Can you tell the folks about those little tricks, Al? I know they’re finding this tremendously interesting.
Oh, you know, kid stuff. Sticking leaves in her shoes, foolishness like that. I don’t want to give you the wrong impression, Dick. We all have our little quirks. Outside of that you couldn’t ask for a better wife. I mean, Marie is tops, she really is. Hi, hon! I’m a lucky guy.
Beautiful, Al, did you catch that, folks? Oh, oh. Speaking of midnight, I see we have only a couple seconds to go. So from our studio in beautiful Porcupine Crossing, here’s the voice of the Near North Woodlands saying goo
—
Alii didn’t try real hard to sell this Raccoona Sheldon story. She sent it to Ed Ferman on August 28, 1972, with the note: “By the way, what’s herein is scarcely fantasy. Florence County was settled by refugees from a skink famine on Arcturus. They only vote for Nixon because they think he’s one of them.”
The story was rejected without comment, and retired. This is its first publication.
“Dear Bolingbroke, dear Loomis,” she says to the letter-writer. “Do you remember the Terran woman you met at Centaurus Junction, while you were waiting for the shuttle?”
No, that won’t do. By this time they might have trouble recalling where Terra is, or what “woman” means. And she should relax her throat, let her voice be more alluring.
She reverses and starts over, putting “Human female” instead. Humans are known all over the galaxy.
“Well,” she goes on, “she remembers you. Poignantly. And this is just to say—” Here she halts the writer to think. What exactly
does
she want to say to them, after all these years? Really, just what she’s already said—that she remembers, indeed can’t forget, can’t forget at all. Though her life is certainly rich and varied enough to let her forget most anything in the way of casual sex. Why not forget these two, this Loomis and Bolingbroke? Why not? It’s something about the whole thing, about what they did to her and she to them, about what they tried to do
through
her.
She sighs luxuriously, letting it all come back; while outside the windows of her beautiful office the lights of Luna City are coming on, far below…
It had started as the most ordinary of encounters, in this age of star travel and shape-changing. She can see herself back then as if it were today, standing in Centaurus Junction in her best white travel-jumper, a mantilla on her long black hair, and her best jeweled belt and slippers—a typical high-class junior sales rep.
She has come to Centaurus Junction on the shuttle from Terra; as usual, it took longer to get to the Deep Space jump-port than it’ll take her to get to the Deneb system, where she will try to sell the ruling life-form a lot of the new macrocelluar devices her company makes.
She finds she has twenty-six standard hours to wait.
After seeing that her precious sample cases are stowed in the Deneb destination-chute, she wanders out to take a stim-drink under the huge wall of clocks that show the local times all over known space. Might as well get used to Deneb time—although of course she will travel in cold-sleep, which will reset all her physiological cycles.
As she looks for Deneb she becomes aware of a pleasant tightness in her crotch, the tingle and tickle of arousal. She’s been too busy lately to think of sex—and cold-sleep won’t cure
that.
Yes, and this is about her last chance to be among many Humans. She can put the wait to good use, if she can spot a suitable partner.
Forgetting Deneb, she glances around, but the tables and bar display no other Humans who interest her. There are a few nice aliens whom she knows are keen on Human sex, but these all seem to be in groups with young—family parties on vacation, no doubt. The few lone aliens she can see are strange to her; she wouldn’t chance a sexual encounter with any except as a last resort. And of course there is the usual Ovidian or so, who are always about, and whose sex habits don’t interest anybody. Well, maybe someone will turn up.
She goes back to studying the clock wall, and has just found that it’s midnight on Deneb IV, when someone bumps her drink-holding arm.
“Excuse me,” the stranger says. He’s a Human. She blinks and looks again—he’s outrageously handsome, a tall tanned youth with curly red hair, usually a disastrous combination, but on him, great. And nicely dressed.
“Excuse me,” he says again in quite a strange accent. And repeats it. “Excuse me, please.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” She smiles. She has just noticed that he has an unmistakable erection pushing up the corner of his sports tabard, which he is making no effort to conceal. And another young man is with him, a dark-haired type who would have been attractive in his own right had he not been eclipsed by the spectacular redhead. And he too has a highly visible tent-shaped bulge in his well-cut panters.
