Jeff Noon - Pixel Juice

'Come on, Ozzie,' I said. 'Speak to me, please. You must still think about Junior.'

'Nothing much,' he answered.

His glazed expression was still indented with the shape of the telescope's eyepiece, the reflection of a star. Distant objects were more appealing, obviously. And then I thought, what's he doing looking through that thing, middle of the morning? There's no stars out now. What's to see? I put my eye to it. A circle opened up, on a house across the way. A bedroom window. A half-dressed woman was walking across the vision.

There was a noise behind me, a dry choking sound; and then a hand being placed very gently upon my shoulder.

I felt the crackle.

The Celeborg Company has discovered a slight fault with their Marilyn Monroe 729 model. The product concerned is stamped CC729-45X on the frame, and is painted Hollywood Pink. These models should be returned immediately to the nearest point of supply.

Celeborg pride themselves on their commitment to service. We present the following information to assure our loyal customers of this commitment, and to dispel any rumours that may be circulating in the press or elsewhere.

A virus has infected Marilyn Monroe.

We believe this to be the first of its kind: a parasite that lives off biotechnology. It appears to have entered our manufacturing process through an infected batch of RoboVaz, which was unfortunately applied to a small number of models. Usually the virus lives and breeds within the oil, in no way affecting the excellent performance of the host. It now appears that a new strain of the virus has evolved, which Can move around the models at will, living not only within the oil but also in the special paint used on the latest Marilyn Monroes. Gradually the voracious appetite of the intruder will eat away at the celebrity. There is a slight risk that under certain circumstances this model may collapse whilst in use, putting the consumer at risk.

For this reason we are recalling all the Marilyn Monroes, and would ask our customers to keep these models away from other celebrities, to prevent cross-infection. Our JFK and Bugs Bunny models are particularly susceptible to this danger. There is no truth in the rumour that the virus is in a symbiotic relationship with the model. It does not make the celebrity more charismatic.

A new 'guaranteed pure' Marilyn Monroe will be supplied, free of all charges.

Please make love safely.

Mr Alan Cooder, a salesman specializing in children's accessories, was dismayed to find upon arrival that the airline company had managed to lose his baggage somewhere between Manchester and New York. He still had with him a small briefcase that contained his passport, catalogues and credit cards, and the clothes he had lost could easily be replaced. Unfortunately the missing suitcase had also contained his feed supply.

He had argued with the baggage check in Manchester that he could not possibly travel without feeding himself; only to be reminded of the recent air crash in Germany, whose cause had been traced to 'one of his kind' eating during a flight. Apparently the necessary act had interfered with the aircraft's control systems. He had been told that his supply would have to travel in the hold and that he should stock up now, while in England, with enough energy to get him over the Atlantic. Reluctantly he had done just that, visiting the Gents to do so, because he was still ashamed of feeding himself in public.

Now he found himself alone in a city he had never visited before, and already his last meal was wearing off. He could feel himself slowing down, even as the taxicab dropped him at his pre-booked hotel. His room was small, hot, and a playground for cockroaches. They never mentioned insects in the guidebook, and he shivered at the sight. Trying his best to avoid them, his first act was to cover all the mirrors with the bath towels, turning his gaze aside whilst doing so.

Alan Cooder never could stand the sight of himself when hungry.

Really, he should be preparing for his first appointment; instead he went down to the registration desk and asked for the nearest reliable supplier, hating the look of distaste the clerk gave him. He was informed that 'the best place for such things is right here on Times Square. A general store. Walking distance.'

'Only be careful, sir,' the clerk added with a sneer, 'there's some nasties around.'

Indeed. It seemed that all the world's ugliness was concentrated in this small area. Only a few steps into the glare and bustle brought him offers for pink and wet dreams, the street sellers waving their feathers at him like magic rattles. An old black guy was slumped against a wall, a feather stuck in his mouth and his body twitching with whatever cheap, dirty dream he was flying. Walking fast and keeping his head down, Alan Cooder bought a pair of cheap sunglasses and a pocket map from a stall, and then tried to follow the clerk's directions. The map must have been printed upside down, because within fifteen minutes he was lost in the maze. It was midday, the heat packed tight between the buildings. He checked his watch, only to find he'd forgotten to adjust it to the new time zone. His eyes felt like pinpricks, his stomach aching with need, and no sign of a specialist shop or even a general store. Retracing his steps in a fever, he found himself somewhere else entirely, a small thin street without name or number, overshadowed by crumbling facades and filled with the smell of overused flesh.

It was at the end of this street that Alan Cooder found a dingy little shop calling itself slick city. Underneath the dark, cracked neon a smaller sign, hand-painted: 'You want it, we got it. No high too far.' Underneath that, a scrawled sticker: 'Robos, no problemo'.

Welcome sight, even if Cooder hated the word Robo, even if the shop's window was covered in black paint and the door marked, 'Strictly Adults Only! No browsing!' He went inside.

The shop was small, more like a passageway really, with the two walls filled floor to ceiling with boxed-up feathers, a counter at the far end with a large woman squeezed behind it. There were two other customers, carefully avoiding each other and the new arrival. Cooder looked around for a second only, his nostrils clogged with the thick smell wafting from the merchandise, before heading for the counter.

'What is it?' asked the woman, wiping her brow with a rag.

'Do you have anything… anything for…' He hesitated, English and ashamed, despite his desperate need.

'Aw! Love the accent, mister!' the woman squealed. 'English, so sexy.' She laughed, ripples of her flesh hanging over the counter. Her blouse was too small, stretched to the last button over her gross stomach. Cooder couldn't bear to look at it, knowing full well already what lay behind there.

'Hey, buddy!' the woman shouted over Cooder's shoulder. 'Read the fucking sign!'

Cooder turned. One of the other customers had taken a feather out of its box, and was just about to stick it in his mouth. Above him a printed notice read: you wanna suck, pay the bucks! The customer placed the feather back on the shelf and quickly left the shop.

The woman turned her attention back to Cooder. 'You're one of us, mister,' she said. 'I can always tell. And… aw! You're in a bad way! I know that smell. Here, let me show you what we've got.'

Showing was just pointing, because the woman seemed to be wedged in place. Cooder followed her fingers over to where a section of wall was marked out as being for 'Robots Only!' Hundreds of feathers in boxes. He'd never seen so many kinds before, none of them familiar, none of them AutoBuzz, his usual brand. The boxes were illustrated; a sickening display of illegal dreams, overwhelming.