“Thank you, but not tonight. Believe it or not, I have a date.”
“Oh? Who with?”
“A guy named Norbert.”
Mary rolled the name around in her head and said, “Norbert? Doesn’t sound like a russ name to me.”
“He’s not a russ. I’m giving our russies a little break.”
When no more information was forthcoming, Mary said, “And — ?”
“I don’t want to hear any smart remarks out of you, Mary Skarland. He’s a jerry.”
Mary covered her mouth in disbelief.
Georgine leaned over to kiss her sister on the forehead. “He’s nice. Jerrys are nice — once you get past their narcissism.”
AFTER GEORGINE LEFT, Mary slipped off her shoes and went to her bedroom, undressing as she went and dropping her clothes on the floor for the scuppers to pick up. While she had been out, the bedroom had redecorated itself. It now boasted apricot-colored walls and a deep moss-green carpet. A new yellow bedspread matched new curtains on the windows. “Draw me a bath,” she said and laid out underwear and a robe.
She could hear water surging in the bathroom, and when she opened the bathroom door, she was startled to see a man crouching there. A naked man, no less, with his back to her. Somewhere nearby, a woman moaned with pleasure, and Mary shut the door, her heart racing. “Lyra!” she called. The mentar appeared, a big grin on her face. “Lyra, what is going on in my bathroom?”
“Your Leena has a new role. Surprise!”
“My Leena? And who’s that man?” Mary chided herself for her prudishness. “Never mind, I’ll see for myself.” She opened the door, and in the mirror she recognized the man — Raul Weathercock! His dark face was mottled with passion. He had taken Mary’s poor Leena from behind and pinned her against the vanity counter. The Leena was all but hidden from view, but her mewling and grunts resonated in the tiled space.
Mary tried to coolly recall which role superstar Raul was currently appearing in, but she couldn’t concentrate, and she was about to ask Lyra when there was an ear-stabbing screech behind her.
“Florentinnooooh!”
That was it, Florentino Samovaro, the Don of Rancho de la Noche. And the screeching woman behind Mary was his costar, Renee Klopsetter, in her Bernie Award–winning role as Chus-Chus. The show was The
“Chus-Chus, no!” someone shouted. It was Mister Jamal, who also came into the bedroom. Brewster and Anatoly and a gaggle of servants were watching from the living room. “He’s not worth it,” Mister Jamal pleaded. “You only demean yourself.”
Disregarding Mister Jamal, Chus-Chus raised the billy and savagely whipped her faithless lover. Red welts scored his back, but they only seemed to intensify his ardor. The cheeks of his sculpted ass puckered with each powerful thrust. The Leena was lifted off her feet, her moans rose to a keening howl that drowned out the shouts and curses of the others, and Mary wiped the whole scene away with a swipe of her hand.
The bathroom reverberated with the interrupted coitus, and Mary’s surging blood pounded in her ears.
“I detect that you are unsettled, Mary. I apologize if I erred in any way.”
“Dear Lyra,” Mary said, calming herself, “in the future, tell me before launching a novela in here.”
“Yes, Mary, I will. Again I apologize. I have been trying to master the concept of surprise.”
“Well, that
“Please forgive my ineptitude.”
Mary stepped into the bathroom, which was restored to its grottolike calm. “Oh, don’t worry about it. For a mind only a year old, I suppose you’re doing fine.”
“Actually, I’m four hundred days old today.”
“Well, that’s different then. A whole four hundred days? What’s taking you so long?”
The mentar fell silent, and Mary added, “That was sarcasm, Lyra. Friendly ribbing. Look it up.”
In the spa, the warm jets of gel soothed her, and she couldn’t help but relax. In all truth the invasion by such high-wattage glitterati had been a thrilling surprise, at least the fact of it.
An hourly chart appeared in the spa. It was hard to read in the steamy fog, but one figure leaped out — scene subscription was in the high teens. Incredible! Each point represented about two million paying viewers, which meant that somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty million bathrooms around the world had hosted Chus- Chus and Florentino’s latest love spat. And her Leena’s share in the action, besides Raul weathercock’s legendary battering, topped four figures. And that meant that her Leena had in one afternoon earned Mary more than she used to earn in a whole year working at Applied People. It was astounding. It was unreal. Capitalism was a marvel, as long as you were a capitalist.
Mary swiped away the chart and gave herself up to the hot fingers of the jets. Fred had never taken her in the rear. The notion had probably never crossed his mind, or for that matter, the mind of any russ. His time in prison had been difficult for her, especially since he had stubbornly refused to exercise their conjugal privileges, not even once. But that was about to change. It would have to, for the trial would soon end and, to be realistic about it, he was going to lose. And Mary sure as hell wasn’t going to resign herself to sixty or more years of celibacy. At least, at the very least, he would have to get used to vurt sex.
“Lyra, a little privacy.”
“Certainly, Mary. Good night.”
Mary turned the jets to their masturbatory setting. She thought of Fred as she attended to herself, but maybe a little bit of Raul Weathercock slipped in as well.
Honey
On a bluff overlooking the million-acre IBA agriplex outside Tendonville, Illinois, an apiary arbeitor and honey collection cart were making the daily rounds. The arbeitor parked in front of Hive 23768 and undocked its multiple arms. With programmed efficiency, it lifted the roof off the hive while clearing bees from the supers with gentle puffs of benzaldehyde-spritzed air. It transferred comb frames to the cart for honey extraction and sterilization while testing the hive for pests and disease, assessing the brood chamber, sniffing for mold, and appraising the queen’s lay rate. All results fell within guideline parameters, and the tireless arbeitor reassembled the hive, redocked its arms, and led the cart to Hive 23769 where it repeated the procedure.
Several dozen hives later, the honey cart signaled that its hundred-liter collection tank was filled to near capacity and summoned a replacement cart.
At Hive 24024 the arbeitor detected an unusual honey/pollen ratio. There were more comb cells devoted to pollen storage than was typical, but since the ratio fell within acceptable parameters, the arbeitor noted the data and continued on.
When five hives in a row recorded a similar high ratio, the arbeitor put in a call to the agriplex subem. The subem instructed it to suspend its other tasks and to conduct a pollen survey. Consecutive hives presented increasing numbers until they exceeded guideline parameters at Hive 24030. At Hive 24038, the arbeitor confronted a colony that was out of control. A cloud of angry bees guarded the hive and could not be soothed with the aerosol spritz. Probing the hive, the arbeitor recorded an interior temperature substantially higher than the hive’s own heat sensors reported. So high, in fact, that the combs in all but the outer frames were melting. A gooey slurry of honey, pollen, and wax was running down the hive’s stilt legs and pooling on the ground under the hive platform. The arbeitor snaked its fiber eyes to the puddle for a close-up look. An unknown leaden-colored liquid was separating out of the slurry and seeping into the dirt.