“Excuse me,” the redhead says for the fourth time. She’s about to become irritated, when she realizes he’s having trouble with Galactic, trying to say something further.
“Excuse me, I may ask a personal question? Yes?”
“Why, yes.”
“You are naturally in this form? And of Terra, right?”
“That’s right. I’m naturally a Human female, a woman of Terra. Do I guess correctly that you’ve just recently shape-changed?”
“Ah! Yes! You understand well!” He throws a gratified glance at his companion, and they both accept her gestured invitation to sit down. “It was all done in a great hurry, you see, the appointment to take the diplomatic post on Terra just opened. We had to take whatever was available, with almost no information. We are by profession diplomats of Thumnor, but we have not been Human before. We seem to be having trouble with the biology”—he points to his lap—“and the instruction manual was stupidly packed in our check-through bags. Even the most rudimentary formals we don’t know.”
“I see. Well! Well, first, my expression is a smile, indicating good will.” Both the strangers immediately grin winningly. “And on meeting, it is customary to exchange names—not necessarily your full name, just something to be called by. For example, I am Sheila. And often we shake hands as we do that. Your right hand, please. Oh! My goodness, you’re
hot!
Is that normal, or do you feel ill?”
“Oh, no,” he says as she gingerly regrasps his hand and demonstrates shaking. “It must be that some of our natural metabolism comes through. The changemaster said it would not injure the bodies. But is it unpleasing?”
“No, just impressive. And in strict politeness I shouldn’t have mentioned it—but perhaps you might make a little joke to warn people. And your names?” As she speaks, she’s wondering if his whole body is hot like that. Interesting…
“I am Bolingbroke,” he tells her. “And my colleague superior is Loomis.”
“Really?
Like old-fashioned Terran names?”
“Are they unsuitable? It is as close as we could come, in what Terran literature we have. At home in Thumnor I am Bol—” He utters a tangled skein of syllables. “And he is Low-—” Another unpronounceability.
“No, quite suitable. And picturesque. And very sensible—Terrans would have had trouble with those. Now, you mentioned biology. On Terra you will find it customary to make an effort to suppress or conceal such obvious sexual reactions.” Discreetly, she points at the bulge, which quivers. “Or perhaps you didn’t know that’s what it is?”
“Oh!” He looks down and slaps at the offending member, jumping a little. “The changemaster said that the bodies were extra young and vigorous, and that part might inflate if we became in reproductive mode. But we didn’t expect—is it offensive to you?”
The dark lad he called Loomis, his “superior colleague,” speaks up suddenly. “Boley, it is something about her proximity. Our proximity to you.” His voice is soft and low and pleasing. Smiling intently, he asks, “May we draw the conclusion that you too are in reproductive mode?”
Sheila laughs. “Well, it’s not a safe general rule because such young bodies as yours may, ah, inflate spontaneously. But yes, as it happens, I was thinking about some such way of passing the waiting time.”
“How splendid!” exclaims Bolingbroke. “When we learned that we must wait here for so long, twenty-four standards, we determined to experience some major Terran activity. So we decided on sex. Would you say it
is
a major Terran activity?”
She laughs again. “I certainly would say so, yes. But tell me, are matters on our two planets roughly similar? I mean, do you have different sex types or genders who must couple to reproduce? And who also do it when they don’t intend to make young, but just for the pleasure? And the pleasure of Contact culminates in a sort of spasm, or body sneeze, which is most pleasing of all?”
“Yes, indeed. That describes it well, and the changemaster told us these male bodies emit fluid. But with us, so many people are incomplete. Is it not so with you? We were assured these bodies are complete. But are you?”
“Yes. In fact, on Terra, except for a few medical oddities, everyone is sexually complete.”
“But,” says Loomis in his soft voice, “how in the stars do you keep from making young whenever you meet and having frightful overpopulation?”
“Oh, we did have trouble for a time. Then we invented good chemical preventions.”
“Ah, the famous Terran technical ingenuity!” laughs Bolingbroke. “So, then, there is no impediment. But as I said, our manual is unavailable. Would you care to assist us in doing sex? Judging from our reactions—” He pauses to look down and cuff the obstinately upright organ, then winces. “Ow! This is more tender than I thought!”
