In the Deadlands (12 page)

She lifted her face up, wanting to be kissed. He kissed it. He let his hands move incuriously over her body, feeling how her once-trim form had begun to pile up layers, had begun to turn to fat; the once-smooth skin was beginning to go rough and there were wrinkles. But he let his hands roam across her anyway, without direction, not noticing how they had already begun to quest and probe.

Marsha's hands too were moving across his body, through the sparse hair on his chest, up and along his never-well-muscled arms, across the uneven pimple-stained skin of his back. Yet, he noticed, her hands seemed to be more gentle than they had seemed in the past, more sensitive, more knowing, and more active. She was beginning to caress parts of his chest and legs, places that seemed to be more alive than he remembered them.

His hands too had taken on a life of their own—and yet, they were still his hands. He stroked, he fondled, he caressed with a technique and a skill he had never noticed in himself.
And Marsha was reacting, responding, giving with an enthusiasm he had never before seen in this woman who was his wife.

Now he was moving and thrusting with a wholeness of being that had to be shared—it was too big for any one person—and he moved and thrust at her all the more willfully, trying to push his sharing all the deeper into her. Marsha too seemed to be arching, thrusting, giving—as if she too had something overwhelming to give.

It was as if they were both doing the right thing at the right time and at the right place—and for one brief bright flash it reminded him of what it had been like when they had been young, and when nothing else had existed but each other and the bright surging world.

They forgot the stick-ons, the bands, the guidance module on the dresser. Their external beings had disappeared and they immersed themselves in their lovemaking. It was a surging climbing wave, a bright crashing thing that built ever higher. Ever higher.

And it was very good.

He smiled at her. She smiled back, and they kissed. It wasn't until the next morning they discovered the guidance module had not been turned on.

AFTERWORD:

All these years later, this story still bothers me.

It's not the simplicity of the tale; it's the implications.

What we want isn't just sex, but the deeper connection it represents. We make the mistake of thinking that sex is the access instead of the expression.

Yarst!

Gaius Petronius lived in the time of Nero, the first century of the modern calendar.

He wrote a peripatetic tale of gluttony, lust, and depravity called
The Satyricon
. Only 141 consecutive pieces of the work survive, but it is generally regarded as one of the first novels ever written. It is also deliciously pornographic.

While many of the individuals in the work were actual people of the time, the major characters—Encolpius, Giton, and Ascyltos—are fictitious. Modern scholars regard
The Satyricon
as a cynical parody of Roman excess and hypocrisy—most notably the section describing the dinner at Trimalchio's.

One interpretation holds that Petronius was a member of Nero's court and may have committed suicide when he fell out of favor with the Emperor and was due to be arrested. Federico Fellini included Petronius in his film version of
The Satyricon.

None of this ennobles the story that follows.
The Satyricon
of Petronius was a source for the names, the dinner at Trimalchio's was a scene setting. I was more intrigued with the way that Robert Sheckley had invented his own comedic genre of science fiction.

This was my first stumbling attempt at the same.

The title of the story is a fannish expression of disgust, which I first heard at a poker game after a meeting of the Los Angeles Science Fantasy Society—when the last card turned over was not the one the player desired.

After discovering that he couldn't consummate his marriage to one of the flame women of Alphard VI, even with asbestos pajamas, George N-Kolpus sadly had the alliance annulled and returned to GalacCentral, that huge terminus in space, where he once more took up his lonely vigil at one end of THE BOTTOM HALF OF INFINITY, BAR AND GRILL.

Tri-Mach, the robot bartender, whirred smoothly up. “Why, it's George N-Kolpus!” His eyestalks scanned the figure; comparison with the memory banks and recognition was almost immediate. “It's great to have you back, George. The usual, I presume?”

George nodded.

Tri-Mach extended his eyestalks and carefully measured out the nine different liquors that were the components of a Sirian Slush. His six multijointed arms alternately strobed, stroked, stoked, swizzled, swirled, shook, scalded, and skreexled the mixture. “We didn't expect you so soon,” whirred Tri-Mach. “We'd heard you'd gotten married again. I didn't even get a chance to congratulate you this time. I'll bet she was pretty. They always are. You have excellent taste, George.”

