Anthonology

UP SCHIST CRICK

I have read that scatology is a more reliable guide to the real freedom of a society than is erotic material. That is, more people are willing to tolerate sex than filth. Of course, more yet are happy to tolerate extreme violence, which I think is a sad commentary. I feel that there should be complete freedom of expression, but that controversial types of things should be identified, so that readers or viewers don't have to be hit in the face with it before discovering its nature. Therefore be advised: there is a scatological element to this story.

William Zether slowed to forty, alarmed by the condition of the highway. He had driven a long way on superhighways, and this was a comedown. He had thought the surface was aging asphalt, but now decided on oiled gravel. Low-grade gravel, watered oil. Great long cracks cleft both lanes, their patterns resembling lightning frozen in mid-jag and ironed flat.

He slowed again to negotiate a chasm the width of his tire. It petered out near the edge of the opposite lane, becoming a delta of tributary crevices. By skidding his lefts into the dusty ditch he was able to span the narrowest offshoot with his rights. He continued at twenty.

Exactly how far into the wilderness was this sweet village of Violet? The road map intimated ten miles, but he was sure he had gone fifteen since filling his tank at the last cluster of houses signifying a township. The motley Schist Mountains had encroached ever closer in the interim, the terrain had degenerated into waves of desert heat, and the road...

He crunched the brakes. The wheels skewed, dust ascended, the vehicle rocked and heaved sickly, and he came to a tumultuous halt in the midst of the car-sized sand trap he had sought to avoid.

As the choking swirl subsided, he attempted to nudge forward; but as he had feared, the wheels merely churned themselves into functional oblivion. He should have allowed the car to bull through on inertia.

Zether turned off the motor and pondered his situation. He would have to dig his way out by hand, and naturally he had no shovel and was wearing his best suit.

The car's air-conditioning had cut off with the motor, and already he could feel the perspiration gathering. He pushed open the door, untangled seat belt and shoulder harness, and climbed out—and was struck by the blast furnace that passed for a July noon hereabouts. His thirty-flve-dollar shoes sank out of sight in the desiccated quicksand that engulfed the vehicle up to the hubs.

"I," he remarked to the burning welkin, "have had it. In spades. And I wish I had a spade; or at least a derrick."

But William Zether was not a man to rail at circumstance. Perceiving that the wheels were hopelessly mired, and mindful of the fifteen miles behind, he slung his jacket over his back, wedged the felt brim of his hat over his sweltering forehead, and waded onward in the transitory comfort of shirtsleeves. Somewhere ahead there had to be civilization.

The landscape was dehydrated, and he felt thirsty already. He sloughed out of the sand. His footwear had sustained a thirty-dollar depreciation, and he preferred not to assess the remainder of his apparel. The trail before him resembled the baked bed of a sun-crazed mud shallow attacked by amateurs with dull jackhammers.

His eyes passed over the wind-scarred rubble and focused on memory. It seemed that certain essential records had been misplaced during the transfer of management from the pioneer company A-Plus Fabrics, Inc., to its more solvent purchaser. A great deal of time had been absorbed in running down the diverse and inefficient experimental projects of A-Plus, and the files were still overloaded with corporate trivia. Thus there had happened to be a seven-year delay in the follow-up to a certain test-marketing project. He had uncovered portions of the records by diligent and increasingly circumspect part-time research, and now was taking a week's vacation to investigate the situation more directly.

Zether was glad he was a healthy, large-boned, brown-haired, virile junior exec, because this torrid hike would mean trouble for a wealthy, fat-fleshed, white-haired, febrile senior exec. He had covered about half a mile, and the locale seemed more and more like Death Valley during a drought. Blisters were surely burgeoning grandiosely on his trodding feet.

The product being test-marketed was a fabric—a very special one. Thermal-insulating, semiporous, transparent material of extraordinary lightness, elasticity, and strength. Absolutely nontearable. Cuttable only by a specifically designed tool. Unique yet embarrassingly cheap to manufacture. Or so the scanty and almost furtive records hinted. Probably the material was no more than the wish-fulfillment dreaming of a doodling A-Plus deadwood executive—but Zether had to know for sure. It just might be a live bombshell.

