Fantasy The People Makers

No one knew the details of the actual mating, or the subsequent meetings with Bessie and Graylor. What did become widely known was the result, 630, which was an above-above average score and quite respectable. After that Assada partnered with Jay Smith and scored a 350; then she partnered with Wilbur Wally and got a 285.

It was at that point that Assada came full circle. She once again found herself in the reactor room, totally nude, ready to fling herself from the catwalk into the reactor stream.

"Forgive me, Laquinta, I have failed you!" she cried.

Wait, Assada.

Assada stiffened. Laquinta had returned to her!

You must not do this, Assada.

"But I want to be by your side, Laquinta!"

There will be a time for that later. You still have much to do here.

"What can I do, oh great and mighty Laquinta? I have been fruitful and mated, but you have judged my mating to be unworthy."

There are other ways you can serve me, Assada.

"What other ways?"

The next morning before breakfast Assada held the first prayer session in Bermuda. A stage had magically appeared for the first time and she stood on it, shouting at the top of her lungs.

"Praise Ajuba! All praise Ajuba!" she cried. "We must be fruitful and multiply! This is Ajuba's plan!"

People started to stop and stare.

"We must give thanks to Ajuba for our lives! We must give thanks to Ajuba for giving us a second chance!"

"Praise Ajuba!" Some of the girls started to chant.

"We must give thanks to Ajuba for not turning us into dust! If we live to see another day, it is only because we are fulfilling Ajuba's great plan! Only the believers will survive! Only the believers will be rewarded!"

"Only believers will be rewarded!" People started to shout.

And thus was born the cult of Ajuba. People followed it because they wanted something to believe. They wanted hope. They wanted a chance to survive. And above all, they didn't want to be turned into white dust before their time. Only a fraction of the population followed Ajuba, but it was a significant fraction. And so Assada led services every morning for her devoted following, and Haggis O'Leary's scowl grew deeper and deeper.
​

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The Story of Adele Johnson​

"How are you enjoying your stay, Mrs. Johnson?" Frog asked one morning in Bermuda.

"Pretty well," said Adele Johnson. At 72 years of age, she was notable as the only elderly woman on the Station. She was also notable as the only woman living in a fantasy world, convinced she was on a permanent vacation at a ten star hotel.

"I like the cleanliness of the rooms," she said. "And I have a great view of the beach! The food is very good, though the buffet is a bit tiring on my legs. I wish you had waiters!"

"Sorry Mrs. Johnson, but we're short on staff," said Frog.

"But if you need anything, I'm happy to help!" said Hot Dog, appearing out of thin air.

"And I am too!" said Hamburger.

"The staff, such as it is, does provide solid customer service," said Adele.

"I'm glad to hear that," said Frog.

"I like all the group activities, the singalong, the plays, the musical performances, and the atomic shuffleboard and neutrino boccie is really fun," said Adele. She scratched her head. "The only thing is, I keep forgetting what day I'm supposed to check out. Can you look into that for me?"

"There's no need, Mrs. Johnson," Frog assured her. "When it's time to checkout, you'll know."

"She's nuts," said Craig Cobin.

"She's old," said Gavin Ansom.

"No one's ever partnered with her," said Dickie Weymouth. After his somewhat successful pairing with Assada, he became more open minded to new opportunities. By now he had figured out that pairing with the regular women was not likely to win this competition. He needed something new, something different.

"Did I mention she's crazy?" Craig said.

"She's a little deluded," Dickie admitted. "She's set up her own little fantasy world and is living inside of it. That's the mark of creativity. It could be very useful in scoring highly on things like Technology and Art."

"Do you really want to have sex with that?" said Craig. "She's probably as dry as the Mojave Desert. The friction alone would burn you alive. My cockmeat hurts just looking at her."

"The mating would be a... a challenge," Dickie admitted. "But it's not about the sex. It's about the genetic matching."

