Logan's Run by William F Nolan, George Clayton Johnson

numbing blow.
    “Sandfella must behave or runnergirl die,” said Rutago. “Gotta earn the antidote.”
    One of the females approached Logan with a first-aid kit. “Sandfella turnabout,” she ordered. He obeyed.
    The girl severed the tapewire binding his wrists. Then she gentled away his torn shirt, exposing the crusted wounds along his back. She adjusted the kit, placed it at the top of one of the deep cuts and drew it slowly downward. A trail of fresh pink synthaskin formed behind it as the wound healed. She tended his other cuts and abrasions, while a second female treated Jess.
    Logan was given a clean white shirt and boots for his bruised feet.
    The antidote. Logan knew he could not take Jess away without it. Even if they broke free he couldn’t take her to a populated area, where the antidote might be found, because of her palm flower. As a runner she’d be doomed. But did they really have the antidote here? The gypsy might be lying. Yet he’d have to trust them. He had no other choice.
    “How do I earn the antidote?” Logan asked Rutago.
    The gypsy smiled, nodded toward the pleasure girls. They crowded close to Logan. Blue eyes, brown eyes, hazel eyes, green eyes, golden eyes, gray eyes, radiated heat.
    “And what happens to Jess?”
    Rutago scooped the jewelry back into the saddlebag. He then regally offered Jessica his hand and escorted her up the stairs.
    One of the males said sweetly, “Rutago he a Ribbonrider, but also he a loverman. After he, the rest of we. Runnergirl a lucky one.”
    The seven pleasure girls guided Logan out of the main room, along a hallway, into a chamber at the rear of the saloon, a boudoir, dominated by an Emperor bed over which was spread a pale snow coverlet of imported satin.
    Led by Graygirl, the females removed Logan’s clothing. They led him to the cleansing room, adjusted the temperature to blood heat, and pushed him under the needle suds. He was dried by warm air currents, scented and powdered. Then he was given an injection of Everlove.
    In the boudoir the girls awaited him. They were all golden nude and reclined at the foot of the bed on which lay Graygirl. She was somber and colorless and lovely. She took Logan’s hand as he walked over to her, gazed up into his eyes, and smiled a sleek cat’s smile. “Wild me, Sandfella,” she said to him in a husky voice. She ran her fingers along his thigh. “Bedabye me.”
    And the others smiled with her. The green-eyed females said, “Wild she, Sandlover. Then wild we!”
    The first orgasm was good.
    The second was all right.
    The third orgasm was bad.
    The fourth orgasm was painful.
    The fifth orgasm was agony.
    The sixth orgasm was damnation.
    And where was Jess, and what were they doing to her? And where was the antidote?

    In the upstairs room Rutago lay waiting. The floor was spread with his jewels and glittered: a lake of gemfire. The cleansing room door opened.
    Rutago nodded. “Come you runnergirl me.”
    Jessica moved toward him over the jeweled floor, her face emotionless. She wore a flowrobe of silver mesh.
    The gypsy peeled away her robe, pulled Jess down upon him.
    She was wood.
    He stroked and petted her.
    She was wood.
    He kissed her deeply, fondled her with desperate hands. She was wood.

    Jessica stood at the long bar while Rutago paced. His face was flushed and angry. “Keep your promise,” said Logan. “Give her the—”
    “Antidote, no! ”
    Logan tensed his fists. “We both did what you wanted.”
    Rutago smiled savagely at Jess. “Cheated by a runnergirl. Didn’t try hard enough. Now we use another lift.”
    “Pull a tooth of runnergirl,” said one of the males brightly. “Maybe pull a fingernail.”
    “Gotta me another lift,” said Rutago, waving aside the suggestion. He eyed Logan jealously. “Sandfella’s gonna do it.”
    Logan read the effects of the poison in Jess. Her face was ashen, her breathing shallow. The Hemodrone was running her blood. And, for the moment, there was nothing