He was increasingly tired and thirsty. How many more miles could this tattered ribbon of crusted sludge wend its weary way through the inferno? His hope for some reasonable termination to this trek was evaporating along with the fluids of his body.

A-Plus Fabrics had developed it, and so it had been dubbed APFI via acronym. A remote site had been selected for test-marketing of apfi swatches while A-Plus wrestled with patent and mass-production bottlenecks. A report had been contemplated within a year, had not the business foundered for unconnected reasons. Seven years ago.

He stopped, letting the dust settle around his feet, rubbing his gritty eyes to verify the mirage. There was a structure ahead. He had arrived at Violet!

"Sweet Violet, sweeter than the roses," he sang as he staggered toward it, but the remaining words of his verses were not to be found in print.

It was an ordinary backwoods hamlet. There was one general store, one church, one school, one hotel, one gasoline station, one small bank, half a post office, and a dozen TV antennae—none of these artifacts modern except the last. One farmer-type male ambled away down the single street. Violet.

Well, this did fit the specification of "reasonably isolated community." It could take years for news of import to leak out of a burg this sleepy and serviced by a road this bad. No problem about any aggressive competitors tuning in on the survey and beating the originator to mass marketing. Here near the headwaters of the polluted Schist River was a township that sustained itself nicely at poverty level through farming, logging, and freelance quarrying....

What use would such a populace have for the modernistic apfi material, assuming the fabric existed? These people hardly seemed to have caught up to nylon. Yet, through the years of the test-marketing's inadvertent duration there had been a continued and rather healthy per-capita demand, if another thread of his researches spoke truly. The company lab had continued to produce a limited supply of something labeled "A," and the company shipping department had continued to route it to this one town, while the executive offices were unaware that the product existed. Typical coordination! But this suggested that there was a practical market for something, and Zether meant to cut himself in on the take by discovering on the QT exactly what it was. He had a few shares of stock and knew a few key people; he could gain control of this one product if it turned out to be worth his while. Provided no one else caught on prematurely.

Just as soon as he had cleaned up and coddled his blisters for maybe a fortnight....

He tromped into the lobby of the ancient hotel, heedless of appearances. It was empty, but in a moment a young woman appeared from some dusky recess. Even in the poor light and his disgruntled state he was impressed by her attributes: high fair cheekbones, elegantly coiffed black hair, finely molded neck, superlative breasts. "Room—hot bath—steak dinner with aperitif, delivered—do not disturb for anything short of Ragnarok," he said as he signed the register. Oh, to get off his flaming feet!

"Rag what rock?" she inquired, perplexed.

"Armageddon. Kaput. End of the—"

Then it hit him. Cheek, hair, neck, breasts—no wonder they had caught his glazed eyeball. All were thoroughly displayed. The girl was naked to the—he double-checked—feet. All she wore was a lumpy necklace.

It was a little late to react, so he didn't bother. In the morning he would realize that it had been a hallucination inspired by heat prostration though the lobby was air-conditioned and of conservative decor. Hardly conducive to visions of this nature.

She put away the register and took his coat, carrying it over one slender arm. "This way, sir," she said, coming into full view and preceding him to the curving staircase.

And the view was full, and the curves not confined to the stairwell. He followed, eyes lubricated by her amply flexing buttocks. He should get fatigued more often! The effect became dazzling as she ascended the steps, her hindquarters (though in truth they were full semicircles) now at his eye level, close.

She let him into the room, then entered herself. In a moment he heard water running and realized that the nymph was drawing the hot bath he had specified. "Uh, thank you," he said when she emerged, offering her a dollar tip.

She declined it. "You may settle your account when you leave, Mr. Zephyr."

"Zether," he said automatically. "Th, not ph."

She acknowledged the correction with a smile, and departed.

He stripped and dumped his sodden clothing on the easy chair, too weary to be fastidious, and marched into the bathroom. The water was fine, and he sank into its steaming ambience gratefully. Maid, proprietress—whoever she was, she had the touch. And the figure! His imagination wasn't that facile; he had seen what he had seen, every voluptuous bulge, crease, and ripple.