"Just keep telling yourself that when you're plunging into that dry, withered hole," said Craig. "Ever hear the story of drilling a dry well? You might break your drill bit."

Dickie got up and approached Adele, who was sitting at a table, waiting for the first morning activity to start. Except for morning prayers and calisthenics led by Hot Dog, there were absolutely no group activities on the Station, but that didn't stop Adele Johnson from enjoying all of them.

"Hi," said Dickie.

"Oh, hello there," said Adele. "Are you with the hotel staff?"

Dickie frowned. "No. I'm a guest, just like you. My name is Dickie."

"Ricky?"

"Dickie," said Dickie.

"What a charming name," said Adele.

Adele had no conception of partnering. It was as if she had never heard of it. That made the effort all the more challenging for Dickie. Since he couldn't explain about the partnering, he had to proceed to the first logical step: sex. But when he invited Adele back to his room she quickly demurred.

"Why would I want to go back to your room?" she asked.

"So we can, ah, get to know each other better."

Her eyes narrowed. "Young man, are you trying to get fresh with me?"

"I, uh...."

"I think you'd better go."

"But Adele-"

"You'd better go."

"You struck out with the octogenarian, eh?" said Craig, picking his teeth.

"She's too far gone. Stuck in her dreamworld," said Dickie, shaking her head.

Farther down the table Roland Miller sat opposite Haggis O'Leary. "I think Dickie had something."

"What do you mean?" Haggis said.

"The idea that Adele could have injected a dose of creativity into the gene pool might have worked."

"Really?" said Haggis.

"The problem is how to convince her to partner with me," said Roland.

"Maybe that's not the your problem," said Haggis, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

"What do you mean?"

"When the girls were seducing Benny, were they asking him to partner with them?"

"Yes. Well, kind of," said Roland. "I heard they promised him all sorts of things, things to do with that cartoon show he's obsessed with."

"Exactly. They concocted a story, one he would fine pleasing," said Haggis. "You say you're one of the best writers of the 23rd century. It should be second nature to you."

"A story?" Roland frowned. "What kind of story could I create which would persuade Adele to partner with me?"

"I don't know, I'm not a writer, am I?" said Haggis.

"Maybe you were. After all, you still don't remember what your profession was on Earth, do you?"

"Not a clue," said Haggis. "But I'm nowhere as creative as you are. You're supposed to be the the world famous writer, not me! There's no way I could be a writer. I'm probably some minor functionary in the World Government, like most people are."

"Probably so," said Roland.

"But... even with my limited imagination, if I were a writer, and I had trouble thinking of a story idea, I would seek inspiration from another," said Haggis.

"Another?"

"Who was the most notable, the most famous writer of literature of our time?" Haggis asked.

Roland frowned, considering. "Betty Mae Pie?"

Betty Mae Pie.

Haggis frowned. Betty Mae Pie was certainly a famous author, but hardly for literature. She grinded out formulaic mur*er mysteries by the hundreds that were so similar to each other that all of them were forgettable. And most involved cats.

And this is Roland's example of the foremost writer of literature of the 23rd century?

"Fine," said Haggis. "If Miss Betty Mae Pie were to create a story and put Adele Johnson in it and try to motivate her to do what he wanted, what kind of scenario would she create?"

He watched as the wheels turned slowly in Roland's head. Roland was smarter than most on the Space Station, but in Haggis' opinion... that wasn't much of a distinction.

"Well, she's a writer of mur*er mysteries. I suppose... she'd write a mur*er mystery."

"Brilliant. Simply brilliant," said Haggis.

"A new group activity?" said Adele.

"Yes, a hotel mur*er mystery story," said Roland.

"Oh, it sounds exciting!" said Adele. "What are our parts?"

"We play a husband and wife team who has to solve the mur*er of the tennis instructor."

"Interesting! Who are the suspects?"

"We'll get to that," said Roland. "But we have to agree to partner with each other. Do you agree to partner with me?"

"Of course! Where do we begin?"

