To have you like this, Io—your dainty, chaste, aseptic little ass—
The seconds stretched out, incredibly long. He wondered whether his watch had stopped, but heard it still ticking. What would he tell the boys, in the next post-mission (post emission?) bull-session? That he had been milking cows? Surely they would laugh off the truth. Truth was a fleshy buttock and a dizzy feeling.
The time, somehow, was almost up, and he began to ease out the thermometer. At that point she moved again, perhaps in response to the withdrawal, climbing to her knees with her head still down. He had to follow quickly to prevent the tube from ramming too far inside, and almost lost his balance. But the new position flung open her buttocks and revealed to him the thermometer's actual point of entry.
Not the anus. Well, it probably didn't make any difference. The temperature couldn't vary that much between adjacent apertures. Carefully he drew the length of plastic out and checked the gauge. It reached the "normal" marker exactly.
"Flora, you're mending," he announced with his best bedside manner, averting his gaze from the intriguing view presented. "You'll be spry again in no time."
Perhaps it was the pseudo-confident tone. She rolled over, her breasts creased from the pallet, and smiled. He retreated into the passage and ladled out a pound of the special sick-animal crackers. It had been rough, for more reasons than he cared to think about.
The next occupied pen was going to be worse. It was the one in which he had seen—the girl. The one he had avoided until this moment. The one that fastened him to this world.
There could be an Iolanthe here.
He peered at the instructions before taking the plunge. This cow was in heat, and had to be conducted to the bull for mating. The handbook had, he discovered, a sketch of the barn's floor-plan, so he knew where to take her. "It is important that copulation be witnessed," the book said sternly, "and the precise time of connection noted, so that the bull can be properly paced."
Hitch took the last step and looked in, his pulses driving. It was not Iolanthe.
Just like that the bubble burst. Of course it wasn't Io. He had seen a black-haired girl in poor light, and his mind had been on the black-haired girl he knew at home, and the similarity of names—his stiff member had pinned the image to the desire.
This was a yearling—if that were the proper description. In human terms, about sixteen years old and never bred before. Her breasts were slight and firm, her haunches slender but well-formed, her movements animate. She paced nervously about the pen, uttering faint squeals of impatience. Her glossy hair flung out, whipping around her torso when she turned. She was, if not Iolanthe, still a strikingly attractive specimen by his definitions, perhaps because of her fire. The others had been, comparatively—cows.
Naturally a woman in heat would have sex appeal. That was what the condition was for. Mating.
Her name, of course, was Iota. The farmer had mentioned her specifically, and Hitch had made the connection, at least subconsciously, the instant he saw her first. "All right, Iota, time for an experience you'll never forget," he said.
She spun to face him, black pupils seeming to flare. Then with a bound she was glued to the slats, her high young mammaries poking through conically. Her breath was rapid as she reached for him. Could she, could she be—
A younger edition of Iolanthe?
Some interworld parallels were exact, others inexact, Iolanthe, Iota—both Io, as though they were sisters or more than sisters. Iolanthe might have looked like this at sixteen.
Ridiculous! It was just a mental phenomenon, a thing anchored to his yearning. A thousand, a million girls looked like this at this age.
He had a task to do. He would do it.
"Easy, girl. Stand back so I can open the gate. You and I are going to the bull-pen."
As if in answer, she flung herself back and watched him alertly from the far side. He unlatched the gate—strange that these girls were all so dull they could not work these simple fastenings themselves, even after seeing it done repeatedly—and stepped inside with the halter.
Immediately she was on him, her lithe body pressed against his front, her arms clasped about his chest, her pelvis jerking against his crotch in an unmistakable gesture. She was in heat, all right—and she figured him for the bull!
And he was tempted, as her motions provided a most specific physical stimulation. Recent events had heightened his awareness of his own masculinity, to phrase it euphemistically. What difference would it make, to the owner, exactly who bred her? All they wanted was the milk when she freshened. And this whole foul system would be thrown out when the Earth-Prime troops—correction, law & order expediters—came. The chances were she would never become a milker anyway.
He looked into her eyes and read the mindless lust. Never had he perceived such graphic yearning in a woman. She had no brain, only a hungry pudendum.
She was, after all, an animal, not a human being. Fornication with her would be tantamount to bestiality, and the concept repelled him even as his member throbbed in response to the urgent pressure of her vulva.
"Get away from me!" he cried, shoving her roughly aside. God! They had even reduced women to animal cycles, in lieu of human periodicity. To control freshening, no doubt, and forestall restlessness at inconvenient times. There would be no mooning in the absence of male company, this way, except for those few days when the repressed sexuality of a year or more was triggered.
She hunched against the wall, tears coming. He saw that her emotions were human, though her mind was not. She felt rejection as keenly as anyone, but lacked the sophistication to control or conceal her reaction.
He had been too harsh with her. "Take it easy, Iota. I didn't mean to yell at you. I wasn't yelling at you!" No—he had been shouting across the worlds at Iolanthe, who had teased him similarly for so long. Arousing the urge, but unavailable for the gratification. The difference was that this time he had called it off. Taking out his suppressions on this innocent wanton who could not know what drove him.
She peered at him uncertainly, her face bearing the sheen of smeared tears. He lifted the harness and shook it. "I have to put this on you and take you to the bull. That's all. Do you understand?"
Still she hesitated. How could she understand? She was an animal. The tone of his voice was all she followed.
Or was it?
The animals here were incredibly stupid, considering their human origin. Obviously they had been somehow bludgeoned into this passivity. Drugs, perhaps—the biscuits could contain a potent mix. Probably most of the subjects finally gave up thinking; it was easier just to go along. But what of a young one? Her metabolism might have greater resource, particularly when she was ready to mate. To be in heat—it was the animal way to be in potent sexual love. Powerful juices there, very powerful. Counteractants?
But more: suppose an individual succeeded for a time in throwing off the mind-suppressant? Started protesting?
What was the reply of any tyranny to insurrection? The smart cow would keep her mouth shut, at least in the barn. She would conform. Her life depended on it.
Iota might not be stupid at all. She might be doing exactly what was expected of her. Concealing her awareness.
She was still damned attractive in her primeval way.
She had been watching him with that preternatural alertness of hers, and now she approached him again, cautiously.