The Winds of Marble Arch and Other Stories by Connie Willis Page B

engaged to more than one person already.”
    “Boy, you’re sure wadgetty,” Brad said. “And you know why? Because you don’t have a gal of your own. Tell you what, you pick out one of mine, and I’ll give her to you. How about Sue?”
    Ulric walked over to the window. “I don’t want her,” he said.
    “I bet you don’t even know which one she is,” Brad said.
    I don’t, Ulricthought. They all sound exactly alike. They use interface as a verb and support as an adjective. One of them had called for Brad and when Ulric told her he was over at Research, she had said, “Sorry. My wetware’s nonfunctional this morning.” Ulric felt as if he were living in a foreign country.
    “What difference does it make?” Ulric said angrily. “Not one of them speaks English, which is probablywhy they’re all dumb enough to think they’re engaged to you.”
    “How about if I get you a gal who speaks English and you honeyfuggle Sally Mowen for me?” Brad said. He turned to the terminal and began typing furiously. “What exactly do you want?”
    Ulric clenchedhis fists and looked out the window. The dead cottonwood under the window had a kite or something caught in its branches. He debated climbingdown the tree and walking over to Mr. Mowen’s office to demand an apartment.
    “Makes no never mind,” Brad said when he didn’t answer. “I’ve heard you oratin’ often enough on the subject.” He typed a minute more and hit the print button. “There,” he said.
    Ulric turned around.
    Brad read from the monitor, “‘Wanted: Young woman who can generate enthusiasm for the Queen’s English, needs to use correctgrammar and syntax, no gobbledygook, no slang, respect for the language. Signed, Ulric Henry.’ What do you think of that? It’s the spittin’ image of the way you talk.”
    “I can find my own ‘gals,’” Ulric said. He yanked the sheet of paper as it was still coming out of the printer, ripping over half the sheet in a long ragged diagonal. Now it read, “Wanted: Young woman who can generate language.Ulric H.”
    “I’ll swop you horses,” Brad said. “If this don’t rope you in a nice little filly, I’ll give you Lynn when she gets back. It’ll cheer her up, after getting her name taken off the project and all. What do you think of that?”
    Ulric put the scrap of paper down carefully on the table, trying to resist the impulse to wad it up and cram it down Brad’s throat. He slammed the window up. Therewas a sudden burst of chilly wind, and the paper on the table balanced uneasily and then drifted onto the windowsill.
    “What if Lynn misses her plane in Cheyenne?” Ulric said. “What if she comes back here and runs into one of your other fiancées?”
    “No chance on the map,” Brad said cheerfully “I got me a program for that, too.” He tore the rest of the paper out of the printer and wadded it up.“Two of my fiancées come callin’ at the same time, they have to come up in the elevators, and there’s only two of them. They work on the same signals, so I made me up a program that stops the elevators between floors if my security code gets read in more than once in an hour. It makes an override beep go off on my terminal, too, so’s I can soft-shoe the first gal down the back stairs.” He stood up.“I gotta go over to Research and check on the waste emissions project again. You better find yourself a gal right quick. You’re givin’ me the flit-flats with all this unfriendly talk.”
    He grabbed hiscoat off the back of the chair and went out. He slammed the door, perhaps because he had the flit-flats, and the resultant breeze hit the scrap of paper on the windowsill and sailed it neatly outthe window.
    “Flit-flats,” Ulric mumbled to himself, and tried to call Mowen’s office. The line was busy.
    Sally Mowen called her father as soon as she got home. “Hi, Janice,” she said. “Is Dad there?”
    “He just left,” Janice said. “But I have a feeling he might stop by