“You are glamorous.”
“Dear! Georges, don’t play with me-please don’t! You caught me out when I killed Dickey. You know what I am.”
“I know that you are a sweet and brave and gallant lady.”
“You know what I mean. You’re in the profession. You spotted me. You caught me out.”
“You are enhanced. Yes, I saw that.”
“So you know what I am. I admit it. I passed years ago. I’ve acquired much practice in covering it up but-that bastard shouldn’t have pointed that gun at Janet!”
“No, he should not have done so. And for what you did I am forever in your debt.”
“You mean that? Ian thought I should not have killed him.”
“Ian’s first reaction is always conventional. Then he comes around. Ian is a natural pilot; he thinks with his muscles. But, Marjorie- “I’m not Marjorie.” “Eh?”
“You might as well have my right name. My crèche name, I mean. I’m Friday. No last name, of course. When I need one I use one of the conventional crèche surnames. Jones, usually. But Friday is my name.”
“Is that what you want to be called?”
“Uh, yes, I think so. It’s the name I’m called by when I don’t have to cover up. When I’m with people I trust. I had better trust you. Hadn’t I?”
“I shall be flattered and much pleased. I shall try to deserve your trust. As I am much in your debt.”
“How, Georges?”
“I thought that was clear. When I saw what Mel Dickey was doing, I resolved to surrender at once rather than cause hazard to others. But when he threatened Janet with that burner, I promised
myself that, at a later time, when I was free, I would kill him.” Georges barely smiled. “I had no more than promised myself that when you appeared as suddenly as an avenging angel and carried out my intent. So now I owe you one.”
“Another killing?”
“If that is your wish, yes.”
“Uh, probably not that. As you said, I’m enhanced. I’ve usually managed to do it myself when it needed to be done.”
“Whatever you ask, dear Friday.”
“Uh, oh, hell, Georges, I don’t want you to feel in debt to me. In my own way I love Janet, too. That bastard sealed his fate when he threatened her with a deadly weapon. I didn’t do it for you; I did it for myself So you don’t owe me anything.”
“Dear Friday. You are as lovable as Janet is. I have been learning that.”
“Uh, why don’t you take me to bed and let me pay you for a number of things? I am aware that I’m not human and I don’t expect you to love me the way you do your human wife-not love me at all, really. But you seem to like me and you don’t treat me like- uh, the way my Ennzedd family did. The way most humans treat APs. I can make it worth your while. Truly I can. I never got my doxy certificate but I’ve had most of the training. . . and I try.”
“Oh, my dear! Who hurt you so badly?”
“Me? I’m all right. I was just explaining that I know how the world wags. I’m not a kid still learning how to get along without the crutch of the crèche. An artificial person doesn’t expect sentimental love from a human male; we both know that. You understand it far better than a layman can; you’re in the profession. I respect you and sincerely like you. If you will permit me to go to bed with you, I’ll do my best to entertain you.”
“Friday!”
“Yes, sir?”
“You will not go to bed with me to entertain me.”
I felt sudden tears in my eyes-a very seldom thing. “Sir, I’m sorry,” I said miserably. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I did not intend to presume.”
“God damn it, STOP IT!”
“Sir?”
“Stop calling me ‘sir.’ Stop behaving like a slave! Call me Georges. If you feel like adding ‘dear’ or ‘darling’ as you have sometimes in the past, please do so. Or slang me. Just treat me as your friend. This ‘human’ and ‘not-human’ dichotomy is something thought up by ignorant laymen; everybody in the profession knows that it is nonsense. Your genes are human genes; they have been most carefully selected. Perhaps that makes you superhuman; it can’t make you nonhuman. Are you fertile?”