Chuck got to his feet and went back to Tracy and sat down with an exhalation of breath. She raised her eyebrows at him in question and he grinned. “Middle-class hedonists— No, correction. Middle-class would-be hedonists. Seven-year-itch stuff.”
Tracy frowned. “Sexist, you mean.”
Chuck nodded. “Oh, definitely. Isn’t that one of the great hidden purposes of Delos?”
“That’s what we are going to find out.”
“Isn’t it obvious? I bet they play to the feminine half of that sexism just as hard. Wait and see. I’ve heard things.” He paused. “Uh-oh, here comes your friend.”
Tracy looked up and an expression of disgust and annoyance crossed her face. Approaching them was Ron Thurlow, who had boasted to everyone present of his winning The Big Bundle. It was obvious he had stowed away quite a few complimentary cocktails and was really feeling good about the whole world—and especially his wonderful self.
“Heyyyy, Miss Ballard!” he said with heavy and somewhat blurred delight. He stopped before her, swaying slightly, and spoke in a slurred voice. “Listen, you got to put me on your show. No foolin’, I’m a real angle, you know.” He glanced at Chuck, focused on him, then dismissed him. His feet crowded in between Chuck and Tracy. “Excuse me, fella,” he said as he started to zero in on the well-known television personality.
Chuck grinned wickedly as he rose from his seat, gesturing down at his vacated chair. “I was just leaving.” He clapped the tipsy passenger on his shoulder. “Anyway, I know Miss Ballard loves to get close to her viewers.” He peered into Ron’s face; the man drew his head back and stared at Chuck with a little confusion. “You don’t read, do you, Ron?” Chuck asked.
The drunken contest winner shook his head vigorously, as if denying a social disease. “Naw, naw—I’m a tube freak.”
“Right,” Chuck said and slapped Ron’s shoulder again, grinning down at Tracy.
She stared at him with a hard look in her eye. “Thanks, pal!”
Chuck held up his finger. “News is the peep show of misery,” he said in a “quoting” voice. “News is literature in a hurry. News is everything that can happen to you and anything you repeat.” He looked down at Ron Thurlow, who had dropped heavily into the seat next to Tracy. “Know who said that?” he asked.
“Huh? I thought you said it . . .”
“No, a favorite of yours said that, one of the most quoted persons ever.” He looked brightly at Ron, as if waiting for an answer.
“Uh . . .”
“Anonymous said it,” Chuck offered with a wide smile, as if that explained everything.
“Oh, uh, yeah,” Ron said. “I always like Ann’s stuff.”
The reporter spread his hands to Tracy, who was looking daggers at him, and bowed slightly. “Take your cue, Miss Ballard.” He turned away toward Takaguchi as Ron heaved himself closer to Tracy.
“Who is he, anyway?”
“He’s a winner, too,” she answered.
Ron’s eyebrows went up and he peered narrowly at Chuck’s retreating back. “Oh? ‘Million Dollar Dream’? ‘Fifty Grand Pyramid’? ‘National Bowling Champeens’?”
“No,” Tracy replied, still angrily looking at Chuck, who turned to give her a wicked grin as he sidled between an Indian and a Nigerian. “He’s the ‘Smart Posterior Award’ winner for this year.”
“Yeah? Well, anyway, look . . . Here’s the angle.” He hunched toward her. “I’m a common-man type, but now I’m a big winner. That makes me news, right?”
Tracy sighed and turned to him reluctantly. “The thing is, Ron, I won’t be back with a video crew for a couple of weeks. This trip is just research, get the feel of the place, look around, figure out what we want to shoot without having an expensive crew standing around.”
The drunken man shook his head. “Oh, yeah? That’s too bad!” He glanced around to see if anyone was listening and hunched even closer. “Say, you know what this guy told me? He says after you make it with a robot chick, that’s it!” He showed a wide, lecherous grin as he straightened up. “You don’t never want nothing else!” He held up his hand and assumed a somber expression. “Swear to God. That’s what he told me.” He looked at Tracy. “You gonna do that?”
“Do what?”