“Yes, Myr Bolingbroke, you must be more careful. I’m told that a blow in the male genital region can be very painful.”
“Yes. Well, as I was saying, it appears from our reactions that you are very compatible to us. Right, Loomis? But are we compatible to you, Myr Sheila? I can see no signs.” They are both looking her over anxiously.
“No, nothing at all,” agrees Loomis. “Except perhaps a faint reddening around your ears?”
Sheila is almost overcome by laughter. The idea of instructing these two Thumnorians appears quite delightful. There is a little danger, of course, because those male bodies are a lot stronger than hers, and if the Thumnorians’ sex habits turn out to be unpleasant she would regret it. But surely
diplomats
can be expected to be safe? Meanwhile she is saying:
“Myr Loomis is very perceptive. Any blushing or reddening in the female is a favorable sign—unless it comes from anger. No, Myr Bolingbroke, with women the signs are far less obvious. You see, our sexually responsive tissue is mostly hidden between our legs. So you simply have to judge as you go along. In fact, sometimes the woman’s reaction isn’t clear until you actually initiate contact.”
“Confusing,” mutters the redhead. “But maybe the manual will help. Now, what do we do first?”
They both look at her expectantly.
“Well, there are a few preliminaries. And I should warn you that in general the female is slower to arrive at complete arousal. Of course, it is physically possible to have sex with an unready or even unwilling female, but I believe most males agree that in the best experience both partners are highly aroused.”
“Both partners,” murmurs Loomis, apparently puzzled; “Ah, you mean the woman-female like you, and the male-mans such as we are? No more?”
Puzzled herself, Sheila can only laugh and say, “That’s all it takes, yes. But now there is the question of where the sex is to be done. It is very noncustomary to engage in it in public, or even to be too obvious about intending to. It has a disruptive effect on others, you see. For example, shall I go and book my room, and then drop back here, as if saying good-bye, while slipping my key to you?”
“Oh, we thought of that!” says Bolingbroke proudly. “Even without the manual! I believe it’s a nice room. Will that influence your arousal?”
“Yes, a secure, comfortable, private environment is very favorable, Now, it is a pleasant gesture, though not necessary, for you to settle any small account I have here. I’ll tell you about feeding symbolism later,” she adds to Loomis, as the redhead summons the robot and inserts his credit chip.
When they go out, the aliens guide her into corridors she knows as high-credit territory. Their diplomatic service must do better by them than poor old Terra’s, she thinks, as they pass a luxurious floral hydroponics display.
Despite a slight difficulty in walking, Bolingbroke strides ahead to fling open a door.
“Stars! What did you do, book a Human royal suite?” She advances into an extravaganza of pale furs and satins, alabaster and mirrors—mirrors everywhere, all centered on a huge, ornate bed. As she catches her own image she is ridiculously pleased to see herself looking quite in place; she knows she’s a very good-looking woman. Of course these Thumnorians wouldn’t know if she looked like a baggage-basher, but it will do them good to set a high standard.
“Oh, nice! See the little feast they’ve laid out for us for later on. And, oh! Real flowers!” She buries her nose in the rare fragrances.
“This is suitable?” Loomis inquires. “Do you feel yourself becoming aroused?”
Sheila’s answer is cut short by Bolingbroke, who goes straight to the bed and plumps down on it. “This is where we do it, right?”
“Exactly… I hope it isn’t
too
soft.”
“Why? How can I tell?”
“That will be self-evident later,” she chuckles.
“Always later! Why don’t you approach me? Come on, Loomis.”
“I think she has more preliminaries,” says Loomis, who has been quietly watching her. “Remember she said there were.”
“That’s just right. We women vary a great deal, but I am one of those who prefer to become more relaxed before leaping into bed—unless time is very short, which I gather it’s not. For instance, you haven’t properly locked the door.”
“Oof!” Bolingbroke jumps up and beats Loomis to the door.
“Now, Myr Bolingbroke, when you close or lock the door, you might look at your female in a way signifying that you are locking the world out. You see the idea, make everything contribute to arousal.”