When all the patches were complete and the new tapes were ready to roll, the girl in the gray dress double- checked, and pressed the "execute button. Able Charlie, AC-770, began to take up his-her-its new life.
The girl in the gray dress idly examined the polish on her nails. Her mind was not far from standby mode, either; until the first readout came, or a trouble signal, she had nothing to do but wait for lunch.
Inside the AC-770 Charlie, or Charlotte, was swiftly sniffing colognes whose fragrance was only the simulation of magnetic patterns on iron-oxide tape and comparing shades of lipstick whose colors were only a point on a hypothetical scale. The girl programmer was comparing colors, too. She wished idly that she had a friend to chat with-Rose Pink, after all? Or Catalina Coral ?-but when she thought she heard a low contralto sigh she dismissed it at once. She knew that she was alone.
THE WAY IT WAS
This is the third kiss of death story in this volume. This one I was maneuvered into by that secret master of us all, Harlan Ellison. He called me up one day to tell me there was a new magazine to be published by Bob Guccione-not Omni; it was long before Omni- whose editor, he said, was slavering to have a short article on the future written by me. Well, short articles on the future I sneeze out at the slightest request, and the money was good; when the editor called a little later, I told her I'd be glad to do it. We talked a little bit about subject matter, and I sat down to write it. I was typing happily along when the phone rang again. Had I understood, she wanted to know, that by "piece' she meant fiction piece-specifically, not an article but a short story? I had not. I wouldn't have started on the thing if I had. Still, in the course of thinking about the themes I wanted to touch on in the article I had dreamed up what seemed to me a brand-new aspect of a long considered subject. So I said, all right, I'll do a story.. . and did.. and then, what do you know, the new magazine died stillborn. The story languished in Bob Guccione's files for a year or two until he started another new magazine. This one was called Viva, and my story appeared in its first issue. But this time the Pharaoh's curse had not yet finished its work. Viva's first issue was also its last, and this time I had slain not one but two magazines with a single story.
This is the way it was with Stan and Evanie: they fell in love. When Stan came out of the waking-up room at Blue Balls, Evanie was there, pretty and new on the job and a little flustered, to give him his check and see that everything was all right. One thing led to another. An hour later they were lying in the long grass at the foot of a waterfall, gently stoned, skin bare on the warm, soft turf, listening to Rorschach Rock while sweet bunnies and gentle chipmunks peered at them from the edges of the lawn.
It was like the first time for both of them, only better, because they each knew every move the other was going to make and leapt to meet each other; there was never skin softer or smoother than Evanie's, never a breast as firm. Stan stayed hard inside her for fifty-four minutes, never impatient, bringing her with joy through gasps and shudders until both of them had had it all and they lay spent and contented among the violets. It was like the first time, because it was always like the first time; and, as always, the first they knew that it was over was when the waterfall stopped and the bunnies froze in midhop.
"Oh," said Evanie drowsily, "shit. She sat up and leaned away from him, scratching the inside of her thigh. "I guess I better get back to work, Sam.
"Stan.
"It was really nice, though, Stan.
"Yeah. Now that the breezes had stopped, too, Stan became aware of the way they smelled. In the city outside this room he would never have noticed it, but after the perfumed flowers it was a bring-down, and now that the soft sunlight was off, the lawn was only CelloTurf again and it itched.
The next couple was already waiting in the entry room. Stan and Evanie nodded to them and pushed their checks into the locker slots. As they got dressed Stan said, "I'd really like to do this again some time.
"Zip me up, will you?
"No, I mean it, Evanie.
She patted his shoulder absently and pushed the door open. They walked out into the city, and the heat and the stink smote them. Behind them the liquid-crystal sign glowed its message:
Harry's Place 30 Studsy Sex Spectaculars 30
The colors flowed into Super-Stud embracing the tenderest blond beauty who ever lived, with waving palms dissolving into mirrored walls behind them.
"Thanks, Stan. I'll see you.
He put out his hand to stop her. "I seriously mean I want to do it again, Evanie.
"But it's so expensive!
"I've got a thousand dollars a week, he said proudly. "I can afford it now, what the hell?
She was suddenly blinded with tears. "And how do you get it'? she sobbed. No! Let go of my arm, Stan. I've got to go.
He called after her, sweet little rump jouncing under the hem of the work-mini as she hurried away. but she didn't look back. Perplexed-and, he realized, hungry- he pushed his way through the crowded hall to a fast- food. "Fuck her," he said to the cashier as he pushed his credit card into its slot, but it was only a money machine and did not reply.
Two hours later he was still sitting at the same table in the fast-food, but he had switched from food to drink. "I don't have to eat in a joint like this, he told the man across from him. The man had been sitting there for ten minutes, nursing a cup of imitation coffee and eying Stan's collection of empty glasses. He brightened up.
"Yeah. I could tell that by looking at you. You're used to better places, right, Mac?
"I damn am.
"You can always tell somebody with, you know, some kind of status. It's the way you sit there, even.
"Right, said Stan. "Want a drink?
The man looked at the flickering digits on the wall clock. "Well, he said, "I really ought to be getting along- Which was doubtful; he was Welfare from clipped head to fabric shoes, nothing to do but wait for Thursday (payday), just the way Stan had been most of his life. Stan's face must have showed what he was thinking; the man said quickly, "Still, I wouldn't mind a beer.
Stan pushed his card into the cashier and read out the total glumly; after the beer, the readout showed he had $766.22 left in his account. Harry's Place wasn't cheap. "I just came from Harry's, he said. "You ever been there? Nice little screwery, if the company's right.
"I bet she was, huh?
"You won that bet. Prettiest little thing you ever saw. I met her at... I met her where we both work.
"I had a job, the man said enviously. "What kind of work do you do'?
"Parts. What about your job?
"Well, it was in personal service. I worked up in the penthouse areas when I was younger. Sort of general handyman. I used to go to places like Harry's all the time. Stud farms, casinos, travel-I've been skiing, two or three times. He knocked back the rest of his beer and pushed the empty container absentmindedly into the middle of the table. "Yeah, you can have a pretty good life, when you have a job. What kind of parts do you mean?
"All different ones. The forget-it shots were wearing off, the selective proteins that numbed the sense of boredom and made everything seem fresh and exciting, even sex, and Stan was rapidly tiring of his company. Funnily, he wasn't tiring of Evanie. In his not particularly adventurous life she was probably the five- or six-hundredth girl he'd screwed, and the fourth or fifth he had taken to Harry's, after he found out how to get a thousand dollars a week for practically nothing, but there was something about her that stuck in his mind. No, not in his mind; he could feel a crawling between his thighs when he thought of her, even with the forget-it wearing off and being in this crummy joint.