Ron gestured, slopping a few drops of his drink, almost shouting his whispered question. “Have sex with a robot?”
Tracy blinked and looked very uncomfortable. “No”
Ron leaned closer and winked knowingly. “Oh, sure, I understand. You’ve got to be careful with the image.” He leaned in again and Tracy quickly righted his drink before it sloshed on her. “Listen, I won’t tell nobody,” he leered.
Tracy felt like sinking through the seat. Several nearby passengers were looking at them both. A hostess appeared and bent over to touch Ron Thurlow’s arm.
“Excuse me, sir. Will you return to your seat? We are starting our descent.”
“Sure, sure.” Ron heaved himself up, caught his balance with an outstretched hand to the cabin wall, and gave Tracy a big wink. “Good huntin’,” he leered.
Tracy was not quite enough in control to remove the stiff blankness from her face and replace it with casual unconcern. She fumbled for her seat belt as the forward television screen lit up. Outside the windows at her side the view was black, and streaked horizontally with rain, but the view ahead—by means of the filtering, special television cameras—was a perfect view of the oncoming lights of the landing field.
The pilot’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “We will be landing at Salahari International Airport in approximately six minutes. Passengers for Delos will find special arrangements to conduct them directly to the resort. All others will proceed through customs and immigration.”
The plane was in an obvious descending flight path. A number of navigational symbols appeared in red at the edge of the screen.
“Now please fasten your seat belts,” the pilot continued, “and observe the No Smoking sign.”
The multiple lines of dotted brightness drew closer.
• • •
The glass tunnel was divided down the middle. The passengers for Delos were striding easily down one half of the tunnel, idly observing those queued up at Immigration and Customs at the other side. All this could be seen easily in the monitor room, where banks of television screens provided most of the illumination.
A technician touched some controls and a remote snooper camera swiveled on its base, zooming in on several different passengers until it stopped on the blocky figure of General Karnovsky. The technician punched a button and the image froze. A low-line super-imposure appeared across the screen, letter bv letter:
K-A-R-N-O-V-S-K-Y . . . S-R-0-0-7-2.
The technician thumbed the switch that activated his throat mike. “Begin gross studies on a mark at twenty-three fourteen.”
There was a beep, and the camera automatically tracked Karnovsky.
• • •
The sleek white tram swerved along the curving corridor and silently stopped on the red carpet of the brilliantly lit tunnel. Chuck and Tracy stepped down from the vehicle, along with other passengers from the jetliner. Before them was a set of double doors and a pretty, uniformed attendant, who graciously gestured them in.
The doors hissed open and Chuck followed Tracy into the vast interior of Delos Reception. It was a multi-tiered, brightly carpeted space that rose five stories to a huge metal abstraction in gold and steel wire that spread across the large ceiling in a multi-linear explosion. The room had sections of wall color coded for the different Worlds within Delos. Young hosts and hostesses met the passengers and guided them to the appropriate level. Chuck sensed the massive wealth and size of the Delos operation. Everything seemed incredibly organized and efficient.
His head came up as the public-address system made an announcement.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Delos, the most unique resort in the history of mankind.”
Chuck winced at the use of “
most unique.” It was the usual devaluation of language. Something is either unique or it ain’t. It was like saying “a little bit pregnant.”
• • •
In the monitor room, the same technician punched a button and an image of Chuck Browning froze on his TV screen. A low-line super-imposure similar to that of General Karnovsky danced across the screen:
B-R-O-W-N-I-N-G . . . S-R-0-0-7-3.
“Begin gross studies . . .” followed by a beep . . .
The technician next to him swiveled his monitor, zeroing in on the woman accompanying Chuck.
B-A-L-L-A-R-D . . . S-R-0-0-7-4 appeared on his screen.
“Begin gross studies . . .” and the same beep.
• • •
All guests will please proceed to the appropriate color level for costume and fittings. Guests journeying to Roman World are directed to the yellow level. Medieval World, the green level. Spa World, the blue level. And Futureworld guests are directed to the orange level. Thank you . . .” After a slight pause, the speaker began again: “Mesdames et messieurs. Bienvenus à Delos . . .”
