quickly an analysis of the annual fiscal expenditure on Sirius V can quell the fire within?”
There were the same problems with the prototype’s taste in art, in music, even in women. Each woman wanted to think she was the only one for him, but that meant reprogramming him each time, so that at noon he loved slender blondes and at two he loved pudgy redheads and at four he loved drunken brunettes.
I had run through most of my money without a single one of my female volunteers agreeing that I’d created Mister Right. Then, when ***Lance Sterling*** sent word that he’d like to spend another week with me, I gave the android to the first woman who asked for him (she later dismembered him with a butcher knife) and went back to my former life, convinced that Mister Right was as much an unattainable dream as the Perfect Woman.
So don’t you denigrate Faraway Jones. A love like that means a lot more to a woman than most of the things I built into Mister Right.
“Actually, there are nineteen perfect women in the universe,” said Catastrophe Baker to the room at large. “I’ve been with thirteen of them, and I’ve got almost half my life left to hunt up the other six.”
“So you really knew ***Lance Sterling***?” said Little Mike Picasso.
“Yes, I did,” answered Sinderella.
“He’s one of my heroes,” said Little Mike wistfully. “I always wanted to paint his portrait.”
“I wouldn’t have minded meeting up with him myself,” chimed in Gravedigger Gaines. “Heroes like him are few and far between.”
“I heard all kinds of stories about how he died,” said Three-Gun Max. “I wonder if anyone knows what really happened?”
“One of us does,” said Nicodemus Mayflower.
“You heard it?” asked Max.
“I lived it. I was there.”
“Sure you were,” scoffed Max.
“It’s true!” said Mayflower heatedly, and skinny as he was, I again was struck by how much his lean, angular face looked like my notion of Satan. “I spent ten years with him, fighting villains and evildoers!”
“I don’t believe it,” said Max. “There are heroes so big they blot out the stars for parsecs. He was one of them. Why would he bother with you ?”
“I can find out if he knew him,” offered Sinderella. Everyone turned to her. “He had a scar on his shoulder. Describe it.”
“A scar?” repeated Mayflower. “I always thought it was a tattoo. It looked like a big, bloody L.”
“Is he right?” asked Max.
Sinderella nodded her head. “He’s right.”
“Not everyone’s a freelance hero or soldier of fortune,” said Mayflower with just a touch of bitterness. “Some of us function better in structured situations.”
“I can’t imagine why,” said Baker.
“Save the arguments for some other time,” said Max. He turned to Mayflower. “Okay, you knew him. So let’s hear how he died, and how many of the enemy he took with him.”
“From everything I’ve heard about him,” said Little Mike Picasso, “he’d have sold his life so dearly that they’d have needed one hell of a mass grave for the men who finally took him down.”
“Do you want to hear about it, or do you want to tell me about it?” demanded Mayflower irritably.
“Let’s have it,” said Max.
The Untimely Death of ***Lance Sterling***
To begin with (said Nicodemus Mayflower), he wasn’t born ***Lance Sterling***. His real name was Mortimer Smurch. I once asked him why he changed it, and he asked me if I’d lay down my life for a man named Mortimer Smurch, and I thought about it for a few minutes and never asked him again.
By the time he was nineteen he was dedicated to freeing oppressed people, human or alien, wherever he found them. He knew it would be dangerous, so that’s when he decided to wear the mask.
“If he didn’t want to call attention to himself, why did he wear that shining silver outfit with the cape?” asked Max.
“You want to hear this or not?” said Mayflower.
“All right, all right, I
There were the same problems with the prototype’s taste in art, in music, even in women. Each woman wanted to think she was the only one for him, but that meant reprogramming him each time, so that at noon he loved slender blondes and at two he loved pudgy redheads and at four he loved drunken brunettes.
I had run through most of my money without a single one of my female volunteers agreeing that I’d created Mister Right. Then, when ***Lance Sterling*** sent word that he’d like to spend another week with me, I gave the android to the first woman who asked for him (she later dismembered him with a butcher knife) and went back to my former life, convinced that Mister Right was as much an unattainable dream as the Perfect Woman.
So don’t you denigrate Faraway Jones. A love like that means a lot more to a woman than most of the things I built into Mister Right.
“Actually, there are nineteen perfect women in the universe,” said Catastrophe Baker to the room at large. “I’ve been with thirteen of them, and I’ve got almost half my life left to hunt up the other six.”
“So you really knew ***Lance Sterling***?” said Little Mike Picasso.
“Yes, I did,” answered Sinderella.
“He’s one of my heroes,” said Little Mike wistfully. “I always wanted to paint his portrait.”
“I wouldn’t have minded meeting up with him myself,” chimed in Gravedigger Gaines. “Heroes like him are few and far between.”
“I heard all kinds of stories about how he died,” said Three-Gun Max. “I wonder if anyone knows what really happened?”
“One of us does,” said Nicodemus Mayflower.
“You heard it?” asked Max.
“I lived it. I was there.”
“Sure you were,” scoffed Max.
“It’s true!” said Mayflower heatedly, and skinny as he was, I again was struck by how much his lean, angular face looked like my notion of Satan. “I spent ten years with him, fighting villains and evildoers!”
“I don’t believe it,” said Max. “There are heroes so big they blot out the stars for parsecs. He was one of them. Why would he bother with you ?”
“I can find out if he knew him,” offered Sinderella. Everyone turned to her. “He had a scar on his shoulder. Describe it.”
“A scar?” repeated Mayflower. “I always thought it was a tattoo. It looked like a big, bloody L.”
“Is he right?” asked Max.
Sinderella nodded her head. “He’s right.”
“Not everyone’s a freelance hero or soldier of fortune,” said Mayflower with just a touch of bitterness. “Some of us function better in structured situations.”
“I can’t imagine why,” said Baker.
“Save the arguments for some other time,” said Max. He turned to Mayflower. “Okay, you knew him. So let’s hear how he died, and how many of the enemy he took with him.”
“From everything I’ve heard about him,” said Little Mike Picasso, “he’d have sold his life so dearly that they’d have needed one hell of a mass grave for the men who finally took him down.”
“Do you want to hear about it, or do you want to tell me about it?” demanded Mayflower irritably.
“Let’s have it,” said Max.
The Untimely Death of ***Lance Sterling***
To begin with (said Nicodemus Mayflower), he wasn’t born ***Lance Sterling***. His real name was Mortimer Smurch. I once asked him why he changed it, and he asked me if I’d lay down my life for a man named Mortimer Smurch, and I thought about it for a few minutes and never asked him again.
By the time he was nineteen he was dedicated to freeing oppressed people, human or alien, wherever he found them. He knew it would be dangerous, so that’s when he decided to wear the mask.
“If he didn’t want to call attention to himself, why did he wear that shining silver outfit with the cape?” asked Max.
“You want to hear this or not?” said Mayflower.
“All right, all right, I
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