Starblood

it was nothing more than a computer structuring sentences from a tape storage unit—Polly London was wealthy enough to be able to dispense with human servants. The voice asked, "Who is calling, please?"
    "Timothy," he said. "Of
Enterstat
," he added in belated clarification. "I have an appointment for two o'clock."
    There was a pause as the computer checked out that assertion. Crimson and yellow explosions burst across the screen. Then the computer said, "Would you please touch your fingers to the identification plate below the comscreen so that your prints may be checked with your records in the city computer?"
    "I have no hands," Ti said, amused by the machine's lack of data. "Can't you make visual confirmation against my description in central files?"
    "Highly unusual," the computer said.
    "But I have no hands."
    The colors vanished from the screen, were replaced with humming whiteness as the computer used its own visual scanners to examine him. The colors returned in a minute. "You may have admittance."
    "Thank you."
    To his left, a blue and silver abstract mural slid away, revealing an elevator entrance. Inside, he was not required to push a button or pull a lever for her floor. Her private computer secretary and odd-jobber now controlled the rising cage. Indeed, it was likely that no one but Polly London and the building superintendent knew which floor was hers. With individualized computer butlers like this, all anyone living here would need as an address was Cochran Towers West. The ultimate in privacy…
    From the elevator, the computer directed him, in soft tones issuing from wall speakers along the way, down a corridor carpeted in brown-black carpet much like fur. The walls were richly paneled in teak and indented every forty feet where an apartment door lead off the common hall. The doors were not uniform in design, though each managed to fit tastefully with the decor of the hall—if one considered ornateness tasteful. Polly London's door was nordic in design, a heavy slab of wood that seemed ancient, though the weathering had probably all been done by hand in a week. The border was a fresco of Viking faces, helmets, ships, costumes, and words. In the center of the door was a heavy iron knocker. The fingerprint lock identification circle was concealed in the design of a fighting ship under full sail. There was, of course, no handle; if the door refused to open to your prints, then you were not authorized entrance anyway.
    The door began to roll open under the power of a rollamite device that could handle its two or three hundred pounds with ease. "This way," the nether-world voice of the computer said. "To your right."
    He went down a long hallway, turned to his right through an arch, and floated into a plushly furnished room whose walls were a mixture of natural rock and teak wood, blending in and out so smoothly and repeatedly that he felt certain his eyes must be deceiving him. To his left, a waterfall meandered down a section of the wall that was stone and had been thrust into the chamber in descending steps. The water splashed into a pool where live flowers floated over multicolored stones that radiated upward through the pool as if they were precious gems. The floor was as thickly carpeted as the hall. The furniture—great, marshmallow-like beige pieces that looked enormously comfortable and resembled mushrooms growing lazily out of the floor—was broken by stone end tables and storage units. Sitting in one of these beige mushrooms, next to a stone table, was the most beautiful woman Timothy had ever seen…
    She was tall, but that only meant her legs were marvelously long and sensual Her figure, in all areas, was perfect, with a narrow waist and full, upthrust breasts. Her face was angelic, but not so perfect as to be sterile. Her nose was almost too pert, small and upturned. Her
eyes
were wide-set but lovely, a startling shade of green that reminded him of seawater or lime candy. Her buttery yellow hair framed her face, ended teasingly at the points of her breasts where they pushed against the fabric of her dress.
    None of the hundreds of pictures he had seen of her had done her justice. She had a childlike grace and beauty combined with the sensuality of a grown woman, a quality photographs could never convey. He was glad that his withered organs were indicative of a withered interest. He had never been aroused by a woman; that was fortunate, for he could not have borne normal desires trapped