The message continued smoothly in several languages.
• • •
A technician in the monitoring room angrily swiveled his camera. He had almost missed the Nipponese.
An image of the visitor froze on the screen and his identification followed:
T-A-K-A-G-U-C-H-I . . . S-R-0-0-7-5.
“Begin gross studies on a mark at twenty-three fifteen.”
Then came a beeping sound, and the camera continued to track the Japanese man, zooming in on his right shoulder, then his left foot . . . as he strode down a corridor with his party.
The technician glanced over at a red-headed senior technician whose eyes had narrowed to mere pinpoints. “All right, sir?”
The older man nodded pensively.
• • •
Takaguchi and his party came to the green-carpeted level of Medieval World, along with others from the plane who had chosen this section for their vacation.
A middle-aged businessman from Palm Springs, California, raised his eyebrows as he looked around. “You be careful with those wenches,” his wife warned.
He patted her arm but kept his eyes darting from the robot in elegant medieval armor to the bosomy young girls. “Now, mother, I’ll be too busy jousting to think about the ladies.”
She looked sour but resigned. “There’s no fool like an old fool.”
“I’ll be careful,” he promised absently, looking eagerly ahead.
• • •
Al and Ed went quickly to the yellow-carpeted Roman World section, where they were greeted by two smiling hostesses. Each of the businessmen put an arm around a slim waist.
“Hot damn!” Al said. “They do feel just like the real thing.”
“Only better,” laughed Ed.
The two girls dimpled and whispered into the ears of their companions. Both men guffawed and grinned widely at each other.
Al said, “Hot damn, that’s something I’ve waited half my life for a dolly to say!”
“We’re here to please,” his voluptuous hostess responded.
“Oh, you do, honey, you do!” Al looked around at Ed. “And to think I learned some eye-talian for this! De gustibus non est disputandum!” He pointed at the girl, then himself. “Amici per la pelle?” She nodded happily and kissed him on the cheek.
“C’mon,” Ed said, “let’s get suited up for this here or-gee!”
• • •
On the orange-coded Futureworld level Ron Thurlow, still slightly high from his free airline drinks, had his arm around a young hostess. He pulled her tightly to his side, grinning foolishly as he looked her over. “Man, you are some kind of machinery!” he marveled. “Them girls in Futureworld as pretty as you?”
“We come in all shapes and sizes, sir,” she said, polite but warm. “Whatever you desire.”
Ron laughed and caressed her boldly. “Honey, you’re perfect!”
Smiling, but in a serious voice, the hostess said, “No, sir. I’m a six hundred. I still have a defect in my hand.”
Ron looked her over boldly. “Where?” he asked with a frown.
She lifted her hand and Ron saw a seam running along the edge of it.
“Aw, hell, honey,” Ron said, pulling her back. “No one’ll ever look there!”
• • •
Tracy and Chuck were circling the large model of the Delos resort, looking at it critically, trying to orient themselves for present and future activities. A huge plastic bubble covered the model, which had Central Control Complex at its focal point. A small plastic sign announced, in red, YOU ARE HERE, and was fixed atop the Complex dome. Radiating out from Central were tunnel-like spokes. One went out of the model entirely, leading to the Salahari Airport, and five others went to each of the five worlds that comprised the Delos resort.
Chuck pointed at the wheel-like complex of domes, grounds, support buildings, and other areas. “Well, Duffy wasn’t lying about one thing. This place must be three times larger than the old one.”
Tracy grinned. “My mouth is dry just thinking about all the pictures I want to get.” She glanced up at Chuck. “Arthur’s so damn cautious. I told him we should bring a crew with us.” She sighed. “Well, I suppose it would be a needless expense, but . . . well, you hate to lose a good shot.” She indicated some of the wealthy and important people who were looking over the model with them. “You never can tell when a good shot will turn up!”
Chuck pointed a thumb at the model. “Where do you want to start?”
“Futureworld,” she answered immediately.
