Don’t Bite the Sun by Tanith Lee (little red riding hood ebook free .TXT) 📕

edges. Green. Green and red. Purple.” The screen switched from color to shape, speeding up even faster. “Square. Circle. Cube. Sixth-dimensional cube. Fourth-dimensional rectangle. Circle. Octagon.” I couldn’t work out why all this was going on, but we rushed away to a succession of buildings and parks and things. Was he testing my eyesight? Or whether I could talk that fast? Then the buildings and parks started appearing in weird mists of color, with dragons kicking them over or sort of fire clouds going up all around them, and eventually I said, did he have to, it made me feel funny. I couldn’t help it, it did. And he looked really delighted, the floop.

After that we played a kind of game where a picture of a person or thing appeared, and I could direct objects at it, to which it responded accordingly. There were sky-boats I could lose in cloud, and a lovely shot of the Robotics Museum I floored with an enormous avalanche of syrup and fruit, and I chased grumpy quasi-robots with mechanical ants, and finally realized he’d lulled me and I was enjoying myself, that I’d probably done everything all wrong and proved I ought to go on being Jang for rorl upon rorl upon rorl. There was also some sort of unheard soothe-music about, making me relaxed and gaily irresponsible all over the place, or perhaps I shouldn’t have had that pill on the way down. I didn’t seem able to put the brake on.

After the pictures, we went on to three-dimensional images, with smell and sound and aura and so on.

I forget all the stuff we waded through. There was one of a snake-thing swallowing itself that kept cropping up, and a woman dressed in flames, dancing to drumbeats that nearly drove me mad wanting to have love with her, or be her having love with someone else, or something. I was getting confused. I honestly thought I was male once. You know, I just knew I was, only I wasn’t.

Then we had the last two images. The first was a young male glittering with Jang gear and great big angel’s wings, with long copper hair and mustache, and a beautiful male body. Oh, he was derisann. Then, next to him appeared this older man, soolka and a bit solid-looking. You could imagine him paying for everything, and calling you “my dear,” like Hatta does but more so. And it was so obvious that, even in my bemused state, I snapped alert, and when the quasi-robot pointed I was ready.

“What do you think of this young male?” he inquired, all smiles, and I steeled myself. I felt I was betraying the gorgeous, lovely, desirable being the Jang male was, condemning myself to a life without love with such as he. But I said coolly:

“Very nice. But those wings are a bore, aren’t they?” and that at least was what I usually felt even though, right now, I fancied him, wings and all.

The quasi-robot didn’t waver, however. Still all smiles, he pointed at the other male.

“And how about this?”

“Oh, he’s groshing, absolutely derisann! He drives me zaradann! I want him!”

And then—! The two images had swapped clothes, expressions, wings, everything. I felt utterly bewildered. I knew dimly this wasn’t fair to me somehow. I stared at the copper-haired young male in the soolka clothing and staid expression, and the older male all nudity and chains and gaiety, with two great silly wings flapping about behind him, and the quasi-robot said:

“And who do you prefer now?”

And it seemed all right. Really. Logical. The young male had been made into an Older Person, and the Older Person was Jang. I’d won. And I’d soon take the pompous look off that copper-haired ooma.

“Him,” I said, and I pointed at his now-hidden but beautiful chest.

And the quasi-robot looked pleased.

“Well, that’s right, isn’t it?” I cried. “He’s non-Jang, isn’t he? Absolutely soolka, in fact.”

“I’ve noticed,” the Q-R remarked, rather gently, “that you’ve used Jang-slang predominantly throughout our talk.”

“Well,” I snapped, “I’ve heard predominantly nothing else for a quarter rorl. What do you expect? And you haven’t answered my question. The young male is non-Jang now, isn’t he?”

“He is still,” the Q-R said, “a young male.”

And for the life of me I couldn’t see it, until the messenger had led me away for the physical examination, and I was on my back, being internally reviewed by scanners in the roof.

4

They checked me thoroughly, making sure nothing had gone amiss with my nerve units or brain likely to create depression or hysteria, and made notes on the way I had designed my latest body. It was a Jang body, of course—not a weirdo body for Essential Experience like Hatta’s little efforts, it is true—but Jang nevertheless, at its carefree and most flower-like best. They also went through files on my other recent bodies, and I suppose they were all the same. They tested my reactions to ecstasy and energy, and even put me in a trance-state, in which I thought I was marrying that gorgeous, copper-haired male for the afternoon and then having love with him. I must admit it was derisann, but when I woke up again, I knew I’d sunk like a stone.

Even the silver-water cordial they gave me, to lend me strength to face the Committee Hall again, was a sort of test.

I went through the subway on a sledge, alone this time. A robot had apparently taken my bee and the pet on ahead of me to my bubble.

A messenger led me back into the round room with the water carpet, and I sat down in the floating chair again, opposite my original interviewing Q-R.

“Ah yes,” he said benevolently. “Not too exhausted, I hope. These tests are rather sapping, I’m afraid.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Well?”

He smiled.

“Well.” He spread immaculate hands. “I think you know already.”

“You refuse to send me on to the next stage?”

“You’re not ready, my dear young lady. Your mentality, your tastes, your appetites are still