George eyed the robot blearily. “You talk too much, Tri-Mach.”

Tri-Mach stiffened his eyestalks indignantly. “I can't help it. That's the way I'm programmed. It's my job, you know.”

“I'm sorry, Tri-Mach. It's just that I'm upset.”

“I understand, George.” The robot accepted the human's apology. “The marriage didn't work out?”

George sighed. “She was one of the flame women of Alphard VI. I should have known better....”

Tri-Mach's eyestalks drooped in sympathy. He lowered his voice two octaves. Also two decibels. “I'm so sorry to hear that. But you know what they say, those flame women are hot ones.”

George sighed again. “That was the trouble.”

Tri-Mach finished his strobing, stroking, stoking, swizzling, swirling, shaking, scalding, and skreexling, and placed the still smoking mixture in front of George. “Two credits please.”

“Put it on my tab.”

“It has been done.” Tri-Mach whirred thoughtfully, then: “Hmm, you have quite a long credit record with us, George.”

“I didn't ask for a credit report,” the human said acidly.

“I could not help but observe when I plugged into your account. If you are not careful you could turn into an alcoholic. I note certain susceptibility to alcoholism in your medical index, and—”

“Dammit! I came in here for a drink, not an analysis.”

^“
—and there is also your compulsive matrimony, a Don Juan tendency; possibly Narcissism, which suggests a latent—”

“Dammit! Will you shut up and let a man drink in peace! I came in here to forget, not to have some gabbling hunk of tin psychoanalyze me.”

Tri-Mach stiffened. “I beg your pardon, George. I thought you might want to discuss your problem. It makes
some
of my customers feel better if they can talk about it. (And it's chromalumin—not tin.)”

“(Same difference.) Why should I talk about it? You've already plugged into my file. What is there that I can tell you that you don't already know?”

“Perhaps you could clarify some of the things that don't go into the indices. For instance, your first extraterrestrial marriage—I fail to see what a human being would find interesting in an octopod female of Beta Lambda II.”

“Of course, you wouldn't understand,” said George. “You're just a machine. You couldn't understand what it is to love. Oh, my sweet little Myrinae—Myrinae translates out to something like ‘Lovely Tentacles, Graceful Suckers'; but that doesn't even begin to do her justice. She was one of the most enthusiastic lovers this side of Betelgeuse—delightful! But, you're only a machine. You couldn't comprehend what it is to experience actual physical love.”

“There
are
mechanical equivalents,” Tri-Mach noted.

George shook his head, took a sip of his drink, his first. “It's not the same, Tri-Mach. It's just not the same.” He sighed in remembrance. “Those octopod women may not be much to look at, but get one of them into bed—well, there's no describing it. When it comes to hanging on for the ride, there is no substitute for eight clinging tentacles. I still have sucker marks on my back....” George sighed again. “Boy, that female really knew how to do it.”

“I still fail to understand,” said the machine, wiping at a spot on the plastoid surface of the bar. “If she was such a good lover, why did you eventually leave her? You said she was very good in bed.”

“
Bed
is a misnomer. She was very good, but bed isn't the right word. Those octopods don't like beds—they prefer cold slime pools. I nearly ruined my health just because I wanted to sleep with my wife. I still get cold chills thinking about it.”

“It sounds like you gave up too easy. Couldn't you have worked out some arrangement?”

“Oh, we tried. Let me tell you, we tried. Everything. I almost developed an addiction to the anti-chill drugs. And even that I might have lived with. No, what killed it was the fact that she kept trying to cuddle up to me in the middle of the night—and I kept drowning. After the third or fourth midnight resurrection, I decided enough was enough.”

Tri-Mach's eyestalks drooped in sympathy; a neat touch that—he decided to add it to his repertoire of reactions. “A difference in ecologies, George. Even the smallest difference can be an insurmountable obstacle.”

George nodded, took a sip of his drink, frowned thoughtfully. “Yeah, but that's not the only reason an E.T. marriage breaks up. Hell, Pi Alpha Alpha has an atmosphere and ecology 93% analogous to Homeworld —but I'd never marry one of their women.”