Chuck grinned down at her. “What’s the matter with Roman World? Now that was a time!” he purred dramatically. “Gladiators, beautiful slaves, an orgy every Tuesday whether you needed it or not. The days of Rome, when men were men—”
“And women did what they were told,” Tracy interrupted quickly. “No, thanks. I’ll stick to the future.” She saw Duffy approaching them with a smile on his face. “Anyway, when I was a kid I always wanted to be an astronaut.”
“And so you shall!” Duffy couldn’t have been more enthusiastic as he overheard her last words.
Chuck turned toward the Delos representative. “Hello, Duffy.”
They shook hands. “It’s all set,” Duffy said to them. He gestured toward the orange level and said, “A day or two in Futureworld and then you’ll come backstage with me and see the hardware behind the magic.” He smiled warmly and added, “Of course, at any time you’re free to go where you wish.”
“No restrictions?” Chuck asked, watching their host closely.
Duffy smiled tautly. “Well, for your own safety we can’t have you wandering off just anywhere. But whatever you want to see, we’ll be happy to show you.”
Chuck’s smile was lopsided. “That’ll be quite a change from the last time I was here.”
Duffy’s smile was wise and honest. “Mister Browning, you are a prize, indeed. Miss Ballard has all the viewers, but you, of course, are still the rabbi.”
“He’s a what?” Tracy asked, not certain she had heard correctly.
“Figure of speech,” Duffy said, indicating they should walk in a certain direction. “If the cynical and keen-eyed Mr. Chuck Browning tells the world New Delos is kosher, everyone will believe him.” He chuckled. “What better advertising could we have?”
Duffy indicated the Futureworld entrance. “Now you’d best get suited up. We have blast-off scheduled in half an hour . . .” He grinned at Tracy. “And you, Miss Ballard, are commander of the flight!”
Tracy’s eyebrows went up but her smile was infectious. “I am?”
• • •
In the Men’s Dressing Room of Medieval World, Takaguchi and his party of businessmen were trying on suits of armor. The walls were almost nothing but cabinets for accessories, with mirrored fronts so that the customers could see themselves being fitted. Robot attendants served as tailors while
others pushed small carts piled with polished suits of armor.
The robots appeared indistinguishable from humans, except that they were far more polite and obliging.
A robot dressed as a medieval page entered and crossed to the samurai-sworded Takaguchi. The robot bowed, then addressed himself to the distinguished Oriental. “I’m sorry, sir. I checked with Control as you requested and it is impossible for you to use your father’s sword.” The page bowed as he said, “We’re so very sorry.”
Takaguchi bowed back without the slightest trace of embarrassment. In Oxford-accented English, he replied, “Quite right. I understand. Your weapons must, of course, be very special.”
“Most understanding of you, sir,” the robot said. “I mean no criticism of our guests, but some do not seem to comprehend our particular problems. We do appreciate your understanding, sir.”
The Japanese businessman bowed and put out his arm for other robots to fit him with upper-arm protection. Nearby, in a booth, a bright flash indicated that another Delos customer had been scanned for size and shape, and his exact measurements were immediately transported to the wardrobe department.
• • •
In the reception area just outside the Men’s and Women’s Dressing Rooms of Futureworld, several space-suited guests were chatting, stealing glances at themselves in the mirrored panels around the orange-carpeted room. Enormous color transparencies of distant galaxies, hazy nebulae, comets, Luna, and floating space stations were back-lit and seemed like windows into space.
Ron Thurlow was talking to Mrs. Reed, the woman from Palm Springs, who had anxiously told him her husband was in Medieval World. The Big Bundle winner grinned at her, then quickly changed his expression at her look. “Oh, he’ll be fine. Can’t hurt himself, y’know.”
“I’m really very nervous,” Mrs. Reed said, plucking at her silvery spacesuit.
Ron guffawed. “Nothing to worry about! It’s just a monkey suit.” He caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror and posed with chest out, unabashedly admiring himself. “Hey, I look pretty good, y’know?”
Mrs. Reed nodded absently and drifted away. Ron did not notice. Tracy came out of the woman’s dressing room and saw Chuck, who was suited up and admiring a huge, window-sized transparency of the Sirius section of the sky.
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