In the Deadlands

by David Gerrold

  “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.”

  Tri-Mach wiped a drop of lubricant from one of his eyestalks; that was a neat touch too, and it too went into his repertoire. He set George’s drink in front of him. “How sad—and yet, I certainly must commend her taste.”

  George ignored him, concentrated on his drink. “After that,” he continued, “I went back to Homeworld. Thought I could get away from it all by going back to where it started. Or something like that.”

  “And?”

  “And that’s where I met Jenny Ondoline, a native of Bilversob 91.”

  “And you married her?”

  “Of course. Don’t I always?”

  Tri-Mach remained discreetly silent.

  “Jenny was an Earth name she took because she liked the sound of it, but Ondoline was her real name. It meant ‘Silver Needles Making Golden Bites of Love, Devouring Delicate Morsels of Pleasure.’”

  “A lovely name—”

  “I thought so too. Indeed, I thought that this time, perhaps this time, this one would be the one to work out—but, as always, the sex thing got in the way.”

  “You weren’t able to satisfy her?”

  “That’s putting it mildly. I discovered a very interesting thing about the women of Bilversob 91.”

  “And that is...?”

  “Teeth.”

  “Teeth?”

  “Yes, teeth. They have teeth.”

  “But, most humanoid life forms have—”

  “Not in this location, they don’t.”

  “Oh.”

  “My not being a member of the same race, I couldn’t guarantee that a certain portion of my anatomy would regenerate every eighteen days—and I certainly wasn’t going to find out by experimentation. The science of prosthetics isn’t that good yet. And—well, you get the idea.”

  “Yes, I do,” Tri-Mach oozed solicitously. “Castration fear. You have led a very uneven life, George.”

  “I know. But I am sure that somewhere in this wide, wide Galaxy there is the perfect mate for me. And if there isn’t—I’m going to go down trying.”

  “I’m sure you will,” the robot noted.

  “The thing is, it’s always the fact that we’re sexually incompatible that breaks us up. Well, almost always—there was one, her name was G’llumph.”

  “G’lumph?”

  “G’llumph. The accent is on the second syllable. It meant ‘Mottled Mass of Amorphous Pink.’”

  “A lovely name.”

  “An even lovelier creature.”

  “Where was she from?”

  “Steef, the sponge planet.”

  “Oh? Then she was a pseudoplod. A most interesting life form.”

  “Just a big old blob of protoplasm; not much to look at you’d think,” said George, “but she was such a big old beautiful blob of protoplasm! Ahh, now there was a good lay! We didn’t even have enough money for a bed; but that was okay, there was more room on the floor. Besides, if you know anything about pseudoplods, you’ll know they don’t use them anyway.”

  Tri-Mach nodded knowingly.

  “When you marry a pseudoplod, Tri-Mach, you don’t worry about such things as beds. You just lay down and roll around in it—yum! No need even to take off your clothes; she could absorb them right off your back. Mmm! She had the most actively pneumatic protoplasm I’ve ever been loved by. She just flowed in and around and all over and—well, I can’t describe it. It was like returning to the womb, but a very sexy womb.” George took a drink. “I still think of her. Of all the girls I’ve ever loved, she was the best in bed—hell, she was the bed. She was fantastic—she—I’m sorry. I’ve said too much already.”

  “No, it’s all right, George. Go on. Finish your story.”

  George took another drink. “Well, it was working out so beautifully, I couldn’t believe it. I thought at last I’d found the one. I’d been in love too many times to be mistaken. This was the real thing. I actually looked forward to coming home every night from the yaste farms—I didn’t even bother to shower with the other men—I knew G’llumph was waiting for me and she would absorb the excess yaste right off my body. She so liked those little snacks I brought her. It was such a pleasure to spend a simple quiet evening at home, just wrapped up in one another.”

  “But—?” prompted Tri-Mach.

  “But? Oh, well, she began to talk about children.”

  “Children?”

  George nodded. “And you know how pseudoplods reproduce, don’t you? By fission. That would have left me with no wife and two daughters. Actually, either one of them, or both, would still have been my G’llumph, but a man can’t do anything with his own daughters! That would have been—that would have been—unthinkable, you know. And besides, it would have meant choosing one over the other.”

  “Yes,” said the robot. Actually, he didn’t know, but it was a colloquialism, and he accepted it as such. Discreetly, he let the matter drop.

