She studied him speculatively. "It looks to me as though you have an immediate need, Mr. Zether. Why don't we resolve it now, so you can proceed with your dinner without distraction?"
He felt the flush spreading over face and neck. He realized that the situation had triggered the masculine salute, and she had seen it.
She stepped up next to him, so close her torso touched his at two points while his touched hers at one, and kissed him. Then she conducted him to the bed.
Nature took its ancient course with unprecedented fury. Her body was silky slick all over and almost seemed to glow; it was highly receptive. A certain slight but critically located impediment suggested that she was, despite her availability, a virgin. Hitherto. Only the unglamorous necklace she still wore detracted from the effect, and her inherent charms compensated generously. Never had he indulged in such savage lovemaking on such short notice.
After the swift climax, she disengaged, rolled lithely off the bed, stood up, took a tissue from the adjacent box, and held it between her spread thighs. Well satisfied and passive for the moment, he watched.
She gave a peculiar twitch—and suddenly a splatter of viscosity popped into the tissue. It was, he realized with a shock, the fruit of their immediately preceding connection.
He stared, more amazed than upset. It was as though her cleft had simply spat out the residue.
She wadded the tissue and trotted to the bathroom to dispose of it. "Better get to your dinner before it gets cold," she said.
That wasn't all that was growing cold!
Zether realized that only a few minutes had elapsed since his emergence from the bath. He became conscious of his own nakedness again.
"Don't use those dirty clothes," she said reprovingly as she quitted the bathroom. He heard the toilet refilling itself behind her. "I'll find you something better."
His suit was pretty grubby. "Thanks."
"After you finish eating."
The perfect domestic! Oh, well—what was one more crazy development? "Will you join me? Please, I insist; I hate to eat alone."
She did not require much persuasion. "I suppose there is enough for two. I could use the dessert plate and the salad fork...."
And so they shared a naked dinner, and with little further urging she was telling him the story of her life. Her name was Ella Hopping, twenty-two years old, single, and available (he had gathered as much during their two minutes on the bed), and she managed the hotel for her aging uncle.
"My folks live downstream," she explained. "I was visiting Uncle Ezra up here for the summer, back when I was ten. But there was a fire at my dad's store, and no insurance, and—well, my folks just couldn't afford to bring me back right away. So there I was—up Schist Crick."
He started, but realized that he had misheard the phrase. "Stranded with your uncle in Violet, you mean," he said.
"Schist Crick. I know it says 'Violet' on the map, but the map's wrong. Outsiders can't seem to pronounce the name, so—but even the roads don't show up the way they are."
Zether had discovered that the hard way. His poor car! But while he could understand the problem of the name and the cartographic euphemism, the road was another matter. "Why don't they resurvey the area? In one week they could—"
"We've had a petition in at the Statehouse for nigh twenty years, Uncle says, but nothing ever comes of it. Some flunky said something once about a discontinuity because of the projection—do you know what that means?"
"I can guess. There's always some error in maps because of the problem of making a two-dimensional image of a three-dimensional subject. You just can't map the surface of the globe accurately on flat paper. That's why they have to make Greenland look bigger than Australia, when it's really much smaller."
"It is? I didn't know that. You're very smart."
"You've been up Schist Crick too long, Ella."
"I know. I need someone to take me away."
Oh-oh. She was fishing for more than a two-minute commitment. "Usually they take up the slack, or whatever they call it, in the ocean or wilderness areas, so it doesn't bother anybody. But it sounds as though there was a slipup, and a discontinuity showed up in this area. It really should be corrected—there's no excuse for it, with modern cartographic techniques."
"I wish the state politicians listened to that," she said. "Maybe if the maps were right, they'd allocate enough money to maintain our roads properly, and we wouldn't have so much trouble and so few visitors. We can't keep up a twenty-mile road on funds for ten."
"Amen. My car will never be the same."
As they finished the excellent meal, he got up the courage to ask a more personal question. "That trick with the—what did you do, after we—"
"I'm wearing my suit, of course," she said.
"Your suit?" Her attire certainly wasn't apparent to him. Her body still glistened with sleek health—and nothing else.
"My apfi suit. You know."
The word struck him solidly in the solar plexus of his mind. Apfi! He choked over his drink. What could this delightful innocent know about apfi?
"But I forgot. You're from downcrick. I guess they don't have apfi there. We never see it advertised on TV, anyway. It's a special kind of fabric, very thin. Here, I'll show you."
He was tempted to inform her of the relevance of his mission, but caution prevailed. The truth was, he had never actually seen or handled any apfi; he knew of it only through paperwork. He hadn't dared inquire too persistently at the lab, lest he give his interest away. That was another reason for this private trip. He wanted to get his hands on a sample without betraying his motivation.
Ella hooked her finger under her necklace and caught it with her other hand. A faint tent appeared, above and between her breasts; only the trace refraction of the light passing through it betrayed its gossamer presence. She let go, and it sank down to cleave to the dual rondures beneath, the air trapped below it escaping under the collar and, probably, filtering through the material to a lesser extent. "Apfi," she said.
It was a revelation, despite his prior knowledge of it. Apfi—transparent and extraordinarily stretchable. It could therefore be employed as an invisible and skin-tight garment! Ella was not nude; she was garbed from neck to toe in a single segment of apfi that fit every delightful contour of her body perfectly.
And when they had made love—when he had so urgently penetrated her—the fabric had merely yielded before the thrust and formed an effective diaphragm. Perhaps the most unusual example of its type ever applied. In the incipience of his climax he had misinterpreted that slight resistance. Afterward, she had spread her legs and popped the indentation out again....
Very neat. Chalk one up for native ingenuity. No wonder she had been so free with her favors! His hot flesh had never touched hers, except for the first kiss. He had made love to her suit!
This was cheaper than the pill—and more convenient.
It had not occurred to him before that apfi could have profound social implications. Evidently its availability had modified social mores considerably, here in Violet/Schist Crick. At least for nubile celibate girls. What would happen if it were marketed nationwide, given high-powered, multiple-media promotions? DOES SHE OR DOESN'T SHE... WEAR APFI?
He continued to think about it that night, after Ella had removed the dishes, brought him informal clothing for use while his own outfit was being cleaned, and gone about whatever other business she had. She was quite an efficient damsel in her fashion, and no slouch as a cook. He had been tempted to invite her for a more leisurely evening follow-up to their two-minute introduction, but had decided not to push his luck. Uncle just might catch on....
Back to the social implications. Think of it: every woman walking down the street clad in apfi, the gloss of its surface enhancing firm bouncy pairs of...