The Complete Dangerous Visions

by Anthology

  Theoretically, however, he was supposed to check first to make sure the bowels were well-formed and of the proper color, consistency and effluvium, since nonconformity was an early signal of illness. If suspicious, he was also to probe for worms or bloodclots before flushing a given deposit. There was a special pan and spreader fork for this purpose. Nevertheless he ignored this instruction and flushed each sump without looking or sniffing closely. There were limits.

  “Duty ends where my nose begins,” he muttered.

  He completed the cleanup circuit and could no longer avoid the problem of the T offshoot. Now that the main stable was empty, he could hear sounds from this wing. It was occupied! Anxiously he reviewed his schedule. The facts were there, obvious the moment he chose to look. The occupants of this section were special cases: items to take care of after the routine chores were accomplished.

  He set himself and approached the wing. There could be an Iolanthe here—a stupid one.

  To his relief and regret, the first stall contained a sick cow. She lay on a pallet along the side of the stall, a shapely blonde whose mammaries had diminished to merely voluptuous stature. He could tell they had shrunk because there were stretch-marks on them defining the grandeur that had been. Yet at this moment her bustline would have strained an EP tape measure.

  There was a note that she had to be milked by hand, so as not to contaminate the equipment (even through sterilization? fussy, fussy!), and the milk disposed of. She would be tapered off entirely, then bred again when fully recovered. Her temperature had to be checked to make sure her fever remained down. Her name was Flora.

  He had not paid attention to the names until now, though they were printed on the crosspiece of each gate. His ignorance had facilitated impersonality and blunted the horror of this monstrous barn. Now—

  Hitch peered through the slats and surveyed this new problem. Milk her by hand? Take her temperature? That meant far more intimate contact than hitherto. He delved into the manual. Yes, the procedures were there . . .

  Well, one thing at a time. He entered the pen with a small open bucket. “Up, Flora,” he said briskly.

  She looked at him with a disturbing but illusory semblance of intelligence, but did not move her torso. Damn the humanization wrought by knowledge of her name! He simply could not think of her any longer as an animal.

  “Flora, I have to milk you,” he explained. The anomaly of it struck him afresh, and he wondered whether he should not get out of this world right away.

  No, not yet. He would never be satisfied if he left without verifying that vision of Io.

  Flora continued to lie there on her side, one leg pulled up. Her hair fell across her face and curled over one outstretched arm, and he noticed how neatly it matched the hue of her pubic region.

  He looked in the book again. “Milking a supine cow by hand . . .” the instructions began. Nothing like a complete manual!

  He propped the bucket under the upper nipple and took Flora’s breast in both hands. The feel of it gave him an immediate erection, despite everything he had seen during the mass-milking. It seemed he had been sight-anesthetized but not touch-anesthetized; or perhaps it was the fact that this was a true breast by his definitions rather than a gross udder, despite the stretch-marks. Or maybe it was simply the name. Had he known any blondes called Flora?

  Was there a black-haired cow named Iolanthe?

  In the line of duty . . .

  He centered the nipple and squeezed. Nothing happened. He tried again, more positively, and succeeded in producing a translucent driblet. One milked a bovine-cow by squeezing the neck of the teat shut and applying more gentle pressure with the remainder of the hand so that the milk had only one exit, but the human breast was structured differently. It took him several tries to accomplish anything substantial and he was afraid it was rough on her, but Flora did not move or make any sign. Once he took hold too far back and feared he had bruised one of the internal glands, but she merely watched him with sad gray eyes.

  The job was inexpert and messy, but he managed to get several ounces into the bucket and probably several more on the two of them and the floor. It didn’t matter; the point was to relieve the pressure, not to extract every tantalizing drop. Why don’t I just put my mouth on it and. suck it out? he thought wickedly. Who would know? But he remembered that the milk was supposed to be bad.

  He poured the hard-won liquid down the disposal sump, flushed it, and tackled the nether breast.

  “What have they done to you?” he asked rhetorically as he worked. “What makes you all—pardon the expression—so stupid? No woman on my planet would tolerate what I’m doing to you now.” But he wondered about that as he said it; probably there were some types who—

  Flora opened her mouth and he thought for a horrifying moment she was going to reply, but it was only a yawn. There was something funny about her tongue.

  Now he had to take her temperature. The book cautioned him to insert the thermometer rectally, because the normal animal was apt to bite anything placed in her mouth. As if he hadn’t done enough already! He had pulled some weird stunts as an interworld investigator, but this was breaking the record.

