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."Hoot hoot hoot," said the collective, their line now broken.The three musicians stepped together and bowed in unison.Gonzales caught Lizzie looking at him, and their gazes crossed, held for anextra, almost unmeasurable instant, and she smiled.The musicians bowed for the last time to the Interface Collective's hootingchorus.Okay, thought Gonzales.I like it.Hoot hoot hoot.Lying in her bed, Lizzie turned from side to side, lay on her back andstretched.The two from Earth seemed okay.Gonzales she would keep an eye on, of course-- according to Showalter, the man was Internal Affairs and wired to aSenTrax comer, a board candidate named Traynor -- Christ knew what script hewas playing from.Diana Heywood she didn't worry about: the woman was intosomething stranger than she probably knew, but that was her problem, hers andAleph's.As Showalter and Horn were her problem.They would yank the plug on this oneif anything looked like going wrong.In fact, they would never have let ithappen if Aleph hadn't insisted.Aleph and the collective saw Jerry Chapman'scondition as an opportunity to extend Aleph's capabilities, but the wholebusiness just made Showalter and Horn edgy.Aleph itself troubled her -- it had been unforthcoming about the project andthose involved in it, almost as if it were hiding something from her.Why?With regard to a small project like this, one apparently unimportant to Halo'slarger concerns? What was the devious machine up to?Page 28 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlSo Lizzie lay, her thoughts spinning without resolution, and she gave in andcalled her Chinese lover.He wore a black silk robe embroidered across the front with rearing crimsondragons; his straight ebony hair fell over his shoulders.When he let the robefall away, his skin shone almost gold under lamplight, and his muscles stoodwith the clear definition of youth and endowment and use.Coarse white sheets slid away from her shoulders and breasts as she rose togreet him, and she felt her desire rising through her abdomen and burstingthrough her chest like the rush of a needle-shot drug.She pressed against him, and his rough, strong hands moved across her body.She lay back as he ducked his head between her legs, and she spread her legsand felt his first light, hot caresses.After she had come for the first time, she moved up to sit astride him, thenfor some timeless time the two moved to the exact rhythms of her need --cock and lips and tongue and fingers playing on her body.Physically satiated, she dismissed him then, ghost from the sex machine, andpulled the plugs from the sockets in her neck.Then she lay alone, silent inher bed in Halo City -- isolated by her job and, she supposed, by hertemperament, dependent on machines for love.Maybe it was time to find a human lover.Exhausted by travel and novelty, lulled by food and drink, Gonzales fellquickly into sleep, and sometime later he dreamed:He was with a lover he hadn't seen in years.In the background violin andpiano played, and the night was warm; all around, artificial birds withgolden, glowing bodies sang in the trees.They leaned across a table, eachstaring into the other's face, and Gonzales thought how much he loved everymark of passing time on her face -- they had taken her from a young girl'sprettiness to a mature woman's beauty.He and she said the things you say to alover after a long absence -- how often I've thought of you, missed you, howmuch you still mean to me.Aimless and binding, their talk flowed until sheexcused herself, saying she'd be back in just a minute, and she left.Gonzalessat waiting, watching the other tables, all filled with loving couples,laughing, caressing.As the hours went on, the others began to whisper to eachother as they looked at him, and then the birds began to sing that she was notcoming back, and he knew it was true, suddenly, painfully, ineluctably knew,the truth of it like knowledge of a broken bone.The dream stopped as though a film had broken, and in its place came afeatureless, colorless absence.Imagine a visual equivalent of white noise andin this space Gonzales waited, somehow knowing another dream would begin.Red neon letters twisted into a silly but instantly recognizable parody ofChinese characters read The Pagoda.They stood above the head of a red neondragon, now quiescent in sunlight, that would rear fiercely come dark.On this warm Saturday morning, men in felt hats and neatly-pressed weekendshirts and pants carried brown paper bags out of the Pagoda and placed them inthe beds of pickup trucks or the trunks of cars.They spat shreds of tobaccofrom Lucky Strikes and Camels and Chesterfields, called their greetings.Womenin faded cotton, their arms rope-thin and tough, waited and watched throughsun-glazed windshields.Gonzales passed among them.The sunshine had a certain quality that of stolenlight, taken out of time.And the cigarette smoke smelled rough and strange.Gasoline engines fired rich and throaty, kicking out clouds of oily blue.Gonzales stood in ecstasy amid the smells and sights and sounds of thismorning obviously long gone by.He knew (again without knowing how) that hewas in a small town in California in the middle of the twentieth century.Gonzales passed into the main room of the Pagoda, where narrow aislesthreaded between gondolas stacked high with toys and household goods andtools.Baby carriages hung upside down from hooks set in the high ceiling.Dust motes danced in the cool interior gloom.He walked between iron-strappedPage 29 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlkegs of nails and stacks of galvanized washtubs, then through a wide doorwayinto the grocery section.Smells of fruits and vegetables mixed with the odorsof oiled wood floors and hot grease from the lunch counter at the front of thestore.A couple in late middle age came through the front door, the man small andred-haired and cocky, felt hat on the back of his head, the woman just a bitdumpy but carefully groomed, her blue cotton dress clean and starched andironed, hair permed and combed, lipstick and nails red and shining.Gonzaleswatched as the man bought a carton of Lucky Strikes and a box of pouches ofBeech-Nut Chewing Tobacco.The man said something to the young woman behind the counter that brought agiggle, and Gonzales, though he leaned forward, could not hear what was beingsaid.He followed the two by a lacquered plywood magazine stand, where a skinny girlof eight or nine in a faded pink gingham dress lay sprawled across copies ofLife and Look, reading a comic [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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."Hoot hoot hoot," said the collective, their line now broken.The three musicians stepped together and bowed in unison.Gonzales caught Lizzie looking at him, and their gazes crossed, held for anextra, almost unmeasurable instant, and she smiled.The musicians bowed for the last time to the Interface Collective's hootingchorus.Okay, thought Gonzales.I like it.Hoot hoot hoot.Lying in her bed, Lizzie turned from side to side, lay on her back andstretched.The two from Earth seemed okay.Gonzales she would keep an eye on, of course-- according to Showalter, the man was Internal Affairs and wired to aSenTrax comer, a board candidate named Traynor -- Christ knew what script hewas playing from.Diana Heywood she didn't worry about: the woman was intosomething stranger than she probably knew, but that was her problem, hers andAleph's.As Showalter and Horn were her problem.They would yank the plug on this oneif anything looked like going wrong.In fact, they would never have let ithappen if Aleph hadn't insisted.Aleph and the collective saw Jerry Chapman'scondition as an opportunity to extend Aleph's capabilities, but the wholebusiness just made Showalter and Horn edgy.Aleph itself troubled her -- it had been unforthcoming about the project andthose involved in it, almost as if it were hiding something from her.Why?With regard to a small project like this, one apparently unimportant to Halo'slarger concerns? What was the devious machine up to?Page 28 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlSo Lizzie lay, her thoughts spinning without resolution, and she gave in andcalled her Chinese lover.He wore a black silk robe embroidered across the front with rearing crimsondragons; his straight ebony hair fell over his shoulders.When he let the robefall away, his skin shone almost gold under lamplight, and his muscles stoodwith the clear definition of youth and endowment and use.Coarse white sheets slid away from her shoulders and breasts as she rose togreet him, and she felt her desire rising through her abdomen and burstingthrough her chest like the rush of a needle-shot drug.She pressed against him, and his rough, strong hands moved across her body.She lay back as he ducked his head between her legs, and she spread her legsand felt his first light, hot caresses.After she had come for the first time, she moved up to sit astride him, thenfor some timeless time the two moved to the exact rhythms of her need --cock and lips and tongue and fingers playing on her body.Physically satiated, she dismissed him then, ghost from the sex machine, andpulled the plugs from the sockets in her neck.Then she lay alone, silent inher bed in Halo City -- isolated by her job and, she supposed, by hertemperament, dependent on machines for love.Maybe it was time to find a human lover.Exhausted by travel and novelty, lulled by food and drink, Gonzales fellquickly into sleep, and sometime later he dreamed:He was with a lover he hadn't seen in years.In the background violin andpiano played, and the night was warm; all around, artificial birds withgolden, glowing bodies sang in the trees.They leaned across a table, eachstaring into the other's face, and Gonzales thought how much he loved everymark of passing time on her face -- they had taken her from a young girl'sprettiness to a mature woman's beauty.He and she said the things you say to alover after a long absence -- how often I've thought of you, missed you, howmuch you still mean to me.Aimless and binding, their talk flowed until sheexcused herself, saying she'd be back in just a minute, and she left.Gonzalessat waiting, watching the other tables, all filled with loving couples,laughing, caressing.As the hours went on, the others began to whisper to eachother as they looked at him, and then the birds began to sing that she was notcoming back, and he knew it was true, suddenly, painfully, ineluctably knew,the truth of it like knowledge of a broken bone.The dream stopped as though a film had broken, and in its place came afeatureless, colorless absence.Imagine a visual equivalent of white noise andin this space Gonzales waited, somehow knowing another dream would begin.Red neon letters twisted into a silly but instantly recognizable parody ofChinese characters read The Pagoda.They stood above the head of a red neondragon, now quiescent in sunlight, that would rear fiercely come dark.On this warm Saturday morning, men in felt hats and neatly-pressed weekendshirts and pants carried brown paper bags out of the Pagoda and placed them inthe beds of pickup trucks or the trunks of cars.They spat shreds of tobaccofrom Lucky Strikes and Camels and Chesterfields, called their greetings.Womenin faded cotton, their arms rope-thin and tough, waited and watched throughsun-glazed windshields.Gonzales passed among them.The sunshine had a certain quality that of stolenlight, taken out of time.And the cigarette smoke smelled rough and strange.Gasoline engines fired rich and throaty, kicking out clouds of oily blue.Gonzales stood in ecstasy amid the smells and sights and sounds of thismorning obviously long gone by.He knew (again without knowing how) that hewas in a small town in California in the middle of the twentieth century.Gonzales passed into the main room of the Pagoda, where narrow aislesthreaded between gondolas stacked high with toys and household goods andtools.Baby carriages hung upside down from hooks set in the high ceiling.Dust motes danced in the cool interior gloom.He walked between iron-strappedPage 29 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlkegs of nails and stacks of galvanized washtubs, then through a wide doorwayinto the grocery section.Smells of fruits and vegetables mixed with the odorsof oiled wood floors and hot grease from the lunch counter at the front of thestore.A couple in late middle age came through the front door, the man small andred-haired and cocky, felt hat on the back of his head, the woman just a bitdumpy but carefully groomed, her blue cotton dress clean and starched andironed, hair permed and combed, lipstick and nails red and shining.Gonzaleswatched as the man bought a carton of Lucky Strikes and a box of pouches ofBeech-Nut Chewing Tobacco.The man said something to the young woman behind the counter that brought agiggle, and Gonzales, though he leaned forward, could not hear what was beingsaid.He followed the two by a lacquered plywood magazine stand, where a skinny girlof eight or nine in a faded pink gingham dress lay sprawled across copies ofLife and Look, reading a comic [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]