He soaked for forty minutes and felt much better. His calves retained some hard-core stiffness, and there were blisters on heels and toes, but he was otherwise in physical comfort. He dried off, stretched, slung the towel aside, and reentered the room. The door swung shut behind him, its latch clicking.

His steak dinner was there, reposing beautifully on its serving cart. So was the girl.

His clothing—all of it—was on the chair beyond. The towel was in the bathroom, and somehow his frantically fumbling hand couldn't locate the doorknob. He was ludicrously stranded in the ultimate dishabille, and it hardly became him.

"Is everything satisfactory, Mr. Zether?" she inquired, hefting her derriere off the edge of the cart and approaching him. Her bare breasts jiggled provocatively.

"Yes, yes..." he mumbled, feeling idiotic and more than politely embarrassed. Naked women tended to give him a reaction. What was he supposed to do now?

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...

In the morning he remembered soberly that not all women were endowed quite as fortunately as Ella, and most were not just twenty-two. One woman's bounce was another's sag. Well, it had been a pleasant vision, nevertheless. Perhaps a curfew of sorts could be set: no woman over twenty-nine permitted on the streets in apfi while light remained, unless accompanied by her daughter.

Zether's first order of business after breakfast was the car. He visited the sole gas-station/garage, a hut perched on the edge of a monstrous level field, and inquired about towing service.

"Sure," the proprietor/mechanic said, looking up from the innards of the wreck he was tinkering with. Several similar vehicles squatted untidily along the perimeter of the field. He was a white-haired man in oily gray coveralls. "You're lucky you made it in, though. It's almost shut season."

"Shut season? What shuts down?"

"You know—the month the roads are closed. August, usually, but it slides about a little from year to year, depending on the weather. Nobody goes through—not by car, anyway."

The date was July 25. Zether felt uneasy. "I'm new here. Would you mind explaining that in a little more detail?"

"No trouble. Schist Crick is a funny town. The Schist Mountains and the Schist River close it off pretty tight, so there's only room for two highways: the winter road and the summer road. The winter road is pretty good until the spring thaw washes it out along about March. The summer road works fine until the heat gets it, 'long about August. They're both out in August, you see, so it's shut season."

Both roads out? "Because the town is shut off from the world?"

"Uh-uh. There's still TV and telephones. We're in touch as much as we need to be."

"Then why—"

The mechanic peered at him from behind a wobbly carburetor. "Because that's when the gals get shut of spinsterhood, or try to. Nowhere the bachelors can go, and those suits—it's getting like a tradition. Last year one of those nudies even sashayed by here, twitching her little round butt the way they do. I squirted oil on her."

"You did what?"

"Some said afterward it wasn't exactly sporting, but it was the handiest thing. Had to show her somehow I wasn't interested."

"Is any bachelor, er, subject to this—"

"Any bachelor without a pressure oil can," he said meaningfully.

It occurred to Zether that a jet of viscous warm fluid from a nozzle, applied so as to inundate a virtually nude female, was not necessarily a signal of masculine uninterest. Probably the mechanic wasn't much for Freudian symbolism, though. "Why didn't you just ignore her, or—"

The man looked at him. "Didn't want to get one leg in," he said. "First one's a teaser. Second—" He did not finish.

Ouch! "Don't you repair the roads?"

"Sure—but we never have enough money for both at once, so we have to take on one at a time. Need about six months to do one up proper, so—"

Zether remembered Ella's remark about the problems of maintaining twenty-mile roads on ten-mile funds. She had neglected to tell him about shut season, however. Conniving female! He already had one leg in, unwittingly. He had a feeling he'd better keep the second out. "So the winter road is out from August through January?"

"Right. Crew generally wraps up in January, so both roads are open February, and there's a month's vacation. But August—"

"I get the picture. In August the crew is still wrapping up the winter road, so the other has to wait an extra month. How come they can do the summer road in only five months—September through January—but take six for the winter?"

"Don't rightly know," the mechanic said. "But that's the way it is. Maybe they hurry a little for the vacation."

"Or maybe they delay a little for shut season?"

