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Ribofunk :: Филиппо Пол Ди
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The gynomorph moved her legs and arms luxuriously andarched her back slightly, elevating her pubis. Little Worker stared furiously, her mind in turmoil.
"I am comprised of twelve species, with a full ten percent being human," she finally countered.
"My measurements, in centimeters, are one hundred, forty, eighty. What are yours?"
Little Worker looked down at her stocky, compact, and muscled form beneath her shift. "I do not know my measurements," she said.
The gynomorph smiled, revealing delicate pointed teeth. She ran a tongue over her lips. Little Worker could hear it rasp.
"Well," said the hetaera, "I guess you don't know much, do you?"
"It seems not," said Little Worker.
***
Now they were at the office. The office was different from home: different noises, different smells. There were no windows in Mister Michael's office, no blots of jelly-light on the tan carpet, into which Little Worker's garment nearly blended. At home, Little Worker could do pretty much as she pleased, as long as she was there should Mister Michael need her. At the office-and in other public places-she had to be more circumspect and diligent. Little Worker was on duty here, in a way that was more intense than behind the electrified fence and active sensors of the estate. Little Worker normally prided
herself on her diligence. (Once, one of the men at the Training School had said: "Little Worker, you are the most diligent companion I've ever trained." The men of the school had been nice, in their stern way. But no one was like Mister Michael.)
Today, however, Little Worker's mind was not on her work.
Mister Michael's first afternoon appointment had been shown in. Little Worker lay quietly behind Mister Michael's big brown leather chair with the brass studs. Mister Michael was meeting with the people from Washington. Little Worker paid scant attention to them. They had been cleared by Security and smelled harmless. Little Worker couldn't even see the visitors from her vantage. They were just a collection of mildly annoying voices, which interfered with her contemplation of the new and disturbing events at home.
When Little Worker and Mister Michael had gotten into the car, Little Worker had circumspectly sniffed Mister Michael to see if any of the hetaera's odors still clung to him. She was relieved to find that none did. Mister Michael must have washed. For a moment she felt heartened.
The gynomorph moved her legs and arms luxuriously andarched her back slightly, elevating her pubis. Little Worker stared furiously, her mind in turmoil.
"I am comprised of twelve species, with a full ten percent being human," she finally countered.
"My measurements, in centimeters, are one hundred, forty, eighty. What are yours?"
Little Worker looked down at her stocky, compact, and muscled form beneath her shift. "I do not know my measurements," she said.
The gynomorph smiled, revealing delicate pointed teeth. She ran a tongue over her lips. Little Worker could hear it rasp.
"Well," said the hetaera, "I guess you don't know much, do you?"
"It seems not," said Little Worker.
***
Now they were at the office. The office was different from home: different noises, different smells. There were no windows in Mister Michael's office, no blots of jelly-light on the tan carpet, into which Little Worker's garment nearly blended. At home, Little Worker could do pretty much as she pleased, as long as she was there should Mister Michael need her. At the office-and in other public places-she had to be more circumspect and diligent. Little Worker was on duty here, in a way that was more intense than behind the electrified fence and active sensors of the estate. Little Worker normally prided
herself on her diligence. (Once, one of the men at the Training School had said: "Little Worker, you are the most diligent companion I've ever trained." The men of the school had been nice, in their stern way. But no one was like Mister Michael.)
Today, however, Little Worker's mind was not on her work.
Mister Michael's first afternoon appointment had been shown in. Little Worker lay quietly behind Mister Michael's big brown leather chair with the brass studs. Mister Michael was meeting with the people from Washington. Little Worker paid scant attention to them. They had been cleared by Security and smelled harmless. Little Worker couldn't even see the visitors from her vantage. They were just a collection of mildly annoying voices, which interfered with her contemplation of the new and disturbing events at home.
When Little Worker and Mister Michael had gotten into the car, Little Worker had circumspectly sniffed Mister Michael to see if any of the hetaera's odors still clung to him. She was relieved to find that none did. Mister Michael must have washed. For a moment she felt heartened.