Prescription for Chaos - By Christopher Anvil Page 0,3
evening passed in stifled perfection. Jackson Mellibant VII said precisely the right thing at exactly the right time. Maryn, well-drilled at the Lacemont Finishing School, found it impossible to give anything but the perfectly right reply. She and Jackson whirled around the dance floor with marvelous grace and precision, their feet locked to smooth metal disks, their motion controlled by the electronic calculator in the nightclub basement.
At the table, Maryn and Jackson drank a good deal of champagne, which was automatically removed from their stomachs by the teleporter. The drive home in Jackson's car had, therefore, no element of hazard, since Jackson had no difficulty punching the proper destination on the keyboard.
On the drive home, carried out at precisely the city speed limit, Maryn sat in futile boredom as Jackson took up her hand and made a lyrical speech concerning it. Maryn's mouth opened and gave a neatly-turned reply. This led coyly on from stage to stage according to the established routine of Caswell Breweries' heroines, till at last they reached home. The car stopped itself by the walk. "My, the house seems lonely," said Maryn, with the correct degree of impropriety. She studied her gloves. "My parents," she added, "never get home till round three."
"Perhaps," said Jackson, "I might come up for a few minutes. Just to see that everything's all right."
"That," said Maryn, who felt like screaming and hammering on walls, "is very thoughtful of you." They slid up the ramp together. Maryn turned to Jackson and flashed her Shinywhite smile at him. In turn he bent and kissed her plastic shoulder.
Together, they slid in through the living room. Maryn glanced sidewise at Jackson as they slid past the sofa. She was afraid he might choose to continue operations there. A moment later, they entered the hallway. This evidently required more intimacy, as he now put his arm around her waist.
At the bedroom door, they came to a halt. "You'll wait here for a moment?" she asked, putting her hand on his arm.
"Don't be long," he whispered.
In the living room, there was a faint rumble.
Maryn stiffened. "Did you hear that?"
"What?" asked Jackson, standing with one hand in his side pocket.
"That noise," said Maryn, becoming alarmed. "In the living room," she whispered. "Would you—"
"I most certainly shall," said Jackson, gallantly. He slid off down the hallway and Maryn waited in rising alarm till he called, "Perfectly all right. Nothing here."
"Thank Heaven," said Maryn, feeling her first genuine emotion of the evening. If Jackson had been on hand, she might have thrown her arms around him and kissed him, but he was still in the living room. Relapsing into boredom, Maryn slid into the bedroom and pulled back the covers. There on the sheets as a reminder was the small flat black box that controlled the rolov. Maryn stabbed one of the buttons, and the discreetly hidden door by the bed opened up. Out rumbled the life-like rolov, and Maryn sat it on the bed, swung its feet off the travel platform, and slid the platform back into the closet. She closed the closet door, and worked the controls so that the rolov clumsily got into bed and lay down on its side. This part of the rolov's repertoire was not automatic, and took a certain amount of facility with the control box. Maryn, seeing how awkwardly the rolov got into bed, was grateful she did not have to make it walk anywhere. She stood looking at this model of her present appearance and had to admit that, except for the eyes, it looked lifelike. She laid her hand on its shoulder. It was cold as an oyster.
A gentle tap sounded on the bedroom door.
"Just a minute," breathed Maryn, hastily stabbing the warm-up and breathing buttons. She flicked off the lights.
The door opened, and a dark form slid quickly in.
"Over here," whispered Maryn, crouching by the bed.
"Darling," murmured the passionate voice of Jackson Mellibant VII.
Maryn pressed the automatic button.
"Darling," breathed the rolov, in a voice like pure fire.
Maryn, unable to stand it, slipped out of the room. She did not doubt she could leave this end of the evening to the built-in skill of the rolov, but she did not think she could bear to watch it. With the hot murmurings still faintly audible behind her, she tiptoed wearily down the hallway and walked into the living room.
On the sofa, reading the night's paper, sprawled Jackson Mellibant VII, his face a study in boredom.