In the Deadlands by David Gerrold Page A

“All right, I’ll concede that you might be enjoying yourself. It’s not unusual for a man to have a lower threshold than normal—but I can tell you that your wife is not enjoying her sex life—else she wouldn’t have called us. People only call us when they’re unhappy.” Wolfe paused, then asked suddenly, “You’re not cheating on her, are you?”
    â€œHell, no.”
    â€œHave you recently become a homosexual?”
    John shook his head. “Of course not.”
    â€œDo you use the fornixator?”
    â€œYou mean the mechanical masturbator?”
    Wolfe was impassive. “It’s been called that.”
    â€œNo, I don’t use it”
    â€œI see,” said Wolfe.
    â€œYou see what?”
    â€œI see that if you were cheating on her, or using the fornixator, you’d have found your own particular choice of sexual outlet. If you were, I’d get up and walk out of here right now. It’d be obvious why she isn’t enjoying sex with you—you’re not enjoying it with her. You’d be getting your satisfaction elsewhere, and there’d be nothing that I—or anyone—could do about it. But, if you still love her—and if she’s still your only sexual outlet…well, there is something I can do about that. You do love her, don’t you?”
    John hesitated. After a bit, “Well…yes, of course—”
    â€œYou want her to have the best, don’t you?”
    â€œSure, but—”
    â€œThen why don’t you want her to be sexually satisfied?”
    â€œI do, but—”
    â€œMr. Russell,” Wolfe said slowly, patiently as if explaining it to a child, “this is not the Victorian era. Women enjoy sex too.” He leaned forward and became very serious. “Look, man, if you’re sick, you go to a doctor and he makes you well again, doesn’t he?”
    â€œYeah, I guess so.”
    â€œSure, he does. Well, that’s why I’m here. If you’ve got a sick sex life, you want to make it better again, don’t you?”
    John nodded.
    Wolfe smiled, pleased at this concession. “You’ve got a monitor-reaction system now, don’t you? Well, that’s just for the diagnosis. But diagnosis isn’t enough—now you need the treatment.” Wolfe paused, noted the negative reaction on John’s face. He changed his tone, became more serious. “Look, man, your score is way down—down to thirty-four. Doesn’t that say to you that something’s wrong? You need one of our guidance units.”
    â€œI can’t afford it,” John mumbled.
    â€œYou can’t afford not to! This is to save your marriage, man! If you didn’t need it, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. We don’t lease our units to people who don’t need them. Do you actually want a divorce, Mr. Russell? Because that’s where you’re heading—”
    John shook his head.
    Then what’s your objection to the unit?”
    John looked at the other man. “I’m not a puppet.”
    Wolfe leaned back in his chair. “Oh, so that’s it.” He started to close his case, then hesitated. “I really should get up and leave, you know. I really should. You’ve just shown me how absolutely little you know about the unit. But I’ll stay—if only to clear up your misconceptions. I can’t stand to see a man misinformed—especially about my company. I’ve got to clear this thing up. The guidance unit is not a puppeteer. It is a guidance unit—that’s why it’s called a guidance unit. If it were a control unit, we’d have called it a control unit.”
    â€œOh,” said John.
    Wolfe rummaged around in his case, brought out a neat four-color photo. “Now, look. This is the unit—isn’t it a beaut?”
    John took the picture and looked at it. It showed a device resembling the