"Maybe." The man smiled slowly. "Got to admit, she looked cute in oil. I hosed her off afterward, of course; those suits clean up easily. Wish I was younger. Now, where's your car?"

Zether described the location.

"Reckon the season's started already, then. Have to leave your car there until the crew comes; no sense miring my truck too."

"Till the crew comes—in one to six months?"

"Yep."

Ouch again! "Isn't there anything you can do? It will be a rusted wreck by then."

"I can walk out there and cover it with an apfi tarp. Keep the dust out, protect the tires and engine—"

"Apfi does that?" The silver lining was coming into view. First the clothing market, now the protective cover market. Even shut season might not be too high a price!

"Sure does. Mighty handy fabric, apfi. Don't know how we'd get along without it."

How much profit could be had from such a thing, nationwide? A million dollars? Ten million?

Zether's blisters were hurting despite the thick pads he had applied, and he had to walk extremely carefully and rest often. But in the course of the day he managed to explore a fair sampling of Schist Crick. What he saw took his mind off the problem of getting home, though he knew he couldn't afford to be trapped for shut season.

He discovered farmers stretching apfi over entire silos to enhance the hothouse effect, or whatever it was that went on in silos. Loggers preserved their logs in it, and kept their home-brewed beer cool by suspending it in apfi pouches that sweated very slowly when grotesquely distended. Quarry men used it to enclose dusty compartments and keep the air clean, since only gaseous substances could pass normally. Theoretically apfi would pass liquid if stretched far enough, but the beer pouches demonstrated the impracticality of this for local use. Commercially, however, Zether foresaw monstrous profits. Stretched mechanically, apfi could serve as a variable filter, good for water desalinization, osmotic techniques—the possibilities were rife. And the extremely low coefficient of friction of the single-molecule structure would improve the performance of almost any machinery, since nearly all of it had moving parts. Apfi-coated pistons, perhaps?

Though Ella kept her footing and picked up objects readily enough. Perhaps her coating of apfi even conformed to the whorls of her fingers, restoring much of the friction Probably the material was many times as slick when applied to a polished surface; he'd have to check that out. Ideal, if it eliminated virtually all machine friction while preserving the necessary human friction.

How about sports? Apfi sails would reduce the weight of racing boats and be far easier to handle. There could even be stretched-apfi hulls. It would be like sailing in an invisible craft—a real status symbol. And apfi wings on gliders—why, a man with specially designed apfi wings might be able to fly like an insect. Apfi slides for apfi-bottomed children: two apfi surfaces meeting should be phenomenally slippery. Applications for toys—he had to stop; his head was getting dizzy.

Everywhere, apfi was already in use, in this one town, and its potential market was stupefying. Profits of a hundred million?

There were not, to his relief, women running around in the seminude, though he had no doubt that would come when shut season got well under way. He had just about decided that Ella was the only one so far when he entered the general store for phase two of his survey. The proprietor was a middle-aged man—clad only in apfi, except for swimming trunks. Zether could make out the sheen of the skin-tight material.

He had thought of it only in connection with women—yet why shouldn't men use apfi too? Probably it was considered indoor wear for everyone. Fair enough. He would have to get into someone's house and verify this. In shut season it would become the fashion for outdoor girls as well. There could be a whole social framework for the use of apfi.

Zether bought a sample. It was priced quite reasonably, and came in a loose package marked simply "APFI: 4 sq. ft." This was what he wanted: to handle the stuff himself, find out how it felt. He presumed there were 8 sq. ft. or 10 sq. ft. sizes and up, but the small one would readily serve his purpose. The package weighed no more than a few ounces, and he suspected most of that was in the wrapping. Apfi was only one molecule thick and weighed almost nothing. That was why it was so flexible and transparent.

He took it eagerly into his room and spread it out. It was mounted in a hoop folded into quarters that sprang into circularity when released. Open, it resembled—here the image was suggestive in more than one way—an enormous condom. The diameter was a little over two feet, or, he was sure, the correct amount to make a total area of exactly four square feet.