  “And the way she wanted to— She said she would have to reach a certain critical size to initiate fission, which meant taking on a certain mass of food—and if I really wanted to be the father of my children, then I could— That is— Well
, she would— I tell you, Tri-Mach, I really loved that woman. I considered it for a long time. It would have been one hell of a way to go; but after a bit, I realized it was the same as marrying a winged wisp. The process might have been different, but the result was the same.” George finished his drink. “So I told her, no children.”

  “And she left you?”

  “Oh, no. We were too much in love. She seemed to accept my decision and never brought the subject up again. Or so I thought. But I could sense her getting edgy and nervous. She so wanted children, and I couldn’t give them to her—or rather, she couldn’t give them to me.

  “Well, you know how pseudoplods eat, of course. They just wrap themselves around their food and absorb it. And when they get mad at another pseudoplod and have a fight—well, they try to absorb their enemies. And when two pseudoplods are settling a quarrel, they’re really eating each other simultaneously.”

  “Hm,” said Tri-Mach, giving interested response number seven.

  “Any way, what it is, is that every time there’s a difference of opinion, the opponents absorb their differences. Literally. Now, I wasn’t completely sure that this was what was going on in her mind, but I got the feeling that she was planning to surprise me and go ahead anyway—you know how women are—and I doubted that I would survive such an experience. Supposedly, she wasn’t planning to ingest my brain tissue, but how could I be sure she wouldn’t get carried away in the heat of passion? No matter how good her intentions were, what if she couldn’t differentiate between one kind of food and another? Well, she got upset with me, said I didn’t trust her any more, and wouldn’t I please come to her so we could kiss and make up? I told her she could go fission. I was leaving. She did and I did.”

  Tri-Mach considered wiping away another simulated tear, decided it would be ostentatious, instead asked, “So what are you going to do now?”

  “Sit here and wait,” George replied.

  “You have no plans for the future?”

  “Marriage, probably.”

  “Oh, really?” Tri-Mach spread his eyestalks in surprise. “Who is the lucky—”

  “I don’t know yet. That’s what I’m waiting for.”

  The robot hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose I shouldn’t butt in like this, George, but I have been analyzing your personality, your psychology, your needs, your drives, and so on—” He paused delicately.

  “Yes?”

  “Perhaps it is not my place—that is, I’m really not programmed as a matchmaker—but I would like to introduce you to someone. I think perhaps there is a chance that the two of you might have a mutual interest. At least, it might be worth a try.”

  George shrugged. “Why not? What have I got to lose? Who is she?”

  Tri-Mach gestured toward the other end of the bar. “A native of Wildebeest III.” George looked. He saw a slender and feminine-looking young thing, a lilac and lavender loveliness, gently clothed in wispy veils of cerulean and scented with the subtle aura of rare blossoms.

  “She moves like a poem,” breathed George. “Like a breeze through a willow tree, like a spider-web veil, like a— Tri-Mach, you must introduce me.” George was already moving down the bar, his past loves forgotten.

  “Excuse me, uh, Miss—may I buy you a drink?”

  A smile, sweet as honey; eyes flickering across George’s even features. “Why yes, thank you.”

  “Uh, my name is George. And you are—”

  “Gita.” A voice like a sigh.

  “Beautiful,” breathed George. “Simply beautiful.” Gita fluttered long eyelashes at him and laughed softly.

  “Gita, Gita...” George was entranced. “Your eyes are so beautiful, so purple. Your skin, so lovely, so blue—”

  “You are most handsome yourself,” Gita breathed, shaking long veils of hair around her shoulders. Her eyes glowed with interest.

  George slid his hand along the bar, gently stroked Gita’s slender wrist. He wasn’t rebuffed. Their eyes met, a penetrating never-ending deep and searching look. “Gita, you’re beautiful—my Gita—”

  “George—my George—”

  Two weeks later, the lovers, George and Gita, returned to THE BOTTOM HALF OF INFINITY, BAR AND GRILL and announced, “Tri-Mach, we’re going to be married.”

  The robot spread his eyestalks in happy surprise. “Congratulations. Then everything is working out for you?”

  “It couldn’t be better,” Gita giggled and cuddled closer to George’s arm.

  “Tri-Mach, I don’t know how to thank you. You knew exactly what I needed. I was a fool ever to mess around with nonhumanoid life forms. Gita and I are perfectly matched.”

