Mack Reynolds - After Utopia

The vehicle was descending rapidly. Edmonds took over the manual controls, to Tracy’s relief. There was a large building below them, with a parking area around it. It wasn’t particularly well lit.

Tracy could barely identify the town of Torremolinos. He had been there on several occasions in the distant past—clandestinely, since the organization hadn’t been popular with the Franco Guardia Civil . But in those days it had been a rather small fishing village and art colony. It was beginning to attract the tourist hordes when Academician Stein had grabbed his mind, but even then it was nothing like this.

He could recognize a few landmarks. The Torremolinos tower—going back to Moorish days, so he understood—was still there, out overlooking the sea. The beach was the same, three or more miles of it. Certain coves, he could recognize. But not even the central plaza remained in the town proper. There were no buildings more than two stories high, and in general everything was spread over a much wider area. As Edmonds had said, it would seem that people didn’t like to live in cities any more, nor even what used to be thought of as towns. Torremolinos was spread over a large area.

Tracy said, “If there aren’t any cities anymore, what would you call this place?”

They had touched down, or, at least, hovered just a few inches from the ground. Edmonds was pulling up closer to the building. It was a pleasant enough structure, covering possibly an acre of land, and it seemed to be at least half sunken in the ground. The top was largely a garden, that even had trees.

“Torremolinos? It’s a Pleasure Center. A resort, I suppose you’d say.”

“I see,” Tracy said. “And what’s this particular building, a night club?”

They had come to a halt. Edmonds touched a stud and the vehicle settled to the tarmac of the parking area.

He said, “Not exactly. It’s a narcotic center.”

“Narcotic center? How do you mean?”

Edmonds explained. “A good many people like to take their narcotics in company. Some don’t. They’d rather take them in privacy, but many like congenial company. Usually it’s according to what drug they’re on. This is a place where you can smoke, take your pills or injections, and enjoy whatever narcotic it is that you appreciate.”

Tracy said, “You mean that we could, say, just walk in and order a pipe of opium, or, say a hypo of heroin, and sit around with like-mind’ folk and blow our minds?”

The other said, “The opiates are passé. I doubt if any would be immediately on hand, though it shouldn’t take too long to synthesize some of you were interested in experimenting with the older narcotics.”

“Such drugs as morphine are no longer used? Even for medicinal reasons?” That set Tracy back.

Edmonds frowned, as though trying to remember. “I thought the opiates, all of them, were being phased out even in your time.”

“Well, they weren’t,” Tracy told him. “Heroin, for instance, was one of the biggest problems in America.”

“Ummm. Well, at any rate, drugs based on plants such as the opium poppy, the coca of Peru, or the so-called sacred mushroom Psilocybe have long since been replaced by laboratory-produced drugs. They are much more effective, either for medicine or… pleasure.”

“And addiction can be cured immediately?”

“Just about.”

The other began to open the door on his side.

Tracy said, “Just a minute. What in the world did you have in mind?”

“I thought that we’d go in, and you might want to give something a try.”

“Well, think again,” Tracy told him definitely. “I have no intention of blowing my brains out with some drug I’ve never even heard of before. The furthest I ever went in that direction was smoking kif once or twice.”

“Kif?”

“That’s what they called it in Morocco. Marijuana, bhang, pot, weed… Indian hemp.”

“Oh,” Edmonds said. “You mean cannabis. Few ever resort to it these days, anymore than they do tobacco. Hard on the health. But there are other narcotics that might intrigue you, Cogswell.”

“No thanks. Alcohol is far enough along the line for me,” Tracy said.

The other started up the car again. “Very well, there’s a nightclub overlooking the sea. Very attractive. We’ll go there.”

As they drove, Tracy looked over at his companion and said, “Have you ever tried any of these new narcotics?”

“A few times,” Edmonds said easily. “They don’t appeal to me. But I’ve tried everything… twice. Here we are.”

The building they drew up before was quite similar to the one they had just left, save that it was located on a cliff with a beautiful view up and down the coast. They parked and entered.

It wasn’t as different as all that from some of the night spots of his own era, Tracy thought, with the exception that there were no waiters or bartenders, though there was a lengthy bar, complete with stools. all was automated, Tracy realized. Wasn’t there anything in the way of work that couldn’t be automated?

The table they took was inset with a lengthy wine list and there was a dial. There was also a phone screen.

Edmonds said, “What’ll you have, Tracy?” It was the first time he had called the traveler from the past by his first name.

“What do you recommend… Jo?”

“Personally, I’m rather keen on a slightly sparkling Riesling wine.”

Tracy Cogswell had had in mind something stronger, but he shrugged and said, “Let’s give it a try.”

Each name on the wine list had a number next to it. Edmonds dialed. Within moments, the table’s center sunk and then returned with a chilled bottle and two glasses. The bottle was of the type Tracy associated with the Rhine river—green, tall, and slim.

Edmonds poured.

The wine was certainly as good as any Tracy had ever tasted, clean and fruity. He said, “I don’t see how in the devil you could automate a vineyard.”

“Oh, this isn’t made of grapes, you know. It’s produced in automated factories. We can turn out much more acceptable wines now than were ever made from grapes.”

“I give up,” Tracy muttered. He turned to look about the night spot. In the best tradition, the lights were low and there was music, faint music, coming from somewhere. The place held at least a hundred tables, and was fairly well packed. They had been lucky to get a table.

There wasn’t any dance floor, which somewhat surprised Tracy, particularly in view of the fact that the clientele was quite young. Another thing that surprised him was that, although obviously the drinks on the tables were in wide variety, including spirits and cocktails, nobody seemed much under the influence of the booze.

The screen on the table lit up. Jo Edmonds said something into it and then, to Tracy, “It’s for you.”

“For me? How could it possibly be? I wouldn’t know anyone here.” He looked at the screen. In it was a sparkling, vivacious redhead with bright green eyes. She was about twenty.

She smiled pertly and said, “Would you two like to join in with a six-way? Nothing goes but fellatio and cunnilingus.” She spoke in Interlingua but the last two words were the same as in English.

Tracy gaped at her.

Jo Edmonds leaned over and said to her, “Not just for the moment, but thanks, dear.”

She looked disappointed but smiled her pert smile again and faded off.

Tracy turned to his companion. “What the hell kind of a place is this, a whorehouse? And what did she mean, a six-way?”

“There is no prostitution any more,” Edmonds said mildly. “This is a group-sex center. You take a table and then look about the room. If you see someone that appeals to you, the way you evidently appealed to the redhead, you phone her, or him, and discuss what you have in mind. You keep on phoning around until you’ve got your group organized. There are rooms upstairs.”