He contemplated its level gloss, so thin it was easy to miss the film entirely except for the defining circle, and marveled that this represented its unstretched state. Too bad he had not been able to obtain a sample at the company; but this way was better, in spite of blisters, lost car, and shut season. No one would know what he was doing until he had what he wanted.

Zether set the hoop on the floor, stepped into it, and lifted. The material came up around his shoes and cuffs neatly, stretching to fit. It seemed soap-bubble fragile, but he knew it was stronger, weight for weight, than any stone or steel or nylon. The specifications implied that it could not be punctured even by a driven spike; it merely stretched until the thrust had been alleviated. It was thus theoretically possible to protect nails or rivets from rust by hammering them into material coated with apfi; the film would remain intact between nail and support, cutting off most moisture. Provided the lack of friction didn't make a problem. Only a semielectrical tool that acted on the atomic structure could hole it, and the tool cost a good deal more than the fabric.

He let go, and it dropped back to the floor with the hoop. How had Ella fashioned a permanent noncollapsing suit of it?

The door opened, and Ella entered in her normal habiliment. Think of the devil! Apparently the concept of personal privacy or prudery was foreign to her; or maybe such ethics were suspended during shut season. He'd really have to watch it.

"Why, Mr. Zether!" she exclaimed, flouncing her tresses prettily. "Are you trying to put it on over your clothing? That'll never work."

He had only been experimenting, but didn't protest. "How do you make it stay in place?"

"By closing the loop, of course," she said, touching her necklace. He saw that it was made of the same material as the apfi hoop. In fact, it was an apfi hoop, mysteriously convoluted. "Here, I'll show you. Take off your clothes."

He was a trifle slow in complying, so she assisted him. The notion of this buxom and too available young woman stripping him to the buff began to have its natural effect, but then he remembered the cynical aftermath—popped into a tissue—and the impulse died. He preferred his lovers totally nude, somehow. And he was wary of that second leg. It sounded as though local custom decreed that two acts of physical love constituted grounds for marriage, and he was definitely not ready for that. First he meant to nail down his fortune; then he would worry about domestic matters.

"Now, step into it," she directed, and he put his bare foot into the circle. Spiderwebs clasped his toes, tickled the sole; he repressed the urge to jump away. She drew the hoop up around him, jiggling it so that the apfi fit snugly around both legs, remaining taut between them. The excruciatingly gentle contact ascended. It was like standing in a bath filling with lukewarm water. He felt it enclose calves, knees, thighs—and now the sensation was definitely erotic. No accident, that, he was sure; she was doing her unsubtle best to make him react as she addressed his groin. He fastened his attention on the image of a strongbox full of hundred-dollar bills until the apfi reached his waist; that was what he was fighting for, after all.

She made him elevate his arms, and the fabric enclosed them also. The elasticity was remarkable! Finally the settling motion stopped, and he felt no more, except for the areas where body hair held it out from his skin. He'd have to shave his torso all over to have a really snug fit: a disadvantage. She did something obscure to the hoop, and it contracted around his neck in a loose necklace like her own, preventing the suit from sliding off. He was dressed.

He flexed his arms and legs a little dubiously. The principal characteristic of the suit was its lack of characteristics. Only occasionally could he feel points of tension, and these disappeared as the apfi shifted to compensate. It was a second layer of skin.

"And I always thought the emperor's new clothing was a fake!" he exclaimed. "Obviously it was an early apfi suit."

But had the emperor had the opportunity to appreciate its erotic qualities? Even a layer of only one molecule should impair sensation somewhat—but the super-smooth surface would add back much of what was lost. Had added back; no wonder he had exploded in that first encounter with Ella! This was sex with an intriguing difference.

A bell rang. "Oops, someone in the lobby," she said regretfully. "I have to run." And run she did, excitingly.

He still felt naked, so he donned his regular clothing over the apfi suit. Underwear, socks, shoes—it all fit perfectly. It was as though the suit didn't exist, except that he thought it made his blisters more comfortable by alleviating the slight abrasions of the socks. Good.

