As we got out at Vancouver he asked me if I had any plans for lunch. Because, if I didn’t, he knew of a really great place, the Bayshore Inn. Or if I liked Japanese or Chinese foodÄ I said that I was sorry but I had to be in Bellingham by noon. Instead of accepting the brush-off, his face lit up. “That’s a happy
coincidence! I’m going to Bellingham, too, but I thought I would wait until after lunch. We can have lunch together in Bellingham. Is it a deal?”
(Isn’t there something in international law about crossing international boundaries for immoral purposes? But can the simple, straightforward rut of this youngster correctly be classed as “immoral”? An artificial person never understands human people’s sexual codes; all we can do is memorize them and try to stay out of trouble. But this isn’t easy; human sexual codes are as contorted as a plate of spaghetti.)
My attempt at polite brush-off having failed, I was forced to decide quickly whether to be rude or to go along with his clear purpose. I scolded myself: Friday, you are a big girl now; you know better. If you intended to give him no hope whatever of getting you into bed, the time to back out was when he offered you his seat at Winnipeg.
I made one more attempt: “It’s a deal,” I answered, “if I am allowed to pay the check, with no argument.” This was a dirty trick on my part, as we both knew that, if he let me pay for lunch, that canceled his investment in me of one hour of standing up and hanging on and fighting the surge of the capsule. But barnyard protocol did not allow him to claim the investment; his act of gallantry was supposed to be disinterested, knightly, no reward expected.
The dirty, sneaking, underhanded, rutty scoundrel proceeded to chuck protocol.
“All right,” he answered.
I swallowed my astonishment. “No argument later? It’s my check?”
“No argument,” he agreed. “Obviously you don’t want to be under the nominal obligation of the price of a lunch even though I issued the invitation and therefore should have a host’s privilege. I don’t know what I have done to annoy you but I will not force on you even a trivial obligation. There is a McDonald’s at surface level
as we arrive in Bellingham; I’ll have a Big Mac and a Coke. You pay for it. Then we can part friends.”
I answered, “I’m Marjorie Baldwin; what is your name?”
“I’m Trevor Andrews, Marjorie.”
“Trevor. That’s a nice name. Trevor, you are dirty, sneaky, underhanded, and despicable. So take me to the best restaurant in Bellingham, ply me with fine liquor and gourmet food, and you pay the check. I’ll give you a fair chance to sell your fell designs. But I don’t think that you will get me into bed; I’m not feeling receptive.”
That last was a lie; I was feeling receptive and very ruttyÄhad he possessed my enhanced sense of smell he would have been certain of it. Just as I was certain of his rut toward me. A human male cannot possibly dissemble with an AP female who has enhanced senses. I learned this at menarche. But of course I am never offended by male rut. At most I sometimes imitate a human woman’s behavior by pretending to be offended. I don’t do this often and tend to avoid it; I’m not that convincing an actress.
From Vicksburg to Winnipeg I had felt no sexual urge. But, with a double night’s sleep, a hot, hot bath with lots of soap, plenty of food, my body now was restored to its normal behavior. So why was I lying about it to this harmless stranger? “Harmless?” In any rational sense, yes. Short of corrective surgery I am sterile. I am not inclined to catch even a sniffle and I am specifically immunized against the four commonest venereal diseases. I was taught in crŠche to class coition with eating, drinking, breathing, sleeping, playing, talking, cuddlingÄthe pleasant necessities that make life a happiness instead of a burden.
I lied to him because human rules call for a lie at that point in the danceÄand I was passing as human and didn’t dare be honestly myself.