Where indeed?

They spent much of the day interviewing much of the hotel staff, starting with Hot Dog and Hamburger. Then Ship created holographic images of hotel staff who they could interview as well. Adele had an amazing time, following the story closely as if there were actually a mystery to solve. And then that evening Roland followed her back to her quarters.

"I had a wonderful time today!" said Adele.

"I did too," said Roland.

"Well.... this is where I say goodnight," said Adele.

"Goodnight?" said Roland. "But we're married. It's going to look strange if we don't share the same room."

"You... you want to sleep in my room?"

"The killer is going to know we aren't married if we sleep in separate rooms, won't he?"

"I... I guess." Her lips trembled. "Come in, Roland."

They lay together in bed, both unmoving. The tension was thick in the air.

I can't do this, Roland thought. There is no way I can get her to have sex with me.

But then something unexpected happened; Adele put a hand on him! Roland's eyebrows shot up as her hand slowly moved up and down his leg.

It had been a long time since Adele had been without a man. Her husband Rayner had died ten years before she was rescued by the Federationistas. Although Adele tried to deny it, she still felt the need for the comforts of the flesh. And having a real live man in her bed aroused her in a way she couldn't ignore.

Her hand moved higher up his leg, higher, higher, and higher... and then she felt it.

"Oh dear," She said. "I'm sorry to touch you like that. It's just.... I've been alone so long."

"Don't apologize," said Roland, caressing her withered arm. He kissed her. Her lips felt like wrinkled paper.

"It's been so long!" she said again, and that moment Roland knew that she would be his.

It was hardly the most pleasurable experience Roland had ever had, but much to his surprise he managed to climax inside of her, which pleased her. As they lay together afterwards Roland felt her old, bony, wrinkled body against his and asked himself, what am I doing?

The answer came immediately.

Trying to survive.

"So you've agreed to partner with Roland?" said Graylor.

"Yes," said Adele. "We're partnering to solve the mystery."

"The mystery?"

"Of the disappearing tennis instructor at the hotel."

Frog looked away. Bessie held her breath.

"I see," said Graylor, hissing softly with his forked tongue. He studied their gene plates. "Very well, this seems to be in order. I'll send it on."

Their joint result generated a combined score of 620, which was noticeably above average but not nearly close enough to the cherished score of 800 out of a thousand needed to win the Experiment.

"620? What does that mean? Is that a hotel room number where we'll get our next clue?" Adele asked.

Roland felt all eyes on him: Graylor, Frog, and Bessie. "No," he said. "It means, the mystery is over."

Oddly enough Adele seemed to accept the fact that their brief dalliance was over without any remorse. She was so used to creating and living in fantasy events at the hotel that she could step in and out of a fantasy whenever needed.

But her encounter with Roland had awakened something in her, a need she hadn't felt in a long time, and so when a hotel masseusse named Dickie Weymouth seduced her, she let him have his way with her. And then when the nuclear golf instructor Mr. Ansom put his hand on her bony arm, she let him have her way with her too. The respective scores from their paring was 520 and 480, and that was the end of anyone volunteering to massage Mrs. Johnson or to teach her the finer points of putting.

The following morning, after her failed partnering with Gavin Ansom, Hot Dog and Hamburger could be seen pulling a motorized stretcher through Algeria with Mrs. Johnson's powderized remains.

"She actually doesn't really look that different, even now," said Craig. "Would you care to fuck that, Dickie?"

"It's nothing to joke about," said Frog, who was following the procession. "Mrs. Johnson was a a very nice lady."

"A very nice lady who knew some of us better than others," said Craig, waggling his eyebrows.

"Did she pay her hotel bill before she checked out?" Gavin asked.

"Did she leave a big tip?" Ardis asked.

"And can I get her room?" Craig asked. "I hear it has a view of the beach."

Frog, being Frog, was incapable of showing facial expressions. She just turned away and followed the motorized stretcher out of the outdoor lounge.​