He felt distinctly warmer, and realized that the material's insulating properties were being manifested. The suit alone was comfortable, in normal interior temperature; added clothing became too hot. That explained why Ella and the others wore nothing else, inside. Probably the people who ventured outside wore apfi under their clothing, as he was doing now, when it was cool, and skipped the apfi when it was hot. Or skipped the clothing.

Fortunately its gas porosity prevented skin suffocation. Sweat would pass upon evaporation, and air could contact the skin in a limited way. Yes, apfi made an excellent all-purpose suit, particularly for an activity like swimming; he'd have to mention that in his report.

Report? What was he thinking of! He'd make no report at all until he had acquired control of the patent, if any. He could become a billionaire!

He descended the stair and left the hotel without seeing Ella again. Just as well; she was almost too helpful, as though he were already her possession.

It was cooler outside. Dusk was approaching, and in this mountain country the extremes of temperature shifted rapidly. Burning days and frigid nights—excellent for apfi. Yes, he was becoming more and more enthusiastic about the product. He had searched for some liability, something that would detract from its sales potential on either practical or esthetic grounds, some catch that would wash out the dream, and found none. This thing would make ten billion!

In the street he passed a blonde in an enticingly tight sweater. He peered at her, trying to determine whether she did or did not wear an apfi suit underneath. Not even any webbing between the fingers showed, yet....

She gave him a direct glance. "You appear to find me attractive, stranger," she murmured. "I am wearing my suit, and my husband's away on the road crew, so if you'd like to—"

"Uh, no thanks," he said hastily. "Just admiring the scenery." And he removed himself from the vicinity, leaving her perplexed.

The enormity of it! If just eight years of apfi had made sex a communal activity in this isolated, probably conservative village, what would it do to the nation in a similar period? First the intemperate youth groups would discover its sexual wonders and make it a symbol of the times; then it would spread to other levels of society. The beatniks, the beardniks, the radicals—how far would they go, how rapidly, granted the freedom of the suit? And after them, the great mass of "decent, law-abiding" people the politicians claimed to cater to. It would be a revolution!

Was the world ready for apfi?

Behind the gas station, in the field, he saw something that distracted him from conjecture momentarily: a helicopter! What was it doing here?

"Mr. Zephyr!" It was the old mechanic. Was there news about his car already?

He entered the lighted station. It was cluttered with the usual paraphernalia: dented oil cans, tires, rusty carburetors, wrenches, auto manuals, and mechanical bric-a-brac. A pay telephone nestled on the wall next to a small cash register. "You got my car out?"

The man shook his head negatively, looking at him speculatively. "None of my business, but are you staying long?"

"No longer than I can help. But if there's no road out—"

"I saw old Ezra Hopping, the hotel man, cleaning his shotgun. His eyesight is way too poor for hunting, but he's a pretty sharp businessman. Not much goes on he don't know about. Now, I'm not offering you any advice, but—"

But old Uncle Ezra might well be anxious to protect his niece's reputation, and that of his hotel. And to acquire a capable in-law to help out. Yes. So he was cleaning his shotgun. "Is that phone in working order?"

"Yep." The mechanic discreetly stepped outside. "You can make change from the cash register; it's open," he said as he disappeared.

Zether did just that, marveling at the man's trusting nature. He fed the orifice and dialed the number of a companion worker who could keep his mouth shut. "Don, I'm in a bind," he said hurriedly. "My car is out of commission, and I can't walk far, and there's a marriage-minded female—look, I can't explain now, but can you rent a tractor and come down here in a hurry? I'll make it worth your while...."

"Bill, what are you up to? Where are you?"

Zether gave a brief geographical rundown.

"That's five hundred miles!" Don exclaimed. "I'm a white-collar wage-earner; I just can't take off in the middle of the week! Why can't you hire someone local to bail you out?"

He thought about making the necessary arrangements for an escape from Schist Crick and rescue of his car, without giving away his interest in apfi. No one in Schist Crick would cooperate, of course, since they would figure he was running out on shut season. As he was, among other things. No one outside would understand, let alone rely on the credit of a secretive, telephoning stranger. It had to be Don.

"Say," Don said. "There's something else funny. The supe was poking into your desk the other day as though he was looking for something. Wanted to know what the locked file was for...."

