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  The evening passed in stifled perfection. Jackson Mellibant VII said precisely the right thing at exactly the right time. Maryn, well-drilled at the Lacemont Finishing School, found it impossible to give anything but the perfectly right reply. She and Jackson whirled around the dance floor with marvelous grace and precision, their feet locked to smooth metal disks, their motion controlled by the electronic calculator in the nightclub basement.

  At the table, Maryn and Jackson drank a good deal of champagne, which was automatically removed from their stomachs by the teleporter. The drive home in Jackson's car had, therefore, no element of hazard, since Jackson had no difficulty punching the proper destination on the keyboard.

  On the drive home, carried out at precisely the city speed limit, Maryn sat in futile boredom as Jackson took up her hand and made a lyrical speech concerning it. Maryn's mouth opened and gave a neatly-turned reply. This led coyly on from stage to stage according to the established routine of Caswell Breweries' heroines, till at last they reached home. The car stopped itself by the walk. "My, the house seems lonely," said Maryn, with the correct degree of impropriety. She studied her gloves. "My parents," she added, "never get home till round three."

  "Perhaps," said Jackson, "I might come up for a few minutes. Just to see that everything's all right."

  "That," said Maryn, who felt like screaming and hammering on walls, "is very thoughtful of you." They slid up the ramp together. Maryn turned to Jackson and flashed her Shinywhite smile at him. In turn he bent and kissed her plastic shoulder.

  Together, they slid in through the living room. Maryn glanced sidewise at Jackson as they slid past the sofa. She was afraid he might choose to continue operations there. A moment later, they entered the hallway. This evidently required more intimacy, as he now put his arm around her waist.

  At the bedroom door, they came to a halt. "You'll wait here for a moment?" she asked, putting her hand on his arm.

  "Don't be long," he whispered.

  In the living room, there was a faint rumble.

  Maryn stiffened. "Did you hear that?"

  "What?" asked Jackson, standing with one hand in his side pocket.

  "That noise," said Maryn, becoming alarmed. "In the living room," she whispered. "Would you—"

  "I most certainly shall," said Jackson, gallantly. He slid off down the hallway and Maryn waited in rising alarm till he called, "Perfectly all right. Nothing here."

  "Thank Heaven," said Maryn, feeling her first genuine emotion of the evening. If Jackson had been on hand, she might have thrown her arms around him and kissed him, but he was still in the living room. Relapsing into boredom, Maryn slid into the bedroom and pulled back the covers. There on the sheets as a reminder was the small flat black box that controlled the rolov. Maryn stabbed one of the buttons, and the discreetly hidden door by the bed opened up. Out rumbled the life-like rolov, and Maryn sat it on the bed, swung its feet off the travel platform, and slid the platform back into the closet. She closed the closet door, and worked the controls so that the rolov clumsily got into bed and lay down on its side. This part of the rolov's repertoire was not automatic, and took a certain amount of facility with the control box. Maryn, seeing how awkwardly the rolov got into bed, was grateful she did not have to make it walk anywhere. She stood looking at this model of her present appearance and had to admit that, except for the eyes, it looked lifelike. She laid her hand on its shoulder. It was cold as an oyster.

  A gentle tap sounded on the bedroom door.

  "Just a minute," breathed Maryn, hastily stabbing the warm-up and breathing buttons. She flicked off the lights.

  The door opened, and a dark form slid quickly in.

  "Over here," whispered Maryn, crouching by the bed.

  "Darling," murmured the passionate voice of Jackson Mellibant VII.

  Maryn pressed the automatic button.

  "Darling," breathed the rolov, in a voice like pure fire.

  Maryn, unable to stand it, slipped out of the room. She did not doubt she could leave this end of the evening to the built-in skill of the rolov, but she did not think she could bear to watch it. With the hot murmurings still faintly audible behind her, she tiptoed wearily down the hallway and walked into the living room.

  On the sofa, reading the night's paper, sprawled Jackson Mellibant VII, his face a study in boredom.

  Maryn stood transfixed.

  Jackson, flipping the paper, glanced up, snapped the paper around and looked at it. An instant later he glanced up again at Maryn. "Eh!" he gasped, his eyes wide.

  "Well!" said Maryn.

  For a moment they stared at each other. "You're not in there!" Jackson commented stupidly.

  "What about you?" snapped Maryn.

  For a moment, they stared at each other vacantly, then Jackson's face took on a look of shrewd calculation. "Come on," he said. She followed him down the hallway, holding tightly to his hand. They bent to listen at the bedroom door. Giggling murmurs came from within.

  Jackson started to shake silently. He pulled her back to the living room and burst out laughing.

  "I don't see anything funny about it," snapped Maryn. "Who's in there?"

  Jackson sank down on the couch and laughed all the harder.

  "Some friend of yours?" Maryn demanded icily.

