still.
‘Fear of effeminacy. It might work,’ said General Weimarauner. ‘Combined with fear of the fool. The—The Pink Barrettes?’ He began to laugh, inclining his noble head and putting up a hand as if to ward off blows. ‘I’m tempted, Hackendorf, I’m tempted!’
He paused to study the figure in red velvet sitting in another corner of the coffee shop. Nudging Hackendorf, he dropped his voice to say, ‘Look at that, will you? Did you ever see such an ugly woman in your life? Gad, any uglier and they’d draft her. Come to think of it, she reminds me of an aide I used to have, only she’s about fifty pounds heavier. What was his name, now? Pouts?’
He tore his attention away from the person in the corner, who had just ordered six Danish pastries and a chocolate malt. ‘The Pink Barrettes! Yes by God, we’ll do it. I can just see them on parade!’
The Knight of Columbus was telling the last person he could find about the accident in the elevator shaft. Jerry was looking for Myra. The gloomy producer was telling someone about Miss Columbine: ‘Balling somebody all evening on that sunken sofa, and nobody even noticed.’ There was no one left for the American Studies professor to tell a Little Moron Joke to. The hot-dog publisher had fallen asleep in a chair, letting his coat open to reveal his truss.
Bradd asked the cryogenics man for the hundredth time if he was sure it could be done.
‘See voo play,’ someone asked, ‘oo ay lays Ohm? E.c. ay lay Fum, may oo ay lays Ohm?’ He gestured at the bedroom door.
‘What do you want with a man? Won’t I do?’
‘Of course it’ll work,’ said the cryogenics man. ‘We freeze donuts, don’t we? So why not a girl?’
‘Can’t wreck her appearance, though.’ Bradd removed his TV glasses and inspected them for dirt. ‘She’s got to look good, for, say, thirty or forty years. In front of the cameras, anyway.’
‘Don’t worry about a thing. Now, what price range freezer were you thinking of?’
Glen Dale put on the ninth tape. There were ten, arranged by experts in order of arousal, and now there was nothing left but half an hour of Ravel’s
Bolero.
And he still hadn’t figured out a way of kissing Miranda, the girl in the peach-sundae dress. He had fed her arousing music, stirred up the fire in the fireplace, changed (behind a screen) into a dressing gown of red silk, poured many brandies into their two snifters, switched on the electronic odorizer that filled the room with musk and frankincense, talked knowledgeably of Krafft-Ebbing and Tantric Yoga, even shown her selections from a Cinerama blue film. Now he sat inches away from her on the bed and toyed with the tassel of his dressing gown. All this brought them to the point where he
had
to make a move—or a mistake.
‘I gotta go home now,’ she said, looking at her watch.
‘But it’s early!’
‘Don’t argue with me, I said I gotta go! Anyways, I can’t crap around here all night waiting for you to make up your mind. We been in here three hours,’ she said. ‘Three hours, and
nothing happened.’
‘But I…’
‘I guess you think I’m not good enough for you, with all your Miss Monthly girls and Does and all.’ She stood up, straightened her ruffles and smiled. ‘So bye-bye.’
‘Wait, Miranda, wait!’
Miranda did not wait. She chose the wrong door, tugged at her skirt, and marched over to it. ‘Bye-bye.’
Six people in Egyptian costumes tumbled in upon her, accompanied by several dozen gallons of water.
‘Christ almighty! What the hell is this, a voyeur hotel?’ Extricating herself, Miranda kicked at the Egyptians.
‘Miranda, I—wait…’
The right door slammed. Glen sank back on the bed. The six fake Egyptians scrambled up and came to sit next to him, one pausing to turn up the taped music.
‘Nice sounds, man. Who is it? Sounds like
The Andrew Jackson Davis Penetralia.’
Alone in his room, Bates, the young anglophile, took off his wicker suit and
‘Fear of effeminacy. It might work,’ said General Weimarauner. ‘Combined with fear of the fool. The—The Pink Barrettes?’ He began to laugh, inclining his noble head and putting up a hand as if to ward off blows. ‘I’m tempted, Hackendorf, I’m tempted!’
He paused to study the figure in red velvet sitting in another corner of the coffee shop. Nudging Hackendorf, he dropped his voice to say, ‘Look at that, will you? Did you ever see such an ugly woman in your life? Gad, any uglier and they’d draft her. Come to think of it, she reminds me of an aide I used to have, only she’s about fifty pounds heavier. What was his name, now? Pouts?’
He tore his attention away from the person in the corner, who had just ordered six Danish pastries and a chocolate malt. ‘The Pink Barrettes! Yes by God, we’ll do it. I can just see them on parade!’
The Knight of Columbus was telling the last person he could find about the accident in the elevator shaft. Jerry was looking for Myra. The gloomy producer was telling someone about Miss Columbine: ‘Balling somebody all evening on that sunken sofa, and nobody even noticed.’ There was no one left for the American Studies professor to tell a Little Moron Joke to. The hot-dog publisher had fallen asleep in a chair, letting his coat open to reveal his truss.
Bradd asked the cryogenics man for the hundredth time if he was sure it could be done.
‘See voo play,’ someone asked, ‘oo ay lays Ohm? E.c. ay lay Fum, may oo ay lays Ohm?’ He gestured at the bedroom door.
‘What do you want with a man? Won’t I do?’
‘Of course it’ll work,’ said the cryogenics man. ‘We freeze donuts, don’t we? So why not a girl?’
‘Can’t wreck her appearance, though.’ Bradd removed his TV glasses and inspected them for dirt. ‘She’s got to look good, for, say, thirty or forty years. In front of the cameras, anyway.’
‘Don’t worry about a thing. Now, what price range freezer were you thinking of?’
Glen Dale put on the ninth tape. There were ten, arranged by experts in order of arousal, and now there was nothing left but half an hour of Ravel’s
Bolero.
And he still hadn’t figured out a way of kissing Miranda, the girl in the peach-sundae dress. He had fed her arousing music, stirred up the fire in the fireplace, changed (behind a screen) into a dressing gown of red silk, poured many brandies into their two snifters, switched on the electronic odorizer that filled the room with musk and frankincense, talked knowledgeably of Krafft-Ebbing and Tantric Yoga, even shown her selections from a Cinerama blue film. Now he sat inches away from her on the bed and toyed with the tassel of his dressing gown. All this brought them to the point where he
had
to make a move—or a mistake.
‘I gotta go home now,’ she said, looking at her watch.
‘But it’s early!’
‘Don’t argue with me, I said I gotta go! Anyways, I can’t crap around here all night waiting for you to make up your mind. We been in here three hours,’ she said. ‘Three hours, and
nothing happened.’
‘But I…’
‘I guess you think I’m not good enough for you, with all your Miss Monthly girls and Does and all.’ She stood up, straightened her ruffles and smiled. ‘So bye-bye.’
‘Wait, Miranda, wait!’
Miranda did not wait. She chose the wrong door, tugged at her skirt, and marched over to it. ‘Bye-bye.’
Six people in Egyptian costumes tumbled in upon her, accompanied by several dozen gallons of water.
‘Christ almighty! What the hell is this, a voyeur hotel?’ Extricating herself, Miranda kicked at the Egyptians.
‘Miranda, I—wait…’
The right door slammed. Glen sank back on the bed. The six fake Egyptians scrambled up and came to sit next to him, one pausing to turn up the taped music.
‘Nice sounds, man. Who is it? Sounds like
The Andrew Jackson Davis Penetralia.’
Alone in his room, Bates, the young anglophile, took off his wicker suit and
Similar Books
