by Jeff Noon
By the age of sixteen the two of them were more or less the same size, and quite inseparable. Oswald did brilliantly in the exams of course, getting into the University of Manchester, no problem, studying physics and astronomy. And the better he did, the worse I got. Sixteen found me leaving school too early, with a couple of bad results. I landed this job with a local menswear shop, the start of my glorious life in sales. Anyway, it gave me the money, and the freedom, and pretty soon I had enough to rent my own place. I was itching to get that smalltown stench out of my veins. It didn't take long. A year later I was taken on as an apprentice with a big London firm, selling the smells. I went round to Ozzie's, to say goodbye. Yeah, he was still living at home, despite the charms of the student life. No girlfriends or anything, not for Ozzie. Not for Ozzie and Junior.
I hadn't seen them for a while. Ozzie opened the door to me, said hello, gave me his congratulations, all that, gave me a hug, just about the first we'd ever managed. I don't know, there was something about the lad; maybe the skin was too cold, or else too warm. I can't remember exactly. Just something, you know. And then I felt the crackle, electricity under the skin. I pulled away from his clutches, just as another Oswald came up behind this one.
Even I could no longer tell them apart.
The current was still running through my fingers as I followed them both into the house. Their mother was all over the two of them, already mashed on the brandy, as though she had actually given birth to twins. If anything, she seemed to have more affection for Junior than her real son. And why not? . The Tweedle was more handsome than the original. The poor lost father, meanwhile, he just looked on with a spooked-out expression, as though there was nothing he could do about it.
I got out of there as soon as I could. And carried on getting away, all the way to London. On the train I covered myself with aftershave, masking the smells of home.
And that was my exit.
For a couple of years I kept in touch with mother, just by answering a few of the many letters that followed me around the country. Occasionally she would have news of Ozzie, and even more about Junior, but nothing good. It seems the brother was turning out bad, causing trouble, getting into fights, running wild. I'd heard rumours that some of them got like that, as they grew older. Some kind of bad reaction to being second best. The last I heard, the Tweedle had taken off. Climes unknown.
I hope he found what he was looking for. That's all I could think, and that Oswald didn't take the desertion too badly.
Everything comes around. And here was my answer. A lonely, forty-year-old man still living in his parents' home; days and days in a darkened room, looking through a telescope.
'Come on, Ozzie,' I said. 'Speak to me, please. You must still think about Junior.'
'Nothing much,' he answered.
His glazed expression was still indented with the shape of the telescope's eyepiece, the reflection of a star. Distant objects were more appealing, obviously. And then I thought, what's he doing looking through that thing, middle of the morning? There's no stars out now. What's to see? I put my eye to it. A circle opened up, on a house across the way. A bedroom window. A half-dressed woman was walking across the vision.
There was a noise behind me, a dry choking sound; and then a hand being placed very gently upon my shoulder.
I felt the crackle.
PRODUCT RECALL - MARILYN MONROE
The Celeborg Company has discovered a slight fault with their Marilyn Monroe 729 model. The product concerned is stamped CC729-45X on the frame, and is painted Hollywood Pink. These models should be returned immediately to the nearest point of supply.
Celeborg pride themselves on their commitment to service. We present the following information to assure our loyal customers of this commitment, and to dispel any rumours that may be circulating in the press or elsewhere.
A virus has infected Marilyn Monroe.
We believe this to be the first of its kind: a parasite that lives off biotechnology. It appears to have entered our manufacturing process through an infected batch of RoboVaz, which was unfortunately applied to a small number of models. Usually the virus lives and breeds within the oil, in no way affecting the excellent performance of the host. It now appears that a new strain of the virus has evolved, which Can move around the models at will, living not only within the oil but also in the special paint used on the latest Marilyn Monroes. Gradually the voracious appetite of the intruder will eat away at the celebrity. There is a slight risk that under certain circumstances this model may collapse whilst in use, putting the consumer at risk.
