Levels: The Host by Peter Emshwiller

woman had not been a professional. No money changed hands. She and the donor had engaged in a Sexsentral “layperson’s lay.” With so many different types out seeking pleasure, this was not uncommon.
    After the drinking and the sex, Watly’s donor rode the big prick out of The Prick and began to wander the streets of Sexsentral. It was dripping heavier than it had been earlier. Had Watly been in charge, he would have pulled out a hat for protection, but he really didn’t mind going without. The donor didn’t even know Watly had a hat, having never checked the pockets. Oh, well. If the donor didn’t mind getting dripped on every few steps, then neither did Watly. Fine and bolehole dandy.
    The booze had left Watly slightly light-headed, but fortunately not drunk. When the drinking first began, Watly had had another panic attack. Don’t get us drunk, my friend. Please keep your head. Our head. But the three drinks spread over time (and a lot of bouncy-wouncy) had only loosened them up a bit. Watly had been deeply grateful the donor hadn’t gone farther. That could have been dangerous. The moderation probably hadn’t been out of any sense of responsibility. No, more likely the donor hadn’t wanted to jeopardize his sexual gymnastics. Three times in as many hours could sometimes be difficult enough sober. As they walked, Watly wondered if maybe this hosting would be wearing off soon. It must have been over four hours already. Maybe it would end shortly. Maybe he’d get out.
    The thought of being free soon—of being in control again—gave Watly another powerful spasm of claustrophobia. Think narrowly, Watly. He pulled his mental reins and started the chant.
    The me is not the body.
    The me is not the body.
    The me is neither hand nor face nor sex.
    The me is Watly Caiper, I.
    (A sense of self.)
    The body is an it.
    The body is a that.
    It could belong to another.
    For the me is a movable thing.
    The me is a movable thing.
    The donor was heading west to a more desolate area of Sexsentral. He seemed to be wandering aimlessly. Killing time. Looking for action.
    There were fewer daylites in this area, and those that did work were in bad disrepair. It was obvious no one—person or machine—had been around to clean in a while, if ever. The streets were filthy and there were piles of garbage in huge drifts against some of the buildings. Wild cats were everywhere. A few floaters careened wildly overhead, bouncing against buildings, girders, against the dark, corroded-looking ceiling, and against each other. There were hardly any other pedestrians in the area. Unattractive people of both sexes (and some in-between) stood in the shadows of doorways and whispered, “Sets! Good sets! You wanna have sets?” as the donor passed. When they were a few steps behind they’d yell up ahead to their associates, “Hosting comin’ up on ya! Cuffer comin’ up with a bag!”
    Watly was getting hinky. They were on Forty-fourth Street approaching Eleventh Avenue. This was not the best of neighborhoods. Don’t get any stupid ideas, donor. How about we turn back?
    Watly became aware that his body was sweating and his breathing was shallower. At first he thought it was his own fear showing. Then he realized it was the donor. The donor was scared. Or was it excitement? It was hard to tell. The two emotions had similar manifestations. Watly saw the dark street zip back and forth as the donor began scanning rapidly. The eyes blurred some.
    “Cuffer comin’ up wit’ a bag!”
    “You wan’ sets, mister?”
    “Hey donor! Wan’ some sets cheap?”
    “Low-tech sets right here on the street? I make you happy good.”
    An unmanned copper whizzed by, going too fast to do anyone any good. Watly’s feet kept walking. Where are you heading, you sofdick beanhead? he thought. You want to get us killed? At least try to cover the cuff. And the bag.
    “Donor moving up on ya!”
    “Sets?”
    Just when Watly thought the donor might reconsider the