Something soft touched his right ear.
He twitched his head aside, instantly alert. Light blinded him, forcing his eyes shut again. This had never been part of a dialogue! Had a moth gotten in?
He turned his head carefully and squinted.
Suddenly he remembered what he had been reading. It was a text from a night course in British poetry. He had signed up in the hope that he might meet his dream girl on the college campus, since he hadn't met her elsewhere. Unfortunately it developed that few women took night courses and those who did were mostly centenarian schoolteachers in for recency-of-credit. But he had discovered serendipitously that old-time verse was not entirely dull; indeed, it was as though the poets were men very like himself, bound by similar frustrations but with the wit to make them elegant. Andrew Marvell complained about his coy mistress (at least he had one); Lord Byron rhapsodized about a maid of Athens; Dante Gabriel Rossetti (always learn the full name, the professor admonished the class) commented on a goblet supposedly molded in the shape of the breast of Helen of Troy. That was the poem Burg had fallen asleep on: Troy Town.
Heavenborn Helen, Sparta's queen / (O Troy Town!) / Had two breasts of heavenly sheen /...
He couldn't remember the rest.
He had seen those two breasts, those images of man's desire. Supple yet voluptuous, firm yet perfect. Just now.
"That's not fair, Mr. Fowler. You didn't really look."
He opened his eyes fully. A doll stood on his pillow. A nine-inch high, gracefully woman-shaped figurine dressed in yellow. Its proportions were so accurately and lovingly rendered that the effect was rather like contemplating a real woman from a distance. This replica had everything. In fact, it was very like his fanciful ideal.
"I can explain," the doll said in that same delightful voice. "I thought you'd like to see me nude but since you shut your eyes again so quickly I decided—"
Burgess Fowler rolled off the bed and stumbled to the bathroom. He ran the sink full of cold water and dunked his face in it open-eyed. Then, absolutely awake, he performed certain other routine morning chores and returned in his pajamas to the bedroom.
"We have only fifty minutes left," she complained. "You're not being very cooperative, Mr. Fowler."
He sat down on the bed. "Troy Town!" He was not a swearing man ordinarily. "I don't touch drugs of any kind, so it isn't that. I drink only in moderation and never alone. I am not overtired and when I am I'm not much given to hallucinations. I—"
The doll stamped her little foot on the top sheet. Her heel made a pinpoint dent.
"The committee went to a great deal of trouble to locate you and learn your tastes and—and get me here," she said. "You're wasting invaluable time, Mr. Fowler. Please listen to—"
Burg brought her to him with a sweep of his left hand. "Now, my little practical joke!" he said. "We'll see what makes you operate—"
She was not doll-like to the touch. His hand enclosed her torso and his thumb was aware of two singularly realistic breasts—the same he had seen in the first bright glimpse?—rising and falling under the dress while his palm felt the rondure of a sweet derriere. Her waist was lithe and narrow, her hips soft and broad. She was warm and she smelled of perfume—a brand he could not name, but liked.
He set her down, disgruntled.
"You can't be alive."
She rearranged her apparel and combed the tangles out of her hair. Her tresses were the precise shade of brown he liked, curled in just-so.
"If you will only pay attention, Mr. Fowler!"
"I'm trying to—but you're hard to believe at one sitting."
"I know I'm a little small for you but it was the best they could do. There is so little time Please help me, Mr. Fowler."
Burg would still have dismissed her as some kind of a powered toy, except for the remembered feel of her body and her present too-human animation. A doll did not breathe, and certainly did not react as directly and specifically as she was doing "All right, I'll help you, mini-girl whoever you are. Whatever you say your crew sent you for. What do you want?"
"I want," she said seriously, "to make love."
The Council of Oomus foregathered in tired splendor. All of the scions of the leading lines were present: the ranking scientists, philosophers and economists of the world. Here in the temple of the ancients, within a chamber overlooking the effete surging of the Sea of Life, they harkened to momentous developments.
The chairman withdrew his perception from the demesnes of that waning Source and broadcast for attention. Once such a signal might have bathed the planet—now it was barely sufficient to alert those nearest. The minds within the great old hall yielded courteously.
Please review the discussion of our last Assembly, the chairman thought.
The Recorder now projected his summary. At our last Assembly, three years ago, we received the report of the Committee on the State and Sadness of our World. We reluctantly accepted the verdict of our brothers: that our present misfortune is due to a condition of animate senescence. Unless rejuvenation occurs within our lifetime, the critical point will pass and our form of life, including the animation of all our world, will inexorably perish. Therefore we agreed to undertake radical measures and invest our remaining reserves in a project promising relief. This consists of negotiating and expediting an exchange with a world possessing a surplus of the animus we require.
An Economist interjected: Omission! We cannot permit specific communication with another realm, though extinction be the forfeit. So has our inviolable custom been; so it must remain.
Correction incorporated, the Recorder explained. The exchange was to be instituted in such a way that our identity is never betrayed, yet complete satisfaction rendered to the other party. Above all, it is our custom to be ethical. Yet satisfaction may be achieved in diverse ways. Such a program was instituted by an ad hoc Committee and the Assembly adjourned.
The Chairman thanked the Recorder. Then: What is the report of that duly constituted Expeditionary Committee?
"Mini-girl—mind if I call you Minnie? There are things that I might do for you. and gladly," Burg said. "But making love is not among them. For that you need a man. A man your size, I mean."
"Oh, no, Mr. Fowler," she protested, laying a tiny hand on his little finger. "It must be you. They were very clear about that. You have just the right—I mean, I exist only for you. I love you."
There was, then, an ulterior motive of some sort. The crew that had sent her to him had a price for its service. He was not, however, obliged to accept it, since this was unsolicited merchandise. She could charm him as she wished, but that would be all. He was not going to pay any exorbitant fee for this doll, or sign any dubious documents.
The strange thing was that, whatever her secret, she did conform to his ideals of femininity. Had she been full-size, her measurements would have been about 36-24-36, or perhaps a trifle more generous, with all the other physical attributes congenial. More than that, there was an intangible charm about her, a symmetry of manner and proportion that evoked pleasure in the contemplation. Her attire complemented her features perfectly, and her face had just that quality of imperfect maturity he preferred. Even her little mannerisms, such as the conservative—yet exciting—way she put her slender fingers on him and the lift of her fine chin when she spoke—all of it was the kind of thing he had been searching for and had, in his not-so-secret heart, never expected to attain. For if such a woman were ever to appear before him, he could be certain she would be snapped up by a more wealthy, muscular or articulate male. Yet here she was. And when she claimed to love him, he felt an adolescent thrill, square as he knew this reaction to be in an adult.