For this reason we are recalling all the Marilyn Monroes, and would ask our customers to keep these models away from other celebrities, to prevent cross-infection. Our JFK and Bugs Bunny models are particularly susceptible to this danger. There is no truth in the rumour that the virus is in a symbiotic relationship with the model. It does not make the celebrity more charismatic.
A new 'guaranteed pure' Marilyn Monroe will be supplied, free of all charges.
Please make love safely.
XTROVURT
Mr Alan Cooder, a salesman specializing in children's accessories, was dismayed to find upon arrival that the airline company had managed to lose his baggage somewhere between Manchester and New York. He still had with him a small briefcase that contained his passport, catalogues and credit cards, and the clothes he had lost could easily be replaced. Unfortunately the missing suitcase had also contained his feed supply.
He had argued with the baggage check in Manchester that he could not possibly travel without feeding himself; only to be reminded of the recent air crash in Germany, whose cause had been traced to 'one of his kind' eating during a flight. Apparently the necessary act had interfered with the aircraft's control systems. He had been told that his supply would have to travel in the hold and that he should stock up now, while in England, with enough energy to get him over the Atlantic. Reluctantly he had done just that, visiting the Gents to do so, because he was still ashamed of feeding himself in public.
Now he found himself alone in a city he had never visited before, and already his last meal was wearing off. He could feel himself slowing down, even as the taxicab dropped him at his pre-booked hotel. His room was small, hot, and a playground for cockroaches. They never mentioned insects in the guidebook, and he shivered at the sight. Trying his best to avoid them, his first act was to cover all the mirrors with the bath towels, turning his gaze aside whilst doing so.
Alan Cooder never could stand the sight of himself when hungry.
Really, he should be preparing for his first appointment; instead he went down to the registration desk and asked for the nearest reliable supplier, hating the look of distaste the clerk gave him. He was informed that 'the best place for such things is right here on Times Square. A general store. Walking distance.'
'Only be careful, sir,' the clerk added with a sneer, 'there's some nasties around.'
Indeed. It seemed that all the world's ugliness was concentrated in this small area. Only a few steps into the glare and bustle brought him offers for pink and wet dreams, the street sellers waving their feathers at him like magic rattles. An old black guy was slumped against a wall, a feather stuck in his mouth and his body twitching with whatever cheap, dirty dream he was flying. Walking fast and keeping his head down, Alan Cooder bought a pair of cheap sunglasses and a pocket map from a stall, and then tried to follow the clerk's directions. The map must have been printed upside down, because within fifteen minutes he was lost in the maze. It was midday, the heat packed tight between the buildings. He checked his watch, only to find he'd forgotten to adjust it to the new time zone. His eyes felt like pinpricks, his stomach aching with need, and no sign of a specialist shop or even a general store. Retracing his steps in a fever, he found himself somewhere else entirely, a small thin street without name or number, overshadowed by crumbling facades and filled with the smell of overused flesh.
It was at the end of this street th
at Alan Cooder found a dingy little shop calling itself SLICK CITY. Underneath the dark, cracked neon a smaller sign, hand-painted: 'You want it, we got it. No high too far.' Underneath that, a scrawled sticker: 'Robos, no problemo'.
Welcome sight, even if Cooder hated the word Robo, even if the shop's window was covered in black paint and the door marked, 'Strictly Adults Only! No browsing!' He went inside.
The shop was small, more like a passageway really, with the two walls filled floor to ceiling with boxed-up feathers, a counter at the far end with a large woman squeezed behind it. There were two other customers, carefully avoiding each other and the new arrival. Cooder looked around for a second only, his nostrils clogged with the thick smell wafting from the merchandise, before heading for the counter.
'What is it?' asked the woman, wiping her brow with a rag.
'Do you have anything . . . anything for . . .' He hesitated, English and ashamed, despite his desperate need.
'Aw! Love the accent, mister!' the woman squealed. 'English, so sexy.' She laughed, ripples of her flesh hanging over the counter. Her blouse was too small, stretched to the last button over her gross stomach. Cooder couldn't bear to look at it, knowing full well already what lay behind there.
