“A cunette?” he asked, perplexed. “Sounds like a small—” Then he visualized a trench within a larger trench, or two sets of labia, and smiled. “Sure there's more,” he agreed. “But it's not the drainage trench I'm concerned about, it's the drainage pipe."
“Sometimes a walk down the Eeg-trail helps,” she said. She gestured toward the back of the grounds. “The statues are knowledgeable about both trenches and pipes, and provide excellent advice."
“Uh, sure, thanks,” he said, not seeing much point in traipsing by the erotic stone figures again. Maybe she found solace in such contemplations (on her way to fuck with the Eggers: ah, jealousy!), but this could hardly bring back his natural penis. Only her sister Tantamount could do that—and she would never give up her handy-dandy little anti-VD smegma producer.
“They do have their price, though,” Oubliette said as she left him. She had, of course, other appointments demanding her attention.
Prior went to his car and drove, knowing that he could not escape the problem by traveling. He brooded. So he could go back to his regular job with the parking department, if he hadn't been fired in the interim, and market the tamponer on the sly. And exercise a different penis every night. Great life!
Finally, ridiculously, he turned the car about and drove back. He parked behind Oubliette's residence and took a walk down the path, as she had recommended.
The beautiful stone nude was still there, though her cold arms now stretched out as if to embrace a man, and her carven lips were puckered as for a kiss, and her pelvis pressed forward. If ever a statue were ready for sexual love, this was the one.
“What the hell,” he muttered. “You're worse off than I am; might as well give you something to think about.” He opened his fly and took the six-incher from its box and attached it. He contemplated the statue's perfect form and imagined it as a living woman until his member came erect. Then he stepped into the female embrace.
The stone was cold, but not uncomfortably so, and anyway he was clothed except for particular areas. He bent his knees and got his member wedged against the rigid cleft, nudging the deep vagina. He could not force an entry, of course, for the slit was inflexible and this penis was too large, but he could touch. He put his arms about her body and pressed his front against those statuesque breasts. He bent his head and touched his lips to hers.
The stone became warm. He felt it on his mouth and then in his hands and finally against his pressing penis. The hard lips seemed to become soft, as though responding to his kiss. He did not question this; indeed it was not wholly unexpected, considering the peculiarities of these statues. They had to be alive, in some obscure manner.
He parted his lips on hers and poked his tongue between. It met her tongue—warm, moist, animate. As he did this, her torso seemed to flex under his hands and her vulva softened similarly. His member nudged into her warming cleft, melting the inner stone as it progressed.
Prior kissed her again, deeply—and the way opened and the rest of his organ slid into her snug vagina. He thrust, withdrew, thrust, holding the kiss, clasping the bended torso, leaning against that bosom—and suddenly fired a liquid salvo into her chamber.
As he disengaged from her, feeling the hardness of the stone already returning, her lips formed something like the configuration of a spoken word. Her magnificent breasts heaved gently. “Go,” she said succinctly.
That was all.
Prior unplugged his member and knocked the dottle out and zipped up his fly. “Thank you,” he said to the statue. “You are an excellent lay, even if vertical. I go."
She was cold and rigid again, but there was a half smile on her lips, half a wink to her eye.
He walked on until he came to the statue of the man. The stone erection remained, but now the figure was bent as though inserting his member into a ready orifice.
“So that's the way it is,” Prior said. “Well, what must be, must be."
He squatted before the statue, licked his lips, and applied his mouth to the forward projection. At first lick the stone was cold, as before, but it soon began to soften. Prior took the large glans in his mouth and sucked, and the thing became tender. He worked his lips down around the shaft, and the warmth descended with him. The penis began to throb.
Something cold touched his head. Startled, Prior paused. It was the statue's hand, unmoving yet pushing his forehead back. He sighed. “I was afraid of that."
He did not like pederasty, yet he did want his natural penis back, and Oubliette had warned him that the statues had their price. Maybe, however, he could fake it, this time. He stood, unsnapped his belt, dropped his trousers and shorts, bent over, and backed up to the living extremity.