Oh, no! That was the apfi research file he should have hidden. If anybody got into that before he got back, he could kiss goodbye to his plans. And the grasping supervisor would gladly use the pretext of his late return to snoop. "Don, believe me—this is urgent. Take that file out and bring it with you. Don't let anyone at it! Take an emergency leave and get down here with some cash...."

"Bill, I just can't do that, I'd be fired! If only you'd explain—"

"When you get here, Don; when you get here! I can't talk about it over the phone. Just trust me..." But he knew it wouldn't work. Don was honest to a fault, but conservative; he wasn't greedy, but he had to know all the facts before he acted, and he never gambled. He would consider apfi at best a gamble, and at worst a theft from the company.

Someone was approaching the shop; he couldn't talk any more. "I guess you're right, Don. Sorry I bothered you."

He hung up and turned away from the phone as a man in the uniform of the forest service entered. "I need some gas," the ranger said.

"Sorry, I'm not the proprietor. He—" Zether paused. "That copter—that yours?"

The man nodded. "I ran low on fuel, or I wouldn't have put down here at all. Must have a leak somewhere. Have to move out again in a few minutes, get back to my base."

"Got room for a passenger?" His heart was pounding.

"It's against regulations, sorry," the ranger said. "No passengers. Where's the gasman?"

"I'm desperate," Zether said. "I have some very important business, and the roads are closed." He pulled out his wallet and removed a twenty-dollar bill and pressed it into the ranger's hand.

The man looked doubtfully at the bribe, then made his decision. "All right. I'll be through here soon's I find the attendant. That must be him outside. Five minutes, then I'll rev up and take off. You get out of sight and come out to intercept me as I walk to the copter, as though you had a message for me. If no one notices, I'll take you aboard. But I won't wait; if you don't meet me right on time, I'll have to take off without you. Can't risk my job. Got that?"

"Got it. Five minutes on the nose or bust. Thanks."

Zether stepped outside and spied a public rest room behind the station. He headed for it. He should be able to see the ranger from its window.

The sign hanging just inside the dirty pane said VIOLET—UP SCHIST CREEK Nothing like a geographical identifier, he thought with a smile as he entered. Visitors would know exactly where they had paused.

Inside the cramped and smelly compartment he felt a sudden call of nature. Perhaps it was the availability and suggestion of toilet facilities, or possibly the abrupt release of tension. He decided to make good use of his five minutes.

His mind remained preoccupied with the larger problem. He could become rich from apfi, supervising its national promotion and marketing. But was it ethical? How would the courts see it? Was it possible that the social consequences would offset the dollar profit? Complete sexual freedom, the act performed as readily as a handshake....

Two minutes remained. Yes, he was on his way home, and in time. Proper exploitation of apfi would make his fortune. The hell with social ethics; money was far more important. Let the fuddy-duds scream; they could not halt progress. There was not one single reason apfi would not conquer the commercial world! The question was now not whether he would be a multibillionaire, but how soon. Ten years? Five?

One minute. Nicely timed. Both shotgun and supervisor had been foiled. He had grabbed his only chance to preserve his basic interests: his bachelordom and his billions.

He reached for the toilet paper without getting up. All that conjecture and experimentation must certainly have shaken up his digestion, because he had just relieved himself voluminously.

Two things occurred to him in nightmare sequence as he tore off a suitable strip. First, he was still wearing the suit. Second, he did not know how to loosen the neck loop so as to let the suit down.

Extraordinarily elastic apfi might be, so that its resistance was hardly perceptible—but it remained impervious to the passage of solids. Though a square yard of it could encompass an automobile without breaking or tearing, it would not pass so much as a grain of sand through its membrane, and liquid, for practical purposes, penetrated it only in the vapor state. He had neither the time nor the resources to stretch it the enormous amount necessary to alleviate even a portion of his problem. He heard the footfalls of the ranger returning to his copter.

William Zether remained sitting, paper in hand, afraid to move. His despairing gaze caught the reverse face of the sign hanging in the cobwebbed window. Words were printed thereon, forming a message awesome in its relevance and profundity: WITHOUT A PADDLE.