of her damp fur. "It has its points," he agreed, sweating. "About time for you to go to bed, isn't it?" There was a brief silence. "I'm not sleepy," she said shortly.
She got down after a moment, walked around in front of him, heaved a deep sigh, glanced at him appealingly, silently gathered up her brushes and combs and slowly carried them back to his bedroom. He heard her arrange them on the dresser. She paced slowly around the room for several minutes, and he heard her sigh again. Then she appeared in the doorway. "Aren't you going to bed?" she asked wistfully.