barefooted all the way up. I am not jumpy about skin but it did seem prudent to
dress before reporting a corpse. Police were certain to want to question me and I
have known cops who would exploit any advantage in order to throw one off balance.
But first a look at the corpse.
Still clutching Pixel I went round and bent over the other side of the bed. (Gulp.)
No one I knew. No one I would choose to bed with, even were he in perfect health.
Which he was not; that side of the bed was soggy with blood. (Two gulps and a
frisson.) He had bled from his mouth – or his throat had been cut; I was not sure
which and was unwilling to investigate.
So I backed away and looked around for my clothes. I knew in my bones that this
bedroom was part of a hostelry; rooms for hire do not taste like private homes. It
was a luxury suite; it took me a longish time to poke through all the closets and
cubbyholes and drawers and cupboards et cetera . . . and then to do it all over
again when the first search failed to locate my clothes. The second search, even
more thorough, found not a rag – neither his size nor my size, neither women’s
clothes nor men’s.
I decided willy-nilly to telephone the manager, tell him the problem, and let him
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cal the cops – and ask him for a courtesy bathing robe or kimono or some such.
So I looked for a telephone.
Alexander Graham Bell had lived in vain.
I stopped in frustration. `Name of a dog! Where have they hidden that frimping
phone?’
A bodyless voice said, `Madam, may we offer you breakfast? We are proud of our
Harvest Brunch: a lavish bowl of assorted fresh fruits; a tray of cheeses; a basket
of freshly baked hot breads, crisp breads, and soft breads with jams and jellies and
syrups and Belgian butter. Basted baby barlops en brochette; drawn eggs Octavian;
smoked savannah slinker; farkels in sweetsour; Bavarian strudel; your choice of
still and sparkling wines, skullbuster Strine beer, Mocha, Kona, Turkish and Proxima
coffees~ blended or straight; all served with -‘
I repressed a gagging reflex. ‘I don’t want breakfast!’
`Perhaps Madam would enjoy our Holiday Eyeopener: your choice of fruit juice, a roll
hot from our oven, your choice of gourmet jams or jellies, your choice in a filling
but non-fattening hot cup. Served with the latest news, or background music, or
restful silence.’
‘I don’t want to eat!’
The voice answered thoughtfully, `Madam, I am a machine programmed for our food and
beverage services. May I switch you to another programme? Housekeeping? Head porter?
Engineering?’
‘Get me the manager!’
There was a short delay. ‘Guest services! Hospitality with a smile! How may I help
you?’
‘Get me the manager!’
‘Do you have a problem?’
`You’re the problem! Are you a man, or a machine?’
Is that relevant? Please tell me how I can help you.’
‘If you are not the manager, you can’t. Do you run on testicles? Or electrons?’
‘Madam, I am a machine but a very flexible one. My memories include all curricula of
Procrustes Institute of Hotelier Science, including all case studies updated to
midnight yesterday. If you will be so good as to state your problem, I will match it
at once with a precedent case and show how it was solved to the satisfaction of the
guest. Please?’
‘If you don’t put me through to the manager in nothing flat, I guarantee that the
manager will take an axe to your rusty gizzard and install a Burroughs-Libby
analogue brain in your place. Who shaved the barber? What do your case studies say
about that? Moron.’
This time I got a female voice. ‘Manager’s office. How may I help you?’
‘You can take this dead man out of my bed!’
Short pause. ‘Housekeeping, Hester speaking. How may we help you?’
‘There’s a dead man in my bed. I don’t like it. Untidy:
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