Charles Maine - World Without Men

She removed her cape and preened herself a little in front of Somer. She had plenty to preen about by contemporary standards, he thought. Her dress was made from one of the latest spun synthetic polyestomer compounds. It was black and gossamer, not much larger than a swimsuit, with a short frilled skirt that stopped a few inches above her knees. Her legs were encased in sheer stockings, transparent to the point of invisibility, apart from the smooth eggshell glaze they imparted to her skin. At the top of each stocking, partly concealed by the black skirt, was a group of words in tiny green lettering. They were too far away to decipher.

Her shoes were black to match her dress, and cut away like string sandals. Her toenails were silver, as were her finger nails. They could have been chromium plated.

Presently Somer got around to looking at her face. It was a nice face: oval, regular, with warm generous lips. Her hair, tawny and a little awry after its release from the restricting hood, was long and thick, with a deep natural wave. Even in the diffused light from the ceiling it had an incredible sheen.

“Make yourself at home,” said Rona.

Somer removed his cape and unloaded a bottle of whisky from his pocket. Rona putthe capes in an adjacent room, then returned to deposit herself neatly in the divan. She patted the vacant space beside her.

“Sit down, Brad.”

He sat down and they kissed formally. It was like shaking hands.

“Drink?”

She nodded.

Somer fixed two whiskies and returned to the divan. They touched glasses.

“To all beautiful girls with auburn hair,” he said.

She smiled. “To all mysterious men with strange, dark eyes.”

They drank a little and embraced lightly.

“In the ordinary way,” she said, “I wouldn’t have to stop and think about a thing. People don’t have to think much these days. Life goes according to formula. You rehere and I’m here and we’ve both been trained.”

“What’s so different this time?” he asked.

“The fact that you’ve got a motive. What exactly is it you want, Brad?”

“You mean apart from you?”

She nodded.

“Well, Rona honey, it’s a long story. As a journalist I’m always looking for a story, but you know how things are today. Radio and television monopolize the news and information services, and newspapers are at a disadvantage. Circulations have fallen to critical levels. A couple of generations ago there used to be more than fifty million newspaper readers in America. Now there are only one million. In order to survive we have to be different. We have to be in dependent. We think in terms of scoops and exposures and investigations. We’re yellower than the yellowest press of the last century.”

“What paper do you work for, Brad?”

“The United States Sentinel. One of the only three national scale newspapers still in existence over there. And, incidentally, it may surprise you to know that the Sentinel owns Britain’s biggest circulation daily — the National Mirror”

“I don’t seem to care awfully.”

“Well, this is just background stuff. The point is that news papers are few and far between, and they only survive be cause they stick their necks out.”

“I never knew newspapers had necks.”

“Maybe not. But journalists have.”

“So what are you trying to prove?”

“I’m darned if I know, honey. I’m gathering facts, and I’m hoping the facts will add up to a story. If they do, it’s going to be the most sensational story of all time.”

“Such as…?”

Somer grinned wryly. “Like another drink?”

“Why not?”

He took the empty glasses and refilled them. Rona was growing lethargic, reclining languorously, her lips slightly parted, her eyes dreamy but glistening — hypnotically alert.

“During the past two or three years there has been a sudden increase in opposition to the independent newspapers,” Somer continued. “You must remember that all the radio and television information services are controlled by the government. The only news medium that is free of censorship is the press, what is left of it. Even the British National Mirror has become a government organ; it survives on official handouts. The reporters are gagged.”

“So what has it to do with me?”

“I’m coming to that in my own way. You see, Rona, censorship means there’s something to hide. And my assignment is to find out exactly what is being hidden?”

“But why come to England?”

“Because this is where censorship and governmental black out is at its worst. This is where Sterilin first started And this is where the answer is to be found.”

Rona sighed. “Brad, you seem to have a chip on your shoulder, and I’m darned if I can understand what it’s all about, or what I have to do with it. Couldn’t we talk business later? I’m being frustrated. I never knew a man to frustrate me so much.”

Somer sipped his drink then putthe glass down “I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “I guess I’m putting the cart before the horse.”

He pulled her towards him quite suddenly and kissed her with professional know-how. She moulded herself to the shape of him.

“That’s better,” she murmured.

“But I have to talk to you later.”

“Why do you have to?”

“It’s vitally important, Rona. Not only for us, but for the entire human race.”

Her lips touched his gently for a moment. “You talk too much, Brad.”

He whispered: “We’ll take it up later.” Then he embraced her tightly and automatically practiced phase one of the prescribed procedure of the International College of Erotic Culture. Rona seemed to melt in his arms. Presently he got around to reading the green lettering at the top of her stockings.

It said: If you can read this you’re too close.

“Was Lecia nicer than me?” Rona asked felinely.

He considered. “She was different.”

“All women are different. Didn’t you know, darling?”

“Some are more different than others.”

She pouted. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

He put a languid arm around her. “I mean that you’re more different than most.”

“In what way?”

“I can’t find the right word. Something fundamental. So many women these days take lovemaking as a matter of routine. Somehow you don’t, Rona. You make it personal… intimate.”

“That’s the way it should be, Brad. You’re not so bad yourself.” She paused, eyeing him speculatively.

“You going to stay the night?” she asked.

“Is that what you want?”

She nodded slowly.

“Well, Rona, it depends on you. I came here for a reason. If you’re co-operative the way I want, then I’ll stay.”

For a few moments she eyed him coldly and laconically.

“Why is it men are so damned independent these days, as though they were some kind of master race?”

Brad smiled. “Perhaps it has to do with supply and demand. Men are getting scarcer every day. You ought to know.”

“Why ought I?”

“Because you work in the Department of Statistics. You see all the official governmental documents You’re five years ahead of the press.”

“Is that why Lecia told you to contact me?”

“That’s why. Sorry?”

“Not particularly. But I can’t help you, Brad. I’m a government official. I’m under an oath of secrecy.”

He snapped his fingers “It doesn’t mean a thing. It depends where your loyalties lie: whether you want to be a robot in the service of another robot, or whether you want to serve a living humanity.”

She regarded him with a puzzled air, frowning. “I don’t see what you’re getting at, Brad You’re talking politics.”