“Pi Alpha Alpha is a lovely planet. I understand that the mating flights of the winged wisps are lovely to see and even more thrilling to be a part of. And the Matriarchy encourages intermarriage. Off-worlders are eagerly welcomed, and if you can't fly, they'll even supply the grav-belt for the wedding night—”

“Tri-Mach,” interrupted George wearily. “It's obvious that you know little of human psychology.”

“That's why I am discussing this matter with you, George. I fail to understand why marriage with a winged wisp would be impractical. It is said to be a most soul-satisfying experience—”

“Hmp,” said George. “A winged wisp is a most
un
female creature, with very
un
female sex organs. They lay their eggs inside the bodies of the males. When the egg hatches, the father carries the slug-child while it grows inside him. Oh yes, and while it grows it also devours the father's innards. Until the father dies, that is; at which point the thing gorges itself, encapsulates, hibernates, and metamorphoses into a preadolescent. Sorry, that's not for me, Tri-Mach. If I'm going to be a parent, I'd prefer to do it the more traditional way.”

Tri-Mach nodded his eyestalks. “Yes, I understand. A conflict in sexual and parental drives, coupled with the basic survival instinct. Yes, yes, George, I understand now. Differences in inherent psychologies and cultural drives can prevent a marriage from succeeding.”

“You're trying to simplify everything, Tri-Mach,” George accused. “One can have exactly the same drives as one's mate—and things still won't work out. For instance, I was once married to one of the Gorgons of Golias. They call them that because their sensory tendrils grow in a fringe around the top of their heads.”

“I am familiar with the species,” Tri-Mach noted.

“Well, Mettisoi was one of the most beautiful Gorgons I'd ever seen—such tendrils—”

“Mettisoi? Her name? What does that mean?”

“Oh, well, there's no exact human equivalent, but on Golias it's a very beautiful, very romantic name. Something like, ‘Voice of the Bull, Soul of the Toad.'”

“A beautiful name.”

“English doesn't do it justice. Anyway, when we began to suspect we had something going, we knew we wanted to be sure. By then, I'd already been burned a couple of times, and she—well, anyway, we paid a visit to InterMate and ran our psyches through Comp-Central.”

“And—?”

“And came up with an 83% match. Pretty good, huh? Especially for an interspecies marriage.”

“Then I don't understand. The marriage should have been successful.”

“It should have been, yes,” George agreed. “Our drives were similar and compatible—but, hell man, she'd like to have killed me with her demands. Seven, eight, ten times a night she'd want to have sex. She was insatiable. The marriage lasted less than a week.”

“Tsk, tsk,” said Tri-Mach.

“She claimed that I didn't love her, that I was impotent. I argued that she was a nymphomaniac. Yet, the damned machine (no offense intended) had said we were compatible.”

“Obviously,” said Tri-Mach, “the analysis of the data was incorrect, a failure to realize the difference in degree. Could it have been a human error?” Tri-Mach suggested gently.

“I don't know. Whatever it was, I found out the hard way.”

“Then, there is no simple answer?”

George took another sip of his drink, thought about it for a long moment. Tri-Mach quickly scanned the other customers at the bar, then returned his attention to George, who was speaking again. “I'm not sure I could agree with you on that completely. I know exactly why I lost my fifth (or was it my sixth) wife. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Give me a refill on that Sirian Slush and I'll tell you.” George held out his glass. Tri-Mach took it with one of his six multi-jointed arms. Once more the robot began its routine of strobing, stroking, stoking, swizzling, swirling, shaking, scalding, and skreexling. “What was your fifth (or was it your sixth?) wife like?”

Actually, Tri-Mach already knew; he had consulted the GalacCentral Index on George N-Kolpus, Homeworlder; but he asked the question to keep him talking.

George sighed, something he did often when he thought of his many wives. “A mech. I had her built entirely to my specifications. She was going to be my ideal woman. But when she was completed, she decided to look for the ideal man. She ran off with an InterBem programmer and I haven't heard from her since.” George sighed again. “I never even had a chance to name her.”