"I can talk."
"Very good. Would you like something to eat while we talk?"
"Peanut butter is good."
Little Worker went to an intercom. "Food-center?"
"Yes?"
"Please send a jar of peanut butter to the bedroom of Mister Michael's wife."
"With a spoon?"
Bull looked guilty, as if doing something wrong. "No spoon."
"No spoon," repeated Little Worker into the intercom.
When the peanut butter arrived, Bull greedily unscrewed the cap and, dipping blunt fingers in, began to eat. Little Worker watched with approval. She knew very well how nice it was to feast on one's favorite food.
"Do you enjoy making sex with Mister Michael's wife?"
Bull looked confused. "What do you mean? It is what I do. Sex is sex. Peanut butter is what I enjoy. Am I supposed to enjoy sex also?"
"I do not know. Perhaps you would enjoy it more with someone else."
"Someone else? I don't understand. You said you did not wish to have sex with me-"
Little Worker was suddenly inspired. "I am not the only one home."
"There is another in the house who desires sex?"
"Yes. Would you go to her?"
"I am not supposed to leave this room-"
"You are supposed to provide sex when asked."
"That is true. You have stated a fact which contradicts the order not to leave the room. What am I to do?"
"I tell you that you may leave this room."
"Who are you again?"
"Little Worker, Mister Michael's companion."
"Then I suppose I must listen to you."
"Very good. Please come with me."
"Let me finish this peanut butter first-there. Show me to the one who desires to have sex."
Little Worker led Bull out into the corridor and up to Mister Michael's bedroom door, which was locked. However, Little Worker knew that code.
Inside, the Lyrical gynomorph was found taking a bath. Amid the welter of sudsy bubbles in the large sunken tub, only her delicate face and one knee were visible.
When the gynomorph saw Bull, her eyes widened and her nostrils flared. Bull developed an immediate erection.
"You are the one who wishes to have sex," said Bull.
"It is my nature."
"Mine also. Is it convenient to have sex in the bath?"
"Yes, it is."
Bull tore off his thong.
Little Worker left the pair of morphs together.
Mister Michael's wife was the first to return home, five hours after Little Worker had arranged the illicit introduction. Soon, she discovered Bull's absence and his current whereabouts. Little Worker watched from the corridor as Mister Michael's wife attempted in vain to separate the two morphs, who had ended up on the floor beside the bed, soaking the carpet with bathwater. Even striking at the pair with the sharp heel of her removed shoe failed to end the coupling. Eventually, special han-
dlers had to be summoned. They too failed to halt the couple's pistoning.
"It's no use, miz, they've developed a destructive feedback loop. We'll have to take them in to be put down."
"Just do it, then!" shouted Mister Michael's wife. "It's disgusting!"
"Yes, miz."
The morphs were loaded still interlocked and bucking into the back of a truck and driven off.
Little Worker was secretly happy.
But within days, Mister Michael's wife had procured a Stallion, while Mister Michael solaced himself with a Moon Moth.
Little Worker came awake instantly. She had not been sleeping well lately anyway. Her life had not been right since that long-ago morning of no toast and jelly. (One good thing about the Stallion was that he prefered oatmeal.) Mister Michael was always preoccupied and distant. At times Little Worker almost resented having to be in constant attendance on him. When she had such feelings, she became violently sick, for the bad thoughts conflicted with her lessons from the Training School. Then she had to remind herself that Mister Michael and his welfare were all her reasons for being.
And now there was noise from downstairs.
There should have been no noise from downstairs. It was the middle of the night. Oh, yes, once there had been
noise in the middle of the night from downstairs. Guards from the security booth had come in to check on a possible breach of the perimeter. But it had been only a sensor failure. Perhaps there had been another sensor failure tonight. Little Worker would go see.
She got as far as the head of the marble stairs.
There she confronted four men. The men wore optical-distorting garments and infrared goggles. They carried light-rifles and had other weapons slung from their hips. They were not security men.
''Well, well," said one intruder. "Lookee here. It's one o' them fuckin' cultivars. I'm gonna blow its head off."
"Don't get cocky, son," said a man who appeared to be their leader. "Just cuz we took out the local boys, don't mean we can make all the noise we want. No shooting unless I say so. Anyway, maybe this thing can save us some time. You there-where's the Pee Em sleep?"
Little Worker was not afraid. She carefully considered the terrorists before replying.
"I will show you. But you must collect his wife too, or she might summon help."
One terrorist whistled softly. Another said, "Shee-it, these vars ain't got no loyalty at-tall!"
"Okay, Beautiful, lead on."
Little Worker conducted the men to the bedroom door behind which slept Mister Michael's wife. 'They slapped an illegal unscrambler to the lock. The device ran through all the possible combinations in three seconds, and they were in.
Mister Michael's wife lay sleeping in the arms of the Stallion. The men made various apparently honest grunts of shock, which awoke Mister Michael's wife and her bedmate.
Soon, she and the Stallion had been herded into Mister Michael's room, where the Prime Minister was found in a similar situation with his new gynomorph.
One of the terrorists flicked on the lights, which seemed unnaturally bright at this forlorn hour. The men removed their goggles and shut off their suits, which had begun to hurt Little Worker's eyes. She was grateful.
The two human captives and their morphs stood shivering in the center of the room, the morphs naked and Mister Michael and his wife in robes. Three of the terrorists seemed calm, but one swiveled his gun nervously from side to side.
Little Worker curled unconcernedly at Mister Michael's feet. She knew that Mister Michael was trying to catch her eye, but she ignored him.
"Who– who are you from?" at last demanded Mister Michael.
"Sons of Dixie, folks. We felt our point of view wasn't reaching the proper ears. So we're aimin' to change things. Ain't that right, boys?"
"You're– you're all wired on something."
"Mebbe so, boss. But that don't prevent us from shooting straight. 'Zact opposite, in fact. So let's just follow orders, if you don't want to get hurt."
"What do you intend?" asked Mister Michael's wife.
"We're taking you 'n' the Pee Em on a little vacation. You'll go free when the gummint listens to us and does somethin'."
A second terrorist spoke. "What about these friggin' vars?"
"Slag those sex toys," said the boss. "Make it quiet though. But save the one that helped us-it might come in handy again."
One of the men unholstered a pistol. Before anyone could react, it spat twice.
Gelatin capsules hit the morphs and burst, releasing lysis catalysts. In under a minute, the two morphs were single mingled puddle of thick slime, atop which for a minute floated the Moon Moth's tougher gemmed wings.