Mavra was having problems. If anything the sexual craving was worse; if it grew any more powerful it would be impossible to control. On the other hand, who should know they were there—and why were they being awakened by that someone?
It turned out to be a room-service robot laden with an assortment of odd-looking but tremendously appetizing breakfast items as well as a bottle of the Olympian equivalent of champagne.
Mavra got up. “What? We didn’t order this,” she told the machine.
“Compliments of the hotel,” the robot waiter piped. “All fresh, no synthetics. We have also taken the liberty of registering you with the Temple of Birth. Another service of the Hotel Central,” he added, almost proudly. “It is oh-eight-hundred now; your appointment is at ten-hundred hours. Pick up the card at the desk, take tram one eighty-seven. Thank you.” It detached itself from the serving table and rumbled out, the door closing automatically behind it.
Mavra was disturbed. “They certainly assume a lot, don’t they?”
“What will you do about it?” Yua responded. “There will be much suspicion if we do not keep the appointment.”
Mavra nodded. Damn, I’m horny! She was almost looking forward to it! Still, Yua was right—not to go might arouse suspicion and make it hard to operate. The procedure would probably be pretty clinical anyway, and over quickly; then they could get over to the Mother Temple.
Yua seemed excited at the prospect. Mavra sighed and surrendered, sitting down to eat. The stuff was probably loaded with aphrodisiacs, but what the hell, she thought. At least today I’ll find out where the men are.
When a race is physiologically identical to the nth degree it is easy for trained biochemists to mass produce whatever physiological results are desired. The fact that so little modification had been done to the people of Olympus was something of a credit to their leadership, if there was a leadership as such. In the case of reproduction, however, little was left to chance. A combination of aphrodisiacs designed for the Olympian body had brought Mavra and Yua to exactly the correct physical and emotional state. By the time they reached the Temple of Birth the two women could hardly think of anything nonsexual, and the internal physical and mental pressure was almost unbearable.
They obviously were expected and were ushered in with little fanfare by crisp, professional technicians. A slight, still rational corner of Mavra’s mind wondered at all the prepreparation; it seemed all too pat.
They were directed to separate elevators, each of which seemed able to hold just one person. As they each entered the door closed on them and they sank, although slowly. Mavra felt as if a tremendous cloud were being lifted from body and mind.
“Sorry, Mavra.” Obie’s voice intruded into her mind. “I do not wish to force you into this against your will.”
Obie! she thought back fiercely. What the hell?…
“I’m wired into your brain and central nervous system, of course,” the computer responded.
“I’m sorry. You have to understand, these are my children’s children. I created them—I have to know.”
All this birth stuff—you arranged it! You ordered it, somehow!
Obie sounded very apologetic. “It isn’t wasting much time. I must see what the males are like. I didn’t program anything to make them different.”
Well, unless they’re artificially inseminating, which I doubt, I am going to face a sex-crazed male in a matter of seconds, thanks to you. Get me out of this!
Obie was still apologetic, but only slightly. “I feel confident you can deal with such a situation.”
She was coldly furious. Obie—don’t you ever do anything like this without my knowledge or permission again, you hear me?
There was a pause, then a little chastened, the far-off machine replied, “All right, Mavra.”
She’d undergone such mind linkages many times before, but never under similar circumstances and never when she was not in full control of herself.
The door opened into a bedroom; the floor all of it, was the bed. Well decorated with soft, indirect lighting, subtle music playing, sweet smells in the air, and lots of pillows all around. Near the far side of the room, reclining, was an Olympian male.
He looked as she and Obie had expected—the very essence of masculinity, incredibly handsome and muscular to boot, just as Obie had designed to Ben Yulin’s specifications so many centuries before.
She approached him cautiously, trying to figure a way out of the situation.
“Hi, there,” he greeted, softly and sensually. “Please come on over and lie beside me.”
“Your hypno works on Olympians,” Obie assured her. They were immune to almost every toxin, thanks to Obie; but because Obie had designed them he would naturally know exactly how to get around his own designs.
She flexed small muscles in her fingertips, feeling the toxin ooze from tiny glands into the needlelike tubes Obie had placed under her nails. It assured her; she was in control again.
Approaching nervously as if still under the influence of the aphrodisiacs, she lay down beside him and put her arms around him just as he expected. She inserted little needlelike projections into his back without his even feeling them. He was under in seconds. She released him and sat up, commanding him to do the same. He obeyed.
“What is your name?”
“Doney,” he responded slowly, eyes shut. Mavra nodded, satisfied. “How long have you been here, Doney?” she was trying to satisfy Obie’s curiosity and her own.
“I don’ know,” he answered. “Long time.”
“How old are you?” He didn’t know.
“Do you do anything except this?” Despite the hypnotics, he was surprised. “What else do men do? It is what we are born to do.”
The rest of the interrogation established fairly well the pattern for Olympian males. They were raised by the Temple, raised for one purpose only. They were totally ignorant of the outside world or even that there was an outside world. Theirs was a carefree if cloistered childhood, full of toys and games and play and not much else. They were not taught to read or write, nor even the most basic arithmetic. At puberty they were taught the skills necessary for their work. Otherwise they remained children, working out and playing childish games in a huge playground-gym. Even their vocabulary was carefully limited; their every waking moment was programmed by the Temple. The males were never in unmonitored groups or given the chance to think, to question. They questioned nothing, wondered about nothing. The superiority of women in all things was unquestioned; males existed to serve and service, nothing more. Mavra found it revolting. Obie tried to analyze the situation.
“Remember,” the computer noted, “your grandfather was a woman who liked women, only to be remade a man by Nathan Brazil, then remade a Yaxa by the Well—one of a butterflylike race that was entirely female, the males mindless sex machines. The early culture here was entirely female, the dominant personalities extremely female-oriented thanks to the Well World. And, of course, the two males were important; they had to be protected. It’s easy to see how such a system could arise.”
I think it’s disgusting, Mavra responded. If s no different from the party prostitution houses in which women were raised as whores.
“Oh, certainly,” Obie agreed. “I wasn’t approving, merely stating how such a system could logically arise given the circumstances of this planet’s founding. Fascinating, though.”
We ought to do something about it! the woman thought vehemently.