Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

“Yet we see excellent distaff flesh all about us, unconcealed,” he pointed out, indicating Sheen, who remained respectfully behind. Stile glanced back. Sheen was indeed the perfect figure of a young woman, with lovely facial features, fine large, upstanding breasts, and torso and legs that could hardly be improved upon. In terms of appearance she was stunning, far prettier than the exaggerated lady Citizen Fulca—yet she did not excite him sexually. This was not because he knew she was a machine, he decided; the robot was more human and caring than most flesh-women he knew. It was because she was a naked serf. Sheen had no secrets, so lacked novelty. In contrast, the peek up the skirts of the dressed ladies above—that, literally, clothed his fancy and set his pulse racing.

“But the average Citizen can look and yawn,” the Rifle man said, glancing again at the skirts above. “Clothing is no novelty here. Nothing is novelty, except assured victory in an honest game of chance. You made Merle’s day just now; you were an unknown quantity, giving her the thrill of uncertainty.”

That reminded Stile. “Just how old is she, and how much of her fortune would a hundred grams of Protonite represent, if it’s not uncouth to inquire?”

“The fortunes of all Citizens are a matter of public record. She’s worth about ten kilos; I can get the precise figure for the moment, if you wish. The Records Computer—“

“No, no need. So my wager did not hurt her.”

“Not at all. Age is also on record. Merle is sixty-one years old. She’s had rejuvenation, of course, so she has the face and body of a serf girl of thirty. But her mind is old. I dare say she knows more about sex than you and I combined.”

Stile had noticed that most Citizen women were physically attractive, in contrast with the men. Rejuvenation would of course account for this. It would not prolong life significantly, but it would make a person seem young on the day he died of age. The vanity of women caused them to go this route.

Stile turned to the Rifleman. “I thank you for the courtesy of your time. You have facilitated my education. Now I think I will go home and assimilate my impressions, if I may do so without offense to this gathering.”

“No offense. You have made your appearance and performed on stage; all interested Citizens have had opportunity to examine you. Go and relax. Stile.”

“I really did not meet many Citizens. I suppose I’m not much of a novelty.”

The Rifleman smiled. “Allow me to detain you for one more thing.” He led Stile to an especially thick dust cloud. Set just within its opacity was a control panel. A touch on this, and an image formed above—Stile, playing poker with Merle. The view shifted perspective as if the camera were dollying around, showing Stile from all sides. An inset showed the poker hands of each, changing as the play progressed.

“I’ve been recorded!” Stile exclaimed.

“Exactly,” the Rifleman agreed. “All interested Citizens are able to tune in on you—or on any other person here. This is open territory, unprivate.” He touched the controls again, and the nether view of the dancing Citizens appeared. “So-called X-ray views are also available, for those who wish.” Now the skirts and bloomers faded out, leaving the Citizens dancing naked, looking exactly like serfs.

Stile was alarmed. “You mean viewers can strip me like that, holographically?” He was concerned about exposure of his physical reaction when viewing the inner skirts before.

“Indeed. Voyeurism is a prime Citizen pastime. That particular thrill seems never to become passe.” Stile sighed inwardly. He surely had provided the voyeurs some innocent entertainment today!

“I appreciate your advising me,” he said, somewhat faintly.

“Welcome, Stile. I thought you would want to know. Citizenship is not completely idyllic, and there are many ways to be savaged unknowingly. Many Citizens prefer the complete privacy of their domes.”

“I can see why.” And on that amicable note they parted. Back in his transparent capsule. Stile relaxed. It had actually been a joke on him, he decided, and harmless. The Citizens had really looked him over and found him human. He would be more alert in future. But the joke had not finished. A call came in to the travel capsule. When he acknowledged, the head of Merle formed. Without her space helmet, she was revealed as a rather pretty young woman, with the same delicate rondure to her facial features as had been suggested by her suit-shrouded torso.

“I have decided I like you. Stile,” she said. “Would you care for an assignation?”

“Uh, what?” he asked awkwardly.

She laughed. “Oh, you are so refreshing! It has been decades since I’ve had a truly naive man.” The scope of the image expanded, to reveal the upper half of her body hanging in the air before him like a statuette, her small but excellent breasts shrouded by a translucent shawl. She must have viewed the holographic record of Stile’s recent experience and grasped his susceptibility to partial clothing on women. “You can see that I am moderately endowed, but please accept my assurance that I am expert with what I have.”

Stile proved his naiveté by blushing. “Sir, you catch me unprepared. Uh—“ She actually clapped her hands in glee. “Oh, absolute delight! I must have you!”

“I can’t say I care to have holographs made of me performing in such a situation,” Stile said, his face burning.

Merle pursed her lips. “But holos are the best part of it, so that one can review the occasion at proper leisure and improve technique.”

Out of range of the holo pickup. Sheen signaled imperatively. She did not want Stile to offend the Citizen. Mellon nodded agreement.

Stile took their advice. “Merle, as you can see, I’m flattered to the point of confusion. This is more than I can handle right now. Could you, would you grant me a stay of decision?”

“Gladly, Stile,” she agreed merrily. “I will contact you tomorrow.”

Some stay! “Thank you,” he said, conscious that his blush had intensified. He was thirty-five years old and hardly inexperienced with women, but his underlying awe of Citizens had betrayed him.

The moment the connection terminated, he snapped: “Block off all other calls! I don’t want any more of that!”

“We dare not block off Citizen calls,” Sheen said. “But I’ll ask my friends to make an inoffensive excuse message for you, and filter out as much as possible.”

“Thanks.” He caught her hand. “You’re beautiful, Sheen.”

“I wish I could move you the way Citizen Merle did,” she grumbled.

“She moved me to naked terror!”

“Naked, yes; terror, no.”

“She’s a sixty-year-old woman!”

“In that respect I can not compete. I was made less than a year ago.”

That reminded him. “Sheen, has there been any progress on your origin? Have your friends discovered who sent you to me and why?”

“I will query them,” Sheen said, but paused. “Oops—a call.”

“I told you, I don’t want—“

“From her.”

There was only one person Sheen referred to that way.

“Oh. Put her on, of course.”

The image formed. The Lady Blue faced him. “My Lord, I dislike bothering thee, but I fear mischief.”

“What mischief?” he demanded, instantly concerned. The Lady Blue was no more beautiful, by objective standards, than Sheen, but she had completely captured his love. It bothered him to have the fact so evident in Sheen’s presence, but there really was no way to avoid it in this situation.

“Clip says he winds ogres.” She glanced nervously about. “We know not why such creatures should be on the isle of the West Pole.”