  Jackson choked and gasped for breath. "Whew!" he said. "Friend?" He tried to stop laughing and failed. He put his hand on Maryn's arm, as if for patience, and she struck it away angrily. She stamped her foot.

  "Maryn," said Jackson between bursts of laughter, "did you put a rolov in there?"

  "What if I did?" she demanded angrily. "That's better than you—you—"

  "No," said Jackson, "you don't understand." He took a small flat black box out of his side pocket and held it up. "I put one in there, too," he said.

  As Maryn stared, he started to laugh again. "Two love-making machines," he gasped, "locked in steely embrace. Ye gods, there's progress for you."

  "I don't think that's very funny," said Maryn. "Why did you have to send a machine in?"

  "Oh," said Jackson. "The Murches are very influential people. Miss Maryn Murch must have nothing but the best."

  "But—" Maryn stared at him. Jackson Mellibant VII was the precise image of exact physical and social perfection. Very clearly, he was the best. Maryn said so.

  "Oh no," said Jackson. "Don't judge others by yourself. I'm all sham and pretense. You don't get strong leading the lives we lead today. I couldn't compare with that machine."

  "You mean," said the startled Maryn, "that you're made-up?"

  "That's it," said Jackson, rising sadly to his feet. "I'm a fraud, a fake. Well, I'll get my machine and be going."

  "Wait a minute," said Maryn, taking him by the arm.

  "What?"

  "I want to talk to you."

  "Still?" he looked at her in surprise.

  "Yes."

  "What about the machines?"

  "Oh, they can blow a fuse for all I care," said Maryn. "Won't you sit down?"

  "M,m. All right," said Jackson.

  She smiled at him and rested her head on his shoulder.

  It was well into the morning when Maryn's mother returned, went directly to the memory box in the bedroom and ran it through. "Well," she said to Maryn, "everything seems to have gone off very nicely. Did he ask for another date?"

  Maryn nodded.

  "That's good," said her mother. "Remember, Maryn, the Mellibants are very influential people. You must still do your best."

  "Yes, Mother," said Maryn, obediently. "I will."

  The New Boccaccio

  Howard Nelson shook hands with the white-haired man who stood behind the desk. "Nelson," said Howard, introducing himself, "of Nelson and Rand, Publishers."

  "I'm Forrick," said the white-haired man, smiling. "Well, we of United Computers seldom meet a publisher. We're usually called in to straighten out production difficulties."

  "That's my trouble exactly," said Howard.
>
  "Really? You said you were a publisher?"

  "That is correct. Publishers publish books, and books have to be produced. Let me assure you, we have production difficulties. But my specific problem at the moment is our monthly, Varlet."

  Forrick smoothed his white hair with one hand. "Oh yes," he said, smiling. "Varlet. I bought a copy the other night on my way to the train and rode three stops past my station. Very fine magazine." He cleared his throat, and blushed slightly.

  "I'm glad you've read it," said Howard. "You can understand it's hard to obtain material that's just right for Varlet. What we like is a humorous, sophisticated, but high-powered approach to sex."

  "Fine art work, too," said Forrick approvingly. "But I don't see where we can help you."

  "Didn't I read somewhere recently that you folks claimed you could make a machine that would play chess?"

  "Why, yes, and we could. But there's been no demand for that sort of computer." Forrick frowned in puzzlement. "What does that have to do with your magazine?"

  "Let me tell you some of the difficulties we have in producing Varlet," said Howard, "and you'll see what I'm driving at."

  "Go right ahead," said Forrick. "I'm interested."

  "To start with," said Howard, "our need is for a very specialized type of material, and writers only occasionally hit on exactly the right blend for us. This made it hard enough when we first came out, but we managed by using the best original material we could obtain, and by reprinting other stories and articles that happened to meet our requirements. But now—" he spread his hands—"there's not only Varlet on the stands, but also Rascal, Sly, Villain, and I understand there's one coming out next month called Devilish. How are we supposed to compete with that field when there isn't enough to be bought in the first place? It's impossible."

  "I see your point," said Forrick, frowning. "You'd have to lower your standards. But that would hurt sales."

  Howard nodded and sat back.

  "It is a production problem," said Forrick thoughtfully. "Hm-m-m." He reached for a telephone. Soon he had a phone in each hand. "Meigs," he roared at one point, "that's our motto! If the job is impossible, we'll do it anyhow!"

  Howard sat tight. Eventually Forrick put down the phones and mopped his brow with a large handkerchief.

  "We've got the boys working on it," he said. "I'm glad you brought this to us, Nelson. It looks like a real challenge."

  They shook hands.

  Howard was cursing dismally over a piece of miserable art work some months later when they brought it in. He watched in amazement as the workmen set the glittering machine by his door, then he got up excitedly. The thing looked like a combination electron microscope and spin-drier, but plainly on the front of it in shining chromium was the word: Writivac-112. He walked over to look at it.