  Still, she was ill, or had been, and it would be neglectful to skip the temperature. It had been neglectful to skip the feces inspection, too, he thought, but somehow it was different now. More—personal.

  “Over, Flora,” he said. “I can’t get at you from this angle.” He opened the supply box nailed to a wooden beam and found the thermometer: a rounded plastic tube about half an inch in diameter, eight inches long, with a handle and gauge on the end. The type of rugged instrument, in short, one would use on an animal—a patient that might squirm during intromission. There was a blob of yellowish grease on the business end.

  When she still did not respond, he set the thermometer carefully in the feeding trough and tried to haul her about by hand. He grasped her around the middle and hefted. Her slim midsection came up and her well-fleshed leg straightened, but that was all. She was too heavy to juggle when uncooperative. He eased her down, leaving her prone on the pallet. It would have to do. At least the target was approachable, instead of aimed at the wall.

  He recovered the thermometer and squatted beside her. With the fingers of his free hand he pried apart the fleshy buttocks, searching for the anus. It didn’t work very well; her hindquarters were generous, and her position squeezed the mounds together. He succeeded only in changing the configuration of the crevice. He could probably open the spot to view by using both hands, but then would not be able to insert the thermometer. Finally he flattened one buttock with his left hand and guided the tip of the instrument along the crack with his right, leaving a slug-trail of grease. When he judged he was in the right area, he pushed, hoping the slant was correct.

  There was resistance, she squirmed, and the rounded point jogged over and sank in. He was surprised at the ease with which it penetrated, after the prior difficulties. He let the stem shift until the angle was about ninety degrees and depressed it until he estimated that the tip was a couple of inches deep beyond the sphincter. He readjusted himself and settled down for the prescribed two minutes.

  God, he thought while he waited. What was he doing in this stable, with a naked buxom woman stretched out, he straddling her thighs and his clammy hand on her rear and jamming a rod up her rectum? His own member was so stiff it was painful.

  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 quickl
y 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 lo. 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 lo, 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 Eardi-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 periodicy. 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. Counter-actants?

  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.

  He set the harness over her shoulders and reached around her body to fasten the straps. “Can you talk?” he whispered into her ear, afraid of being overheard. He doubted there were hidden mikes—that would not be economically feasible for a retarded technology like this—but other farmhands could be in the area.

  She lifted her arms to facilitate the tightening of the clasps. A thick strand of hair curved around her left shoulder and the inside arc of her left breast. She was not as scantily endowed as he had thought at first; he had merely become acclimatized to the monstrosities of the milkers. She was clean, too, except for the feet, and there was an alluring woman-smell about her.

  “Can you talk, Iota!” he whispered more urgently. “Maybe I can help you.”

  She perked up at the sound of her name. Her breathing became rapid again. She rested her forearms against his shoulders and looked into his face. Her eyes were large, the irises black in this light. But she did not smile or speak.

  “You can trust me, Iota,” he said. “Just give me some sign. Some evidence that you’re not—”

  She closed her arms gently around his
neck and drew him in to her. Again her breasts touched him; again her hips nudged his groin. The woman-smell became stronger.

  Was she trying to show him that she comprehended, or was it merely a more careful sexual offering?

  What difference did it make?

  He had fastened the straps long since, but his arms were still about her. He slid his hands across her smooth back, down to the slight indentations above her buttocks. She responded, putting increasing pressure against him.

  What the hell.

  Hitch looked about. There was no one in the stable, apart from the cows in the special stalls. He tightened his embrace and carried her upright into her own compartment, “You want to get bred, OK,” he muttered.

  He put her down in the straw. She yielded to his directions, eager to oblige. He kneeled between her spread legs, released his belt and opened his trousers, watching her. Then, unable to restrain himself any longer, he put his left hand on her cleft to work the labia apart. The entire area was slick and hot. He transferred the hand to his own loin, supporting the weight of his body with the other hand as he descended, and guided himself down the burning crevice and in. He was reminded strikingly of the manner he had placed the thermometer not long ago. There didn’t seem to be any hymen.

  He spread himself upon her, embedded to the hilt. He tried to kiss her, but the position was wrong and she didn’t seem to understand. What opportunity would she have had to learn about kissing?

  He had expected an immediate and explosive climax, but was disappointed. Iota had a dismayingly capacious vaginal tract; he could neither plumb the well to its depth nor find purchase at its rim. He realized belatedly that cows would naturally be selected for ready breeding and birthing. Entry had been too easy; there was no internal resistance, no friction.

  After all his buildup, he couldn’t come. It was like dancing alone in a spacious ballroom.