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Authors: William Tenn
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fire-eating friend here got me all excited about your safety, Gygyo. If you want to bring me up on charges of violating the Covenant and interfering with an individual’s carefully prepared plans for self-destruction—”
G ygyo waved her to silence. “Forget it. In the words of the past: Covenant, Shmovenant. You saved my life and, as far as I know, I wanted it saved. If I started proceedings against you for interfering with my unconscious, in all fairness we’d have to subpoena my conscious mind as a witness in your defense. The case could drag on for months and I’m far too busy.”
“You’re right,” the bald woman agreed. “There’s nothing like a schizoid lawsuit when it comes to complications and verbal quibbling. But all the same, I’m grateful to you—I didn’t
have
to go and save your life. I don’t know quite what got into me.”
“That’s what got into you.” Gygyo gestured at Mary Ann. “The century of regimentation, of total war, of massive meddling. I know: it’s contagious.”
Mary Ann exploded. “Well, really! I never in my life—I just can’t believe it! First she doesn’t want to save your life, because it would be interfering with your unconscious—your
unconscious!
Then, when she finally does something about it, she apologizes to you—she
apologizes!
And instead of thanking her, you talk as if you’re excusing her for—for committing assault and battery! And then you start insulting
me
and—”
“I’m sorry,” Gygyo said. “I didn’t intend to insult you, Mary Ann, neither you nor your century. After all, we must remember that it was the first century of modern times, the crisis-sickness from which recovery began. And it was in very many ways a truly great and adventuresome period in which Man, for the last time, dared things which he has never since attempted.”
“Well. In that case.” Mary Ann swallowed and began to feel better. And at that moment, she saw Gygyo and Flureet exchange the barest hint of a smile. She stopped feeling better. Damn these people! Who did they think they were?
Flureet moved to the yellow square exit. “I just stopped in to say good-by before my transformation. Wish me luck, Gygyo.”
“Your transformation? So soon? Well, all the best, of course. It’s been good knowing you, Flureet.”
When the woman had left, Mary Ann looked at Gygyo’s deeply concerned face and asked hesitantly: “What does she mean ‘transformation’? And she said it was a
major
transformation. What’s she talking about?”
The dark-haired young man studied the wall for a moment. “I’d better not,” he said at last, mostly to himself. “That’s one of the concepts you’d find upsetting, like our active food, for instance. And speaking of food, I’m hungry. Hungry, do you hear?
Hungry!
”
A section of the wall shook violently as his voice rose. It protruded an arm of itself at him. A tray was balanced on the end of the arm. Still standing, Gygyo began to eat from the tray.
He didn’t offer Mary Ann any, which, as far as she was concerned, was just as well. She had seen at a glance that it was the purple spaghettilike stuff of which he was so terribly fond.
Maybe it tasted good. Maybe it didn’t. She’d never know. She only knew that she could never bring herself to eat anything which writhed up toward one’s mouth and wriggled about cozily once it was inside.
That was another thing about this world. The things these people
ate!
Gygyo glanced up and saw her face. “I wish you’d try it just once, Mary Ann,” he said wistfully. “It would add a whole new dimension to food for you. In addition to flavor, texture and aroma, you’d experience
motility
. Think of it: food not just lying there limp and lifeless in your mouth, but food expressing eloquently its desire to be eaten. Even your friend Winthrop, culinary esthete that he is, admitted to me the other day that Centaurian
libal
has it all over his favorite food symphonies in many
G ygyo waved her to silence. “Forget it. In the words of the past: Covenant, Shmovenant. You saved my life and, as far as I know, I wanted it saved. If I started proceedings against you for interfering with my unconscious, in all fairness we’d have to subpoena my conscious mind as a witness in your defense. The case could drag on for months and I’m far too busy.”
“You’re right,” the bald woman agreed. “There’s nothing like a schizoid lawsuit when it comes to complications and verbal quibbling. But all the same, I’m grateful to you—I didn’t
have
to go and save your life. I don’t know quite what got into me.”
“That’s what got into you.” Gygyo gestured at Mary Ann. “The century of regimentation, of total war, of massive meddling. I know: it’s contagious.”
Mary Ann exploded. “Well, really! I never in my life—I just can’t believe it! First she doesn’t want to save your life, because it would be interfering with your unconscious—your
unconscious!
Then, when she finally does something about it, she apologizes to you—she
apologizes!
And instead of thanking her, you talk as if you’re excusing her for—for committing assault and battery! And then you start insulting
me
and—”
“I’m sorry,” Gygyo said. “I didn’t intend to insult you, Mary Ann, neither you nor your century. After all, we must remember that it was the first century of modern times, the crisis-sickness from which recovery began. And it was in very many ways a truly great and adventuresome period in which Man, for the last time, dared things which he has never since attempted.”
“Well. In that case.” Mary Ann swallowed and began to feel better. And at that moment, she saw Gygyo and Flureet exchange the barest hint of a smile. She stopped feeling better. Damn these people! Who did they think they were?
Flureet moved to the yellow square exit. “I just stopped in to say good-by before my transformation. Wish me luck, Gygyo.”
“Your transformation? So soon? Well, all the best, of course. It’s been good knowing you, Flureet.”
When the woman had left, Mary Ann looked at Gygyo’s deeply concerned face and asked hesitantly: “What does she mean ‘transformation’? And she said it was a
major
transformation. What’s she talking about?”
The dark-haired young man studied the wall for a moment. “I’d better not,” he said at last, mostly to himself. “That’s one of the concepts you’d find upsetting, like our active food, for instance. And speaking of food, I’m hungry. Hungry, do you hear?
Hungry!
”
A section of the wall shook violently as his voice rose. It protruded an arm of itself at him. A tray was balanced on the end of the arm. Still standing, Gygyo began to eat from the tray.
He didn’t offer Mary Ann any, which, as far as she was concerned, was just as well. She had seen at a glance that it was the purple spaghettilike stuff of which he was so terribly fond.
Maybe it tasted good. Maybe it didn’t. She’d never know. She only knew that she could never bring herself to eat anything which writhed up toward one’s mouth and wriggled about cozily once it was inside.
That was another thing about this world. The things these people
ate!
Gygyo glanced up and saw her face. “I wish you’d try it just once, Mary Ann,” he said wistfully. “It would add a whole new dimension to food for you. In addition to flavor, texture and aroma, you’d experience
motility
. Think of it: food not just lying there limp and lifeless in your mouth, but food expressing eloquently its desire to be eaten. Even your friend Winthrop, culinary esthete that he is, admitted to me the other day that Centaurian
libal
has it all over his favorite food symphonies in many
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