'Hey, buddy!' the woman shouted over Cooder's shoulder. 'Read the fucking sign!'
Cooder turned. One of the other customers had taken a feather out of its box, and was just about to stick it in his mouth. Above him a printed notice read: YOU WANNA SUCK, PAY THE BUCKS! The customer placed the feather back on the shelf and quickly left the shop.
The woman turned her attention back to Cooder. 'You're one of us, mister,' she said. 'I can always tell. And... aw! You're in a bad way! I know that smell. Here, let me show you what we've got.'
Showing was just pointing, because the woman seemed to be wedged in place. Cooder followed her fingers over to where a section of wall was marked out as being for 'Robots Only!' Hundreds of feathers in boxes. He'd never seen so many kinds before, none of them familiar, none of them AutoBuzz, his usual brand. The boxes were illustrated; a sickening display of illegal dreams, overwhelming.
'You after something special, mister?' the woman called out, and Cooder, embarrassed, walked quickly back to the counter.
'I just want to eat,' he mumbled. 'None of this ...' gesturing to the shelves.
'You don't want a pink one?'
'No. I don't... I mean, I never... I just want to eat, please.'
'You want a purple?'
Cooder nodded. 'I want some AutoBuzz, do you have it?'
'Is that English?'
'Yes.'
The woman made a smacking sound with her lips. 'Can't get hold of it, love nor money. We got this in last week.' She pulled a box from under the counter. The box was plain white, with the word XTROVURT stamped across it. Cooder picked it up. There were no other words on the package: no instructions, no recommended dosage, no country of origin or even manufacturer's name.
'Xtrovurt,' he said, more to himself. 'I've never heard of it.'
'It's nice. Take a look.'
Cooder opened the lid. Inside lay at least a dozen purple feathers. He held one up to the smoky light. 'It's not pure.'
'Course it's pure. We don't sell anything but.'
'No, look — it's got some pink in it.'
'Let me see? Nah, that's just a design feature. Look, mister, I've been using the stuff for the past week. No problemo. Special promotion, isn't it? Sample stocks, pre-market. Good price, too. Cost a packet in Macey's. You want some? Try some here. We've got a back room. Private booth.'
'No, no. Thank you. I'll take it. One, that is. I'll take one. How much?'
He'd brought out a credit card, but the woman looked at it as though he'd slapped something dead on the counter. In the end he'd paid cash for it, a fair sum, but he was desperate to get out of the shop by now, keen to get air, clean air, his hotel room, get the stuff inside him. His stomach felt like it was caving inwards.
Strangely, once out on the street, with the single feather tucked safely in his briefcase, he felt better already. A young girl (think she was young, think she was a girl) called out to him, 'Hey, Robo! You want some licky licky?' but he hurried on, no trouble. No trouble finding his way back, and no trouble seeing a general store he could hardly have missed the first time, close to his hotel. In this clean, well-appointed place he found a whole rack of AutoBuzz, at a price less than half of what he'd just spent. He bought six completely pure feathers, all the deep rich purple he had grown to love. And back at his hotel, a message saying the airline had found his missing case, it was being sent over by a courier.
Suddenly, the trip was happening. He would ring his first appointment, excuse his lateness, but first...
Cooder closed the curtains, turned on a bedside light. Using only this light, shining through the bathroom door, he stood by the sink. He found the courtesy jar of BodyVaz, opened it up in readiness. He pulled the towel from the mirror above the sink. His briefcase was open, resting on the closed toilet seat. A cockroach was crawling across the floor; Cooder moved aside to let it pass. From the case he pulled one of the best-looking AutoBuzz feathers, its fine covering of powder gently clouding the air. Looking in the mirror, he started to unbutton his shirt. Just before the last button was popped free, he looked again at the feather he had chosen, and then at the briefcase.
