III
At home, in the warmth of the den, with my books and paintings to protect me, I took the dust jacket off the book so that I might not accidentally chance upon the picture, and I began reading Lily. It was a mystery novel in a way. And it was a mystery of a novel: the prose wasn’t that spectacular—actually designed for the average mind. Still, I was fascinated. And through the chapters, between the lines of prose, a face seen at a party weeks before kept drifting through my mind. A face I fought to forget . . .
“See her. Over there?”
“Yeah?”
“Marcus Aurelius. Honest. Writes those pornographic novels—or nearly pornographic. You know, Lily, Bodies in Darkness, those.”
And she had sweet golden silk hair.
And she was blessed with a sculptured face.
And she had deep eyes of blue.
She.
“How would you like to—-”
I ignored him, what he was saying about her. I had to ignore!
“Those legs—”
Honey hair.
Smooth lips.
When I had finished, I picked up the phone, clutching the dust jacket in my other hand, my mind remote, as if my body were overpowering my brain. I punched out Information. The operator refused to give me Miss Aurelius’ real name and number, but I esped out and saw it as she looked at the book in front of her. MARCUS AURELIUS or ME-LINDA THAUSER/22-223-296787/UNLISTED.
It had only recently been announced by her publishing company that Marcus Aurelius was a woman. And a woman with a pretty name of her own.
“Hello?”
Summer humming tunes in willows.
“Miss Tauser?”
“Yes?”
“This is Simeon Marflin. You’ve heard of me, I imagine?” My words seemed not my own but tumbled forth from the mist of my mouth, which I seemed not to know.
She seemed uncertain, but the whisper of her voice said she knew me.
“I have been reading Lily. You know, of course, that I have always refused to have my biography written. However, having read your books, I would be honored if we could discuss a volume by you—on me.”
There was a bit more said, and it ended with me and this: “Fine. Then I will expect you here for dinner tomorrow night at seven.”
My mouth was dry, and my lips seemed about to crack. I was sweating. I had suggested escorting her to dinner somewhere. She had said dinner was not necessary. I had insisted. She had said restaurants were too noisy to discuss business. I said I had a cook. And now she was coming to my place. I couldn’t sleep worrying about it.
Getting heavily out of bed, I walked into the den. The machine stood in the corner, silent.
The headrest was ominous.
But my nerves demanded soothing.
The chair that folded into the machine was like the tongue of a monster.
I could see the hollow compartment that would swallow me. But my nerves demanded soothing. I reminded myself that other generations never had the advantage of a Mechanical Psychiatrist. They could never have afforded one even if their technology would have made the thing possible. I forgot the emptiness that would fill me later. For the moment, I needed comforting. I needed a few things explained . . .
Proteus’ Mother taking a thousand shapes.
But never to be caught and held to tell the future . . .
The life spark flickering, then holding a steady flame. And a very vague awareness even in the womb where plastic walls were soft and warm and giving—but somehow unre-sponding . . .
He looked up into the lights overhead and sensed a man named Edison. He sensed filaments even as his own filament was disconnected from the womb . . .
And there were metal hands to comfort him . . .
And . . . and . . . there . . . and . . .
SAY IT WITHOUT HESITATION! The voice was everywhere.
And there were simu-flesh breasts to feed him . . .
And . . . and
OUT WITH IT! The computerized psychiatrist had a voice like thunderstorms.
And there were wire-cored arms to rock him . . .