  Gita blushed.

  “Then, the uh, sex factor is working out? I wasn’t quite sure—”

  George looked a bit sheepish. Gita smiled: “It is simple. It is so much like Earthworlders that it could not be more so.”

  “Do you mind,” asked Tri-Mach, “if I ask how you do it?”

  “It is simple,” said Gita. “The two lovers lie face to face, with their arms around each other, and their organs unite and mingle.”

  George put his arm around his wife. “Gita’s organs are two flaccid spongelike veils which become fluid and active during intercourse. Quite compatible with the terrestrial male,” George noted. His attitude was detached, almost professional.

  Tri-Mach beamed. “Then I’m delighted that the two of you have exchanged names. George, what is your Wildean name?”

  George smiled. “On Wildebeest III, I am known as Kisteen.”

  “And Gita?” the robot asked. “What is your new name? Your Earth name?”

  Gita smiled, put an arm carefully around George’s waist. “Ralph,” she said.

  AFTERWORD:

  I apologize.

  I apologize for the punch line at the end of the story. It’s really stupid.

  Not funny at all. No matter how you slice or dice it.

  But there is this meager justification—any readers expressing shock at the tale would also have been exposing their own hypocrisy. It’s okay to have sex with this, that, and the other—but only as long as it’s female.

  Apparently, nobody ever objected to the Captain of the starship copulating with green-skinned slave girls and various other nonhumans, and it seemed perfectly normal that his first officer was a breeding experiment between a human woman and an alien with copper-based blood—but God forbid anybody acknowledge that the helmsman was sleeping with his totally human boyfriend.

  Even today, I can easily imagine someone saying, “Of course, it was a female mugato. There’s nothing queer about the Captain.”

  The Cure

  I once had a reviewer describe one of my books as “embarrassingly earnest.”

  She meant it as a dismissal. I took it as a compliment. All of my best stories are embarrassingly earnest. They’re drawn from real feelings. They’re passionate. They’re not made up.

  This story is one of those.

  I was never able to place it in any market. This is its first publication anywhere. Every editor who saw it rejected it. Robert Sheckley, then editor of Playboy, said it was too much of a downer.

  He was right. It is.

  It’s also embarrassingly earnest.

  And then one day, the last piece fell into place.

  It was inevitable, of course.

  There was the one piece and the other piece and they fit together in such a way that the shape of the piece missing between them was obvious and it was just a matter of time. After a while that piece was filled in too and they announced that they had found the cause of it. Well, not exactly the cause, because it wasn’t something that was caused, but at least the reasons why it occurred. And why it expressed the way it did.

  It was a little bit of this and a little bit of that; something in the genes and something in the hormones; something in the way your parents raised you and something in the way your head was put together too—but there was an equation now, and if all these little pieces ca
me together in just that certain way, then you would be homosexual.

  And that was the source of it.

  Now that the elements of the equation were known, now that they could be measured as precisely as the distance to the known edge of the universe, or the diameter of an atomic particle, now that this secret was no longer secret, at last people could do something about it.

  What they meant was—now they could “cure” it.

  Oh, they were very careful to say that it wasn’t a sickness. Even dysfunction was too strong a word. No, they were calling it “an expression of sexual attraction, brought on by the confluence of specifically definable conditions.” But no matter—now that the conditions could be accurately defined, whatever judgment anyone might care to make was irrelevant. Because now it was possible to do something about it.

  And they did. Parents first. You couldn’t blame them. There it was: “The Seven Warning Signs of Homosexuality.” They could have their children immunized as easily as if it were measles or mumps or chicken pox. It was their duty. They only wanted the best for their children, that’s all.

  Some people argued that maybe it wasn’t a good idea to tinker with biological destiny; we didn’t know what the side effects might be. But there were people—politicians, religious leaders, even some limousine liberals—who argued that not all parents were ready or able to deal with a homosexual child, and they had the right to want the best for their children—

  The best.

  The implication being that everything else was second best.

  And that’s what this was really about. The right to feel superior to others. It didn’t matter who or what the others were, as long as some folks could define them as different. Alien. Not as good.

  I’m old enough to remember what it was like before, back when there was no definable cause. People like me could demand acceptance, because nobody knew for sure. So we argued that we were like every other human being on this planet and we were entitled to be who we turned out to be—especially when there hadn’t been any choice in the matter.