The Xtrovurt feather was lying there, nestled among the others, the usual, the normal, the everyday affairs that governed his life. The strange feather that sparkled with traces of pink from the bed of purple. He picked it up, looked at it more closely.
What was he thinking of? This lonely salesman, a man without adventures, holding such a thing in his hands.
Alan Cooder: Autogen No. 279954XY. The truth spelled out on his passport.
How he hated the word 'robot'. He wasn't a robot. People were so cruel, did they think it was easy, having to feed yourself dreams every single day, just to pass as human? They should try it. No wonder Autogens stuck together. Maybe later that night he would find a club, a meeting place; surely New York of all places was home to thousands, if you knew where to find them. He had read stories in Autogen Monthly & Lifestyle Choice.
Goaded by this image of the Land of the Free, Alan Cooder did something he had never done before: he took a chance, a small chance. He smoothed a handful of Vaz grease on to the Xtrovurt feather, and then opened his shirt fully, exposing his abdomen.
The mouth was there, waiting. It gasped.
It was funny, he never could feel it was a part of him, despite the fact he had been hatched with it there, the mouth in his stomach. The pair of thick red lips that parted now to be fed, the barely wet tongue that licked and tickled, tickled and licked, longing for food.
A woman's mouth.
Cooder rubbed some Vaz on the dry lips, and then slowly pushed the purple and pink feather into his abdomen. The lips closed around it, taking it deep, sucking deep to get every last drop of the dream.
Cooder fed himself.
He woke up five hours later, sprawled out on the little bed, with a bloated erection. A roach was crawling over his bare chest. He crushed it, quite easily, between finger and thumb. He pulled the used-up feather from his stomach. The deep purple of the flights had drained away to a dull cream. Empty. Swallowed. Pausing only to button up his shirt and throw on his jacket, Cooder left the room.
At the registration desk the clerk tried to get his attention, saying something about a suitcase and a telephone message. Cooder ignored him, stepped out into the New York night, flashes of the dream still racing through his body. Visions of a female of the species, a lovely man's mouth in a soft, hungry stomach, where they kissed and nibbled and stuck their tongues in each other's bellies for hours on end.
The city cried beautiful around him, swirling with life and noisy colour.
A young couple were hailing a taxi; Cooder stepped in front of them, climbed aboard the yellow vehicle. 'Where to, bud?' asked the driver.
/>
'Downtown,' said Cooder, 'where the Robos play.'
'Uh-huh. Would that be female robos, or would that be male robos?'
'Whatever.'
'Oh my. Hang on tight, buddy.'
THE PERFUMED MACHINE
By their very nature Autogens are doomed to a pathological shyness bordering on a terror of the purely human. This has led them to form into various cabals and half-hidden sects, and to make their homes in self-made ghettos, most famously 'Toytown' in Manchester, England, where the first of their kind was created.
It is in this strange, quasi-suburban theme village that the esteemed Professor Kalk made his best-selling study of the autogenetic reproductive system, The Perfumed Machine. That the Autogens themselves hate the word 'machine', when applied to their own bodies (as they do any word — robot, automaton, artificial being, biomechanical — that reminds them of their invention) never seems to have worried Kalk or his many readers. Also, the fact that he actually posed as an Autogen in order to research his work, whilst adding intensely to his promotional image, could not fail to stir the subjects of said research into a vengeful anger. Certainly, the sentence that most incited them — 'autogens are nothing more than a laboratory experiment gone wrong' — can be seen as fatally provocative.
But it is not the purpose of this short treatise to excuse murder, or to promote the rights of autogenetic citizens; rather, it is to set the record straight once and for all regarding the sexual habits of the so-called 'perfumed machines'.
Autogens, whilst vigorously denying their machinehood, have never claimed full humanity; their only goal, it seems, is to be seen as a separate and distinct species, and to claim the rights appertaining to any such group. It must be remembered that the crime rate for their species is far below that of the purely human, and that the National Council for Autogenetic Affairs has publicly chastised the perpetrators of Professor Kalk's death.