area.
He said, “Not exactly. It’s a narcotic center.”
“Narcotic center? How do you mean?”
Edmonds explained. “A good many people like to take their narcotics in company. Some don’t. They’d rather take them in privacy, but many like congenial company. Usually it’s according to what drug they’re on. This is a place where you can smoke, take your pills or injections, and enjoy whatever narcotic it is that you appreciate.”
Tracy said, “You mean that we could, say, just walk in and order a pipe of opium, or, say a hypo of heroin, and sit around with like-mind’ folk and blow our minds?”
The other said, “The opiates are passe. I doubt if any would be immediately on hand, though it shouldn’t take too long to synthesize some of you were interested in experimenting with the older narcotics.”
“Such drugs as morphine are no longer used? Even for medicinal reasons?” That set Tracy back.
Edmonds frowned, as though trying to remember. “I thought the opiates, all of them, were being phased out even in your time.”
“Well, they weren’t,” Tracy told him. “Heroin, for instance, was one of the biggest problems in America.”
“Ummm. Well, at any rate, drugs based on plants such as the opium poppy, the coca of Peru, or the so- called sacred mushroom
“And addiction can be cured immediately?”
“Just about.”
The other began to open the door on his side.
Tracy said, “Just a minute. What in the world did you have in mind?”
“I thought that we’d go in, and you might want to give something a try.”
“Well, think again,” Tracy told him definitely. “I have no intention of blowing my brains out with some drug I’ve never even heard of before. The furthest I ever went in that direction was smoking kif once or twice.”
“Kif?”
“That’s what they called it in Morocco. Marijuana, bhang, pot, weed… Indian hemp.”
“Oh,” Edmonds said. “You mean cannabis. Few ever resort to it these days, anymore than they do tobacco. Hard on the health. But there are other narcotics that might intrigue you, Cogswell.”
“No thanks. Alcohol is far enough along the line for me,” Tracy said.
The other started up the car again. “Very well, there’s a nightclub overlooking the sea. Very attractive. We’ll go there.”
As they drove, Tracy looked over at his companion and said, “Have you ever tried any of these new narcotics?”
“A few times,” Edmonds said easily. “They don’t appeal to me. But I’ve tried everything… twice. Here we are.”
The building they drew up before was quite similar to the one they had just left, save that it was located on a cliff with a beautiful view up and down the coast. They parked and entered.
It wasn’t as different as all that from some of the night spots of his own era, Tracy thought, with the exception that there were no waiters or bartenders, though there was a lengthy bar, complete with stools. all was automated, Tracy realized. Wasn’t there anything in the way of work that couldn’t be automated?
The table they took was inset with a lengthy wine list and there was a dial. There was also a phone screen.
Edmonds said, “What’ll you have, Tracy?” It was the first time he had called the traveler from the past by his first name.
“What do you recommend… Jo?”
“Personally, I’m rather keen on a slightly sparkling Riesling wine.”
Tracy Cogswell had had in mind something stronger, but he shrugged and said, “Let’s give it a try.”
Each name on the wine list had a number next to it. Edmonds dialed. Within moments, the table’s center sunk and then returned with a chilled bottle and two glasses. The bottle was of the type Tracy associated with the Rhine river—green, tall, and slim.
Edmonds poured.
The wine was certainly as good as any Tracy had ever tasted, clean and fruity. He said, “I don’t see how in the devil you could automate a vineyard.”
“Oh, this isn’t made of grapes, you know. It’s produced in automated factories. We can turn out much more acceptable wines now than were ever made from grapes.”
“I give up,” Tracy muttered. He turned to look about the night spot. In the best tradition, the lights were low and there was music, faint music, coming from somewhere. The place held at least a hundred tables, and was fairly well packed. They had been lucky to get a table.
There wasn’t any dance floor, which somewhat surprised Tracy, particularly in view of the fact that the clientele was quite young. Another thing that surprised him was that, although obviously the drinks on the tables were in wide variety, including spirits and cocktails, nobody seemed much under the influence of the booze.
The screen on the table lit up. Jo Edmonds said something into it and then, to Tracy, “It’s for you.”
“For me? How could it possibly be? I wouldn’t know anyone here.” He looked at the screen. In it was a sparkling, vivacious redhead with bright green eyes. She was about twenty.
She smiled pertly and said, “Would you two like to join in with a six-way? Nothing goes but fellatio and cunnilingus.” She spoke in Interlingua but the last two words were the same as in English.
Chapter Eight
Tracy gaped at her.
Jo Edmonds leaned over and said to her, “Not just for the moment, but thanks, dear.”
She looked disappointed but smiled her pert smile again and faded off.
Tracy turned to his companion. “What the hell kind of a place is this, a whorehouse? And what did she mean, a six-way?”
“There is no prostitution any more,” Edmonds said mildly. “This is a group-sex center. You take a table and then look about the room. If you see someone that appeals to you, the way you evidently appealed to the redhead, you phone her, or him, and discuss what you have in mind. You keep on phoning around until you’ve got your group organized. There are rooms upstairs.”
“Group sex?”
“Yes. Anywhere from three persons up.”
“Jesus,” Tracy said. “Look, suppose I didn’t want to work out with five other people, or up, but would like to go to bed with, say, the redhead who just phoned us?”
Edmonds said reasonably, “Then why come to a group-sex center? You can pick up a single girl in any establishment, or out on the street for that matter. Would you like to go upstairs and watch?”
“Watch what?”
Edmonds explained. “Some of the groups don’t mind being watched while they perform. In fact, some of them like to be. Exhibitionists, you know. They’re in rooms that have large windows, usually with one way glass, so that you can look in and watch, but they can’t see out.”
“A voyeur’s dream world, eh?” Tracy said in disgust. “No thanks. For me, sex has always been a personal thing. I don’t want any group action and I don’t want to watch someone else getting their gun. Let’s get out of here. I’m beginning to get a bad taste in my mouth.”
Jo Edmonds finished his glass of wine and stood. “Why not, old chap,” he said, leading the way toward the door.
When they got back into the car, Tracy said sourly, “Some night on the town. What’s next?”
“Well, let me see,” Edmonds said as though considering alternatives. “There’s another club over here