  "Say, not bad," he said.

  The technicians plugged it in and carried out tests with little meters and lengths of cord. Howard watched interestedly.

  There was a discreet cough at his elbow. He glanced around. "If you'll just sign here, sir."

  "How much?"

  "Total cost, installed, is $5,750. Is that satisfactory?"

  "Is it satisfactory?" Howard stared at him for a moment. To be able to just set dials and get exactly what he wanted? "Is it satisfactory?" He grabbed his pen, read rapidly, and signed his name.

  As soon as they cleared out, he approached the Writivac-112. A little instruction book dangled beside it. "Fred! Don!" he yelled. "Get in here!" He got his two top men into the room, and then they locked all the doors and went to work.

  The machine had several dials and settings. According to the little instruction book, the three knobs lettered A through C on the front determined the proportion of sex, adventure, and mystery in the story. The fourth knob, lettered D, handled special types, all the data for which had to be put in a feed-in slot at the top of the machine, and the feed-in switch thrown to the right. If a large amount of such special material had to be fed in, both memory and feed-in switches were turned to the right. Then the length and spacing switches were to be set, the On button pushed, and the user must be sure the ink reservoir was full and the paper dispenser loaded.

  "Oh, boy," said Fred, who was art editor. "Check the paper reservoir, chief." Surreptitiously he turned dial A (sex), all the way to the right.

  "I notice there's no humor dial," said Don coldly, looking over Fred's shoulder. As fiction editor and part-time writer, he did not look on the machine with enthusiasm. "It'll be a hell of note if this thing doesn't turn out humor," he said. "I hope we haven't got a white elephant here."

  "One way to find out," said Howard. He opened the cabinet in back. "Plenty of paper and ink there."

  "Let's go," said Fred. "Can I push the button?"

  "I'll push it," said Howard. He glanced at the settings. "A little one-sided, but let's see what happens." He pushed the On button.

  There was a soft, continuous, muffled clacking sound, and a faint sliding noise of sheets of paper slipping over one another. At one point the Writivac hesitated and then went on, just like an author hunting for the right word.

  "Sounds O.K." said Fred eagerly.

  "Maybe it'll hatch an egg," grumbled Don.

  "I don't like your attitude," said Howard, thinking of the $5,750 he had tied up in this.

  "Sorry," said Don.

  The machine whirred on.

  At length there was silence. Then there was a loud plop, and a massive stack of papers dropped into view through the Out slot. A bell rang once, like the timer on a stove.

  Fred and Don and Howard looked at each other.

  Howard recovered first and reached in the slot.

  Fred coughed. "Should we say some historic words?"

  "I can't think of any," said Howard.

  "Wait till later," said Don ironically, "and we can have the machine run some up for us."

  Howard glanced at him suspiciously, then pulled out the paper. The first sheet was a title page. In the exact center of the white sheet, capital letters spelled:

  LUST

  They huddled around the stack of paper at a large table, and Howard cautiously removed the title sheet to glance at the first page. Immediately his face reddened. Fred's eyes bulged out like onions. Don pursed his lips and made as if to blow live steam out of his mouth.

  After a lengthy silence interrupted only by the turning of pages, Don reached out a shaky hand to the carafe and poured himself a glass of water. Howard grabbed it. Fred quietly appropriated the rest of the manuscript.

  "Whew!" said Howard. "I feel scorched."

  Across the room, the machine rang its bell.

  "What did you set the length for?" asked Don.

  "I forgot to set the length," said Howard. He leaned forward and squinted.

  "You've got a novel coming up," said Don, staring at the machine. "But we still don't know if the thing will write stuff for Varlet."

  "Boy!" said Fred, looking up. "Where's the rest of it?"

  "There's another ten thousand words or so in the Out slot," said Howard.

  Fred shot across the room, and wandered back, reading as he walked.

  Howard glared. "Don't hog it!" he roared. "Over here with it!" The three of them hunched over the new set of sheets as the machine clacked busily across the room.

  The sun was a faint glimmer in the west as they finished the last page. Howard cleared his dry throat, and squeezed a last drop of water from the carafe. He glanced at Don. "What do you think?"

  "My eyes feel like sandpaper just from reading it."

  "How about it," said Fred. He made motions with his hands in the air. "A half-dressed babe on the cover, her negligee down over one shoulder. LUST in big red letters behind her. Nothing else. No background. No nothing. Just a plain cover with the babe and LUST. How about it?"

  "It'll be banned in Boston," said Don dubiously.

  "So what?" said Fred. "That's good advertising."

  "We'll have to sell it
under the counter," said Don. "We'll have to ship it out in lead-lined trucks and have it hustled over the state line by men in asbestos suits."