The stone penis had solidified some in the few seconds it had been neglected, and the glans was cool and hard as it touched his buttock. Prior shifted, and the firm organ slid into his crack. Quickly it warmed again and became slick, as though coated with grease. Yes—this was what the stone man wanted.
Prior waited a moment, then leaned back against the member. But he kept his anus puckered tight, instead letting the half-stone member push down between his clamped-together legs, shoving Prior's scrotum out of the way. With luck, that would feel like the buggery it was intended to be. He worked his thigh muscles and jogged a bit in the rod, and in due course the statue came. It was a jet of icewater, squirting out in front of him. Better that than hot lava.
He pulled himself off as the stone cooled and hardened. Had he fooled the statue? He listened to the slowly pursing lips. “To,” said the stone man.
Good enough! “Thank you,” Prior said as he donned his trousers.
The sheep-statue was looking toward him expectantly, tail lifted. By this time Prior had pretty well come to terms with the system, though as little as a month ago it would have been another matter. He wasted no time with foolish qualms. He unpacked the slender five-incher (because it was easier to erect in a hurry) and applied it to the ovine pudendum.
“Ba-a-a-ack up,” he told it.
As before, the aperture softened, and before long he was able to deposit a moderate seminal offering. The ewe's vagina was, by the feel of it, very similar inside to a human one, and the experience was not really objectionable. He could almost appreciate why so many country youths preferred their animal female friends to the less acquiescent and more fickle human ones. Bestiality was frowned upon, generally—but this restriction had no doubt been authored by people who lacked the nerve to approach an obliging sheep. It was said that one of the venereal diseases had come to man by way of a sheep: one of the crewmen who sailed with Columbus, bringing this New World disease back to delight the Europeans. Prior didn't believe it, but it did make a nice historical story.
“Mmm-mo-o-o-u-u-u-n-n-nnt!” the sheep bleated as it hardened back into stone.
“But I just mounted,” Prior protested. Then: “Oh—that's your word of advice. Sorry. Thanks.” He petted her on the woolly back.
So it continued. The dog gave him a fine slurpy blow job and barked “Ice! Ice!” The stallion rammed about nine inches into what it thought was his anus—Prior was getting good at fooling statues—and pumped out its lather, neighing “Cream! Cre-e-e-a-am!” “Don't I know it!” Prior replied, looking at the stuff on the ground. The eagle and the griffin were more difficult, and he had to pause to recharge before making a trio out of the statue man-and-sheep duo. Some of the exercises were rough, but in each case he did what was necessary or faked it, and hoped his increasingly sore body would recover in a reasonable time.
He understood, now, why Oubliette was so tired after making this journey to visit the Eggers. He, at least, could change into a fresh penis every time; she had to stick with her natural equipment. He wondered what information she needed, to prompt such an excursion every month or so. Or was it merely her generous nature, bringing physical joy, however transitory, to her menagerie and to the horny Eggers?
At last he had the complete message:
GO TO MOUNT IC
ECREAM. CLIMB THE CHERRY TREE.
And directions how to get there, and what else to do.
Prior contemplated his notes, rubbed chapstick on his chapped anatomy, threw away a bitten penis-unit, washed his mouth out three times with cold water, and combed the animal refuse out of his hair. Then he walked the short remaining distance to the cabin of the Eggers.
He knew that a different man would be there, for the Earthside layover was only a few days for each, but that didn't matter. The Eggers knew how to travel between the stars, and Prior needed their help.
For the Cherry Tree was on Mt. Icecream, and Mt. Icecream was on a planet circling a star not even visible from Earth. He had to take the Eggers’ pass.
But at the end of this devious route lay the solution to his problem. The hazards were fantastic and the concomitant chores tedious, but he could win his natural penis back.
If he was man enough with the prosthetics.
