The Dark Design by Phillip Jose Farmer

The subject stared at your correspondent, took another puff, drew it deep into her lungs, causing a slight lifting of slight breasts, and finally, face bluish with lack of oxygen, discharged the tag-ends of fumes through her nostrils. Your intrepid was reminded of pictures of dragons he had seen during his Terrestrial existence. He, however, thought of the better part of valor and did not remark upon the similarity.

“You’ve got it,” she said. “Maybe you’re not so dense after all.”

Then, gripping the edge of the table as if she’d squeeze the wood, she sat up straight. “But just what do you mean by only a woman?”

“Oh, that’s only my verbalization of your thoughts,” the intrepid said hastily. “I was being ironic. Or whatever…”

“If I were a man,” she said, “which, thank God I am not, I’d have been made at least first mate on the spot. And you wouldn’t be sitting there sneering at me.”

“Oh, you’re mistaken about that,” our dauntless said. “I am not sneering at you. However, there is a point that you may have overlooked. It wouldn’t make any difference what your sex is; you could have the biggest balls for 40,000 kilometers around, and you still wouldn’t be put in charge.

“Long before the Riverboat was built-the second one, I mean, not the one King John stole-it was agreed that Firebrass would be in charge of the airship project. It’s even in the Parolando constitution, which you must know, since he himself recited it chapter and verse to you. You were aware of that and by taking the oath you accepted that. So, tell me, why all the bitching?”

“You don’t understand after all, do you, you clown?” she said. “The point is that that rule, that arrogantly imperi­ous law, should never have been made.”

Your correspondent swallowed some more of the stuff that encourages-and stupefies-and said, “The point is that it was made. And if a man came along twice as qualified as you, he’d still have to accept the fact that he could never be higher than second. He could be Captain Firebrass’ chief construction assistant and first mate on the ship. But that’s all.”

“There isn’t any such creature as twice as qualified as me,” she said, “unless an officer from the Graf Zeppelin should show up. Listen, I’m getting tired of this.”

“It is rather hot and smoky in here,” your correspondent said, wiping the sweat off his brow. “However, I would like to get more of your background, details of your earthly life, you know, human interest stuff. And also the story of what happened to you right after Resurrection Day. And …”

“Are you hoping I’ll get turned on by this joint and by your overwhelming male charm and virility?” she said. “Are you getting ready to make a pass at me?”

“God forbid,” I said. “This is a strictly professional visit. Besides …”

“Besides,” she said, and she was the one sneering now, “you’re scared of me, aren’t you? You’re all alike. You have to be dominant, the superior. If you meet a woman with more brains, one who is able to handle you in a fight, who is clearly the superior, then the hot air whistles out of you like a pricked balloon. A balloon with a prick.”

“Now, really, Miz Gulbirra,” your dauntless said, feel­ing his face heat up.

“Bug off, little man,” the subject said.

Your correspondent thought it was wise to obey this imperative. The interview, though not complete from our viewpoint, was terminated.

12

Jill picked up the next evening’s Leak from the distribution shack outside the press building. Some people who obviously had already read the news snickered or grinned at her. She opened the paper to the Newcomers page, suspecting what she would find there, angry before reading it.

The pages rattled in her shaking hands. The interview was bad enough, though she should have known that a late-nineteenth-century man like Bagg would print such rot. What had he been, editor of some crummy yellow rag of some frontier town in the Arizona Territory? Yes, that was it. Tombstone. Firebrass had told her something about him.

What really enraged her was the photograph. She hadn’t been aware of it, but someone in the crowd her first morning here had snapped her picture. There she was, caught in a silly-looking, almost obscene, posture. Naked, bending over, her breasts hanging straight down like a cow’s udders, the towel in one hand behind her and one before as she sawed it, drying her crotch. She was looking up, her mouth open, and she seemed all nose and buckteeth.