George Alec Effinger - Slow, Slow Burn

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Science Fiction

By George Alec Effinge

contemporary

Slow, Slow Burn

by George Alec Effinger

Fictionwise

www.fictionwise.com

This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either

are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any

resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely

coincidental.

First published in Playboy, May 1988

NOTICE: This ebook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or

distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other

means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to

severe fines and/or imprisonment.

COVER DESIGN BY CHRIS HARDWICK

This ebook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

Slow, Slow Burn

by George Alec Effinger

"All right, this is the way I picture it: We're in a busy midtown

brass-and-fern bar, OK? Table on the sidewalk, umbrella says

CINZANO on it, we'll see. Two women poking at salads, glasses of

white wine. They're dressed very nice, expensive but not flashy,

they pay attention to details, they accessorize, know what I mean?

One's older, see, she's the mother, though you don't see the age

difference. They could be sisters. Both blondes. The older one's got

kind of a suit on, she's the dynamic woman on the go. The daughter

sort of mirrors that, a subtle thing, nice blouse that says she's

shopping the right stores, and she's never more than fifteen minutes

out of style. This is like ‘Beauty Hints of the Idle Rich’ or something.

"So the girl is toying with her radicchio, see, and she puts her

fork down and goes, ‘Mother, may I ask you a personal question?'

"Mom says, ‘Of course, darling.'"

Slow, Slow Burn

by George Alec Effinger

Daughter looks down at her plate, she's just a little bit

embarrassed. That's good, makes her human. Audience will relate to

that. She looks back up and goes, ‘Mother, have you and Dad ever

used'—pause for effect—'modular marital aids?'

"Big smile. Maybe she, you know, reaches out and pats the kid's

hand. Like: There, there. She says, ‘Let me tell you a secret, dear.’

She laughs. The daughter laughs. Then Mom reaches into her bag,

see, and what do you think she takes out? Take a guess."

* * * *

Two account executives have flown all the way from America to

talk with Honey Pílar, who, everyone agrees, is the most desirable

woman in the world. Even account executives want her, though their

motives are mixed, and that's why these two anxious men have

come from New York to Honey's walled estate in the south of France.

She is sitting at a long table made of polished limba, an exotic

hardwood from the Congo basin that not even the architectural

Slow, Slow Burn

by George Alec Effinger

magazines know about yet. Beside her is her husband, Kit, who likes

to think of himself as her manager. The adman's throat is very dry

after his speech, yet he is too self-conscious to sip from the fluted

glass of Perrier-Jouët in front of him. He glances quickly at his

associate, but it is easy to see that he can expect no help from that

quarter.

Kit stares, but he's not going to say anything. The silence goes on

and on. The hopeful smile the adman is wearing begins to vanish. He

looks again at his associate, who is still no help whatsoever.

“On the phone, I think we discussed the kids’ market,” says Kit,

just as they reach the breaking point. He purses his lips and turns to

Honey, who is sipping Campari and soda through a straw. “She

doesn't like it. I don't like it. Come back with something else.”

The adman lays his sweating hands on the beautiful glossy

tabletop. “Miss Pílar?” he says hopelessly.

Slow, Slow Burn

by George Alec Effinger

“Kit doing business,” she says and shrugs. When she smiles, both

account executives are inspired with possible new approaches. The

sound of her voice, they tell themselves, is something, after all. The

opportunity to meet with her again will motivate them to find just

the pitch she and Kit are looking for. “You have nice flight,” she

says.

* * * *

Kit is in the control room, watching his wife on the bed with a 17-

year-old Italian boy. Kit watches them through the grimy glass,

wishing he'd worn a shirt, because he is sweating heavily in the hot,

stale air of the studio and his naked back is sticking to the black

vinyl padding of the chair. He peels himself away and leans forward,

checking meters and digital readouts that don't really need checking.

Honey is a consummate performer. It's as if she had an accurate

Slow, Slow Burn

by George Alec Effinger

internal clock ticking behind her forehead, cuing her: 00:00 initiate

encounter, 00:30 initiate foreplay with passionate kiss, 00:45

experience preliminary arousal.... They are seven minutes, ten

seconds into the 30-minute recording. By the outline on Kit's

clipboard, Honey is supposed to begin oral stimulation at 07:15, and

goddamn, if she isn't already sliding down the boy's tanned body. No

cue cards, she doesn't even need hand signals. Kit pretends to check

the levels again, then turns away from the big glass window.

Kit had his brain wired long before he met Honey. If he wanted, he

could jack into a socket on the board and feel just what the Italian

boy is feeling, or he could jack into another socket and eavesdrop on

Honey. Kit doesn't need to peek on the boy's responses, because

he's been married to Honey for five years, and she's every bit as

good live, in person, as she is on cassette. At the age of 45, Honey

Pílar is still the most desired woman in the world. One out of every

Slow, Slow Burn

by George Alec Effinger

eight moddies—of all kinds—sold through the big modshop chains is

a Honey Pílar sex moddy. Kit has never been her partner in any of

them.

At 14:20, Honey and the boy curl together on their sides. Honey's

eyes are closed, her face flushed. The boy is naked except for a pair

of black matte-finish sunglasses. Drops of sweat glisten on his

hairless chest. Kit stands up and turns away again. He leaves the

control room, sure that nothing out of the ordinary will happen. He

wanders down the long hall. He kicks off his deck shoes and feels

the pile carpet warm on the soles of his feet. There is the strong

odor of stale beer in the hall, as if several cans had soaked the floor

recently and no one had cared to do anything about it. None of the

windows are open, and it is even hotter in the hall than in the

control room. Kit pushes open the scarred blond-wood door at the

end of the hall. He is in another control room. He chases a green

Slow, Slow Burn

by George Alec Effinger

lizard the size of his hand from the padded chair and sits behind the

board. He stares at meters and digital readouts. They are all

flickering at safe levels.

Beyond the glass, a young woman in a torn T-shirt and a bikini

bottom sits at a microphone, clutching a sheaf of typewritten pages.

Kit knows that she works for some revolutionary organization, but

there are too many even to begin to guess which one. She reads the

pages in a slow, husky voice. Kit thinks her voice is pretty damn

sexy. He likes everything about this girl, what little he knows. He

likes her bikini bottom, her torn shirt, her rumpled black hair and the

way she talks. After a moment, Kit hears what she is reading.

"Achtung! Achtung!" she says. Her voice has no accent, neither

German nor otherwise. She has brown skin, pale full lips and

Oriental eyes. "Achtung! Dreihundertneunundsiebzig....

Fünfundzwanzig." Then she begins reading a list of five-digit

Slow, Slow Burn

by George Alec Effinger

numbers. She reads 25 groups of digits, meaningful only to the

audience listening to her frequency, reading the key to her code.

"Ende," she says. A moment later, after shifting to another

frequency, she begins again in Spanish. "¡Atención!

¡Atención!" More numbers, more signals. Kit would like to buy

the brown-skinned girl a drink, look into her black eyes, ask her if

she knows who might be listening to her broadcast.

Kit leaves the control room. She has never looked up, never

known for an instant that he was there. Kit walks back down the

stifling hallway. As he enters the small room, he sees Honey astride

the Italian boy. Kit checks the clock on the board, checks the script.

The recording is still precisely on schedule. He hasn't been missed.

Just as the girl at the microphone did not know he was there, Honey

does not know he has been gone.

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