Part 3: The Cherry Tree
Chapter 20—Mount Icecream
Six of them began that grim trek toward disaster and disillusion. The Kid had started it, his adolescent chatter like a match that touched the right tinder after sputtering futilely for half a lifetime. Miles Long was his name, and Prior could see the scars on his psyche. The Kid must have learned to fight at the age of three and how to sneer at four. Prior, with a scar of his own where it didn't always show, would have felt more sympathy if the brat wasn't so good at both.
Miles (the Kid) Long had won twelfth prize in an Earthside Snapplepop contest by making daily collections from every other kid in the ward for boxtops. He had amassed about twelve hundred entries, and given in return a hundred and fourteen split lips, seventeen damaged teeth, forty-eight black eyes and two hundred and ninety-one substantive threats. When he won, he had opted for the tour: one week at Mt. Icecream. Naturally he had been bored crazy after the first day. So he thought he'd gain the fame he craved by climbing to the top, and the old fool Yale Payton had agreed with him, and the next thing there were five suckers clamoring for equipment. With Prior Gross the guide.
Prior had lacked the wherewithal to finance a jaunt through the Pass, so had had to make the best deal he could. Mt. Icecream Resort was perennially short on mundane personnel, so he'd signed on for a six-month hitch as caretaker-guide in return for a moderate stipend plus transportation to and from. He'd started duty three weeks ago—and like the Kid, he'd been bored stiff (without erection) after about twenty-four hours.
This was no piece of cake. It was a dish of ice cream.
Snow swirled bleakly ahead of them, the particles swooping up to cling messily to their nylafur outfits. It had a yellowish cast and sickly-sweet smell; that meant it was vanilla, or had been before the wind chipped it into crystals. The sugar tended to coat all warm surfaces, becoming more and more grimy as time passed. Human beings carried with them the bacteria of decay and the calories of body-warmth, and that meant perpetual trouble here. Eventually, with this rampant tourism, the entire area would be infected, and Mt. Icecream would become Mt. Rancidsludge, but no one seemed to care. Certainly Prior didn't. What was a little more pollution in the galaxy, after all? He'd had his fill, and not just figuratively. He'd had to eat a quart of ice cream every day, per the Resort policy of demonstrating that the surroundings were, indeed, good enough to eat. Yech!
He turned his head to check the party. Behind him was Stedman Awk, a fat, wealthy slob of a man who'd made his fortune in hamburgers (despite thirteen injunctions over the years against cutting the meat with chickenneck, fishheads, horsemeat and plain old—very old—stale bread) and now he wanted to see how the other half functioned. The dessert-racket half, specifically. And he had caught the adventure fever from the Kid. He would learn about a lot more than rancid ice cream before he got home.
Third was the lone female, Chloe Samuels, who claimed to be a specialist in something or other. It could have been interesting, having a woman along in a necessarily tight formation like this, but it wasn't. For one thing, she was dumpy; for another, even a beauty would have been unapproachable in this cold and grime.
Next was the old man, Yale Payton, followed by the Kid.
At the end was Ambert Black: a huge Negro with too much muscle and an unpleasant militancy. There might have been trouble between him and the Kid, but the Kid was just smart enough to know he was outclassed. Black was no amateur trouble-maker; he was a pro. He had figured to make the climb on his own, but Resort regulations specified a party of at least three, one of these being a guide, for any overnight excursion from the base. Black would have tried it anyway, but knew that the robot snowsleds would have cut him off. He hated meddling robots even worse than meddling people.
A motley crew, Prior thought, without a doubt. An old man, a fat man, an adolescent, a bitter Black and a dumpy doll. All come to see the fabulous mountain of ice cream—and finding it as motley as themselves.
Prior peered ahead again, but the yellow haze cut visibility and hid the peak. Just as well; its beauty was ironic.
They reached the Stage One campsite in midafternoon. The days were about twenty hours long here and the gravity about nine-tenths of a gee, both of which fouled up visitors in subtle but determined fashion. Disorientation, irritation, even outright illness—Mt. Icecream was good for an hour's visit or a six-month tour (but not very good for either), but a week was too long for patience and too short for metabolism. As these characters would find out soon.
