Charles Maine - World Without Men

He looked idly around A flashing green sign in the direction of Regent Street announced:

Kill Bad Breath! Chew Choosy, the Chic Chicle.

Adjacent to it the outline of a nude woman in amber glowed intermittently in the darkness, alternating with a vivid blue phrase that said:

Eat Here and View.

And beyond that, enigmatically traced in white and crimson:

You Want It! We Have It!

And more and more neon signs advertising gasoline, movies, hair cream, lingerie, cars, nylons, perfumes, gyrojet services, beers, wines, spirits, cigarettes, and all the other desirable amenities of civilization. And, remotely visible over the dark shoulder of a semi skyscraper, a luminous pointing hand with the bold legend:

God Needs You Need God .

But nobody ever bothered to look at the neons… unless he happened to be waiting for a girl.

There was no hurry, Somer told himself. He could wait until midnight if necessary. In any case there was an even chance that she wouldn’t turn up on the basis of a casual invitation by telephone. If it came to the point he might not even recognize her, for the description she had given of herself was vague; on the other hand he was wearing the agreed symbol of identity: two carnations, crimson and white, side by side, in his buttonhole.

The rain did not bother him overmuch. The transparent waterproof cape he was wearing kept him dry and fairly warm; only his feet felt chilled and uncomfortable. He abandoned the neons and watched the passing cars — squat stream lined shapes progressing with effortless and sinister motion on almost invisible wheels. The atomic drives of the newer and more expensive models were virtually noiseless’. And inside were the inevitable women, frilly and glistening like Christ mas fairy dolls, with the men crouched hollow-eyed and intent over the driving wheel. Gay women and sombre men, using the supernal power of the atom to carry them as rap idly as possible to a centrally heated room and a soft resilient bed.

Applied happiness, Somer thought cynically. If I weren’t what I am, I d be the same as the rest of the men. I’d want a car with atomic drive, and a luxury fiat equipped with vidarphone, and a big bank balance, and shares in the Sterilin combine, and a regular lower-level female, sucking cinnamon and smelling faintly of gin, and two or three higher-level females for prestige. I’d be in the stallion class, with an office high up in the Mall, overlooking the big statue of E.J. Wasserman herself, the founder of Sterilin, and I’d be signing papers and lifting a telephone and making eyes at a raven haired secretary (with her Sterilin card stamped up-to-date); and life would seem very secure and stable, with only in creasing prosperity and happiness in store.

On the surface, of course; only on the surface But the others could not even begin to suspect the truth…

Rona came presently. She had crossed the road by the sub way so that she materialized unexpectedly behind Somer First thing he knew, there was a husky feminine voice be hind him that said: “Red and white add up to Brad. Right?”

He turned round and looked her over. She was wearing a plastic cape with a hood, and it was translucent enough to show the outline of her short black dress and the long white curve of her legs. Her hair matched the flame colour of the Sterilin sign. Her lips were carmine and moist from the rain, and her green eyes seemed to possess an internal fire of their own. She was nice to look at, and probably nicer still to kiss.

“You must be Rona,” he said.

She nodded. “Let’s get out of this rain.”

“The Waldorf?”

“Anywhere.”

He took her arm and conducted her towards a taxi stand. “No car?”

“In America. I may have it sent over if I decide to stay.”

“You ought to, Brad. Otherwise you don’t rate.”

They took a cab to the Waldorf and settled down in the cocktail bar After the rain the ornate and elegantly fashioned room was a virtual paradise.

“What’ll it be, Rona?”

“Whisky.”

“With?”

“Dry.”

Somer snapped his fingers at the bartender. “Scotch and dry twice.”

“So you know Lecia?” Rona said.

“Yes. For many years. She suggested I should contact you. I hope I didn’t do the wrong thing.”

“Not at all, Brad. But I’m curious. Is there an angle, or are you just dating me?”

“Both. I’d be a heel not to date a girl like you.”

“Business before pleasure. What’s the angle?”

He paid for the drinks and they both sipped. “All in good time, Rona. You’re a pretty girl… more than pretty.”

“You’re an American. You ought to know.”

“Right. I’ve travelled around a great deal, most every where. Being an American doesn’t make me a connoisseur of women, but I’ve seen plenty of them and had more than I’d like to count without an electronic calculates You’re in the very top bracket, honey”

“Corny, Brad. It sounds like a typical opening gambit.”

“Would you like it in writing?”

“No. I’d like it in bed”

Somer smiled. “Don’t rush me I was born in Idaho and I take things slowly.”

“What’s your line of business, Brad,” Rona asked, finishing her drink

He had the glasses refilled before answering. “I’m a journalist.”

“Radio or TV?”

“Newspaper.”

Her lip curled imperceptibly. “Does anyone read news papers these days?”

“Surprisingly, yes. More than a million people in America; more than a quarter of a million in Britain”

“Of course, Lecia was a journalist for a time, before she joined the Ministry of the Written Word. She didn’t like it much — being a journalist, I mean.”

“Who does? It’s a frame of mind Hard work, too. Nowadays you have to dig deep to get at facts and figures. Cooperation is hard to come by.”

Rona examined her long, oval fingernails with a remotely critical air. “Is that why Lecia told you to contact me?”

“That was the general idea.”

“Any friend of Lecia is a friend of mine — up to a point. You have to remember I’m a government official, Brad.”

“See what I mean about co-operation?”

“No, I’m not being awkward. I’d like to know more about you, about your assignment, about the kind of information you’re after.”

“With pleasure, honey, but not here. There are too many people around.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve a nice comfortable hotel room just four stories above our heads. How about it?”

She smiled, and there was a hint of cynicism in the curve of her lips. “Wonderful, Brad. But I’ve got a better idea. Let’s go to my flat. You’ll like it. We can pick up a bottle of something on the way.”

“You talked me into it,” he said.

It was not a big flat, but it was modern and pleasing to the eye. The air in the living room was maintained exactly at a temperature of 72 degrees Fahrenheit summer and winter — not too cool to be bracing and not too warm to be relaxing. One entire wall was a window of chrome glass, polarized so that it was opaque from outside and transparent from with in. The ceiling was an opalescent rectangle bounded by walls, and it came alight all over when the wall switch was depressed. The hue and brilliance could be controlled independently by milled knobs recessed in the switch panel. The walls were beige in a matt cellulose finish. The furniture was simple, but adequate; two dark green chairs of moulded flexible plastic, and a glass table on spindly legs of drawn steel. There was also a small folding divan of air-foam latex. Surprisingly there were no immediately discernible indications of feminine occupation: no flowers or drapes or trimmings.

Rona unlocked the door and led the way in, switching on the luminous ceiling to give a warm, subdued rose-coloured glow which, as she had learned from experience, made women look flushed and lovelier and men appear tanned and impassioned.