In the Deadlands by David Gerrold Page B

one he already had at home sitting on his dresser, but slightly larger and with an additional set of controls.
    â€œThe unit monitors the sensitive areas of both you and your partner,” said Wolfe. “It has a positive feedback reaction hooked into the guidance modules—all of which means that if your wife’s responses indicate that she will react well to certain types of stimulation, then the guidance system will trigger the impulse within you to provide that stimulation. You can resist these impulses if you want to, but why bother? The machine is your friend—it wants you to enjoy yourself.”
    John looked up at him. “It works both ways…?”
    â€œOh, yes, of course. She’ll be responding to your needs just as you’ll be responding to hers. Not only that, but the machine is programmed to guide you both to a simultaneous climax. That alone makes it all worthwhile.”
    â€œYes, well, I don’t know…”
    â€œI do know, Mr. Russell,” Wolfe said persuasively. “The machine lets you be more sensitive. Your score is thirty-four today. How would you like it to be sixty tomorrow? And it’ll get better as you become more experienced.”
    John shrugged. “You make it sound awfully good…”
    â€œIt is, Mr. Russell. It is. I use one of these units myself—that is, my wife and I do.”
    John looked at him. “You?”
    â€œI know it may seem hard to believe, but it’s true. Of course, I will admit that my wife and I never allowed our situation to reach the point that you and your wife have, but I can tell you that we have never regretted it.”
    â€œNever…?” asked John.
    â€œNever,” said Wolfe, and he smiled proudly.
    Act Three
    After the installation men had left, John looked at his wife as if to say, “Now what?”
    Marsha avoided his gaze. It was almost as if she were having second thoughts herself. “I’ll get dinner,” she said, and left the room.
    Dinner was a silent meal, and they picked at it without relish. John had an irritating feeling of impatience, yet at the same time he dreaded the moment that was rushing down on both of them. Neither of them referred to the new machine waiting in the bedroom.
    Finally, he pushed his plate away and left the table. He tried to interest himself in the television, but it was all reruns except for the movie, and he had seen that at the local theater last year—with Marsha, he remembered abruptly. He switched off the set disgustedly and picked up a magazine instead, but it was one that he had already read. He would have put it down, but Marsha came into the room, so he feigned interest in an article he had already been bored with once.
    Marsha didn’t speak; instead she pulled out her mending and began sewing a torn sock. From time to time she gave a little exhalation of breath that was not quite a sigh.
    It was his place to say something, John knew, but at the same time he didn’t want to—it would be too much effort. He didn’t feel like working at being nice tonight. He could feel the silence lying between them like a fence—and on either side of it the tethered dogs of their tempers waited for the unwary comment.
    John dropped the magazine to the floor and stared at the opposite wall, the blank eye of the TV. He glanced over at Marsha, saw that she was already looking at him. He glanced away quickly, began rummaging through the rack for another magazine.
    â€œYou know,” she said, “pretending that I’m not here won’t make me go away. If you don’t want to do it, just say so.”
    He dropped the magazine he was looking at, hesitated, then continued to rummage. “What’s your hurry?” he said.
    â€œYou’re just as curious as I am,” she answered.
    â€œNo, I’m not I really don’t think that it’s going to make that much difference. I only bought it for your