Prior knew the party wouldn't make it to the top. No party ever did. Probably this one wouldn't get beyond the Stage Two campsite. The old man would give out first, then the fat one, then the woman. Prior had been briefed on such dynamics, and was already an old hand. The Kid would stick it out longer, trying to prove himself. He would think it was manhood and courage he was demonstrating, but actually it was perversity and idiocy. The Negro—now, he was tough. Black wouldn't quit—but after Stage Three the party would be down to two, Black and Prior, and that was below the minimum. The robots would converge, frustrating human ambition in the name of human safety. So it would come to nothing, as it always did.
Unlike these slobs, Prior had reason to scale the mountain. Somewhere up there was the Cherry Tree—his lone hope for sexual salvation. Somewhere beyond Stage Four, reaching for the summit. He had never been to the top—no one had, as far as he knew—and his present prospects were bleak. The outside treks were better than the station boredom, at least, but their approach to the summit was illusory. To really do it he would need a sturdy and reliable party, and no such was to be formed from routine tourist ilk. If only a bunch of interstellar marines were to take their liberty here, or central European mountain climbers ... but instead there were only old, fat, flighty, fighty or female vacationers, the products of pampered or deprived society.
So here he was, playing out the charade again, letting the paying customers dream of saccharin glory, and grow tired, and quit, having shown themselves up for the feebly ambitious slobs they were. He, as guide, had to pretend that there really was a chance for them to scale the candy pinnacle despite their drastic limitations.
Stage One was large, built to accommodate the many parties that did make it this far. To a considerable extent it was an extension of the main camp; it had electric power and a furnace and half a dozen private cubicles. Usually one or two couples would take the hike as a pretext to spend the night alone: “Hey! Know what we did? We made love halfway up Mt. Icecream! Match that, Jones!” The guide filled in for the rule of three, and for the price of a generous tip made himself inconspicuous when that became crowded. Prior had already escorted several of these liaisons, and knew that the anticipated adulterous pleasures too often became guilty quarrels, victim in part to the planetary forces of weight and cycle. Nothing like lack of sleep or a queasy stomach to heighten discord. Maybe sometime he would get to guide a pair of young women; that could be worthwhile, if they weren't lesbians.
But there was none of that this time. No coupling—not wi
th Chloe as unattractive as she was, and no fairies among the men. There wasn't even much bickering, to his surprise. This ramshackle group actually seemed to be unified by a common purpose. He was sure it wouldn't last.
Tonight they talked. Chloe—Klo, she insisted on being called—was a better conversationalist than were most women, perhaps because she was physically unattractive. She didn't seem to be on the make for a man. Her hair, in the nightlight, was red—the too—sharp red of dye, but colorful all the same. She was fast on the uptake, with a snappy rejoinder for any remark tossed her way. The big Negro, Ambert Black, seemed to take half a shine to her, and that was funny too, because he was a true believer in racial purity. Black purity; none of that lily-white dilution of the stock. And the old man and the Kid continued to hit it off.
Prior thought about Oubliette and her peristaltic vagina, and daydreamed of shoving the twelve-incher into that orifice, foot by foot. God! What was he doing here on this sickenly edible mountain, when the real eating was back on Earth and between her legs.
“Sure, I know how you feel,” the oldster was saying to the Kid. “My moniker isn't much better. Yale—how many times do you suppose I've been told to ‘lock it up’ or ‘take it to college'? Actually my name means ‘payer'; it's just coincidence there are other things called that. But every schnook thinks it's so terribly original to—you know."
Yes, the Kid had found a friend in the least likely place, and Prior knew Miles Long's impetus to climb the mountain had abated. The Kid thought he wanted to prove himself to all mankind, but one person sufficed. How many aggressive causes were just that way, sublimations for ordinary satisfactions denied? Prior revised his estimate: the old man would drop out first, but the Kid would join him, the fat man making up the trio.