Prescription for Chaos - By Christopher Anvil Page 0,2
should—if he should—well, come up after your date, you're to use the rolov, do you understand?" Her mother's voice rose warningly. "Not yourself, do you understand?"
"Yes, Mother," Maryn mumbled.
"I don't want you to feel hurt, Maryn, but you simply wouldn't do. What's the use of having these great technical advances, if we don't use them? I've set the rolov so it will have your exact foundation, and he'll never know the difference. That way you'll both have a better time. Well, I'm glad that's settled. Have a good time, dear."
"Yes, Mother," murmured Maryn. The egg snicked open and Maryn stepped out. She raised her hands and felt the soft voluptuous curves of the dead plastic fastened upon her. She was now, according to the advertisement, "—Reborn—With mystery, with glamour, with the body beautiful to make men lie at your feet and cry aloud for your favor." She had, according to the advertisement, left behind the drabness of her "everyday self." Well, most of it anyway. Maryn stuck her head into another pink pastel egg to get rid of the rest of it.
"Hurry, Maryn," said her mother, as Maryn stood with her head in the egg.
"Glub," said Maryn. The egg ejected her head.
"Hurry," said her mother's voice.
"Yes, Mother," said Maryn. She stepped on the rug, dug in her toes and slid to the dressing machine. This sat like a great metal spider behind a flowered screen in the corner of the room. All the craft of a hundred designers had yet to make a dressing machine attractive, and Maryn approached it with the remains of childhood dread. Once she had started it, the long shiny metal arms flashed over her and Maryn lost her fear in boredom. She was always at first a little afraid the machine would spin a cocoon around her and hang her up for a trophy, but as usual it dutifully spun a dress about her. This time Maryn was surprised to find the dress a trifle tighter than usual.
"Maryn," said her mother's voice.
"Yes, Mother?"
"You're in the dressing machine, aren't you?"
"Yes, Mother." Maryn raised her legs alternately for the shoes and stockings.
"Hurry," said her mother. "And don't reset the machine. I have it set properly now."
Maryn stood stock still till the dressing machine went click and a series of chimes played a tune, signifying that milady might now profitably move on to the finisher. Maryn pressed down heel and toe and slid around the screen to a pastel rose-and-gilt box about the size and shape of an upended coffin. Double doors popped open and a light lit up the wine colored interior. Maryn stepped in.
"Hurry, Maryn," came her mother's muffled voice.
"Yes, Mother," said Maryn. She shut her eyes and stood still as a hundred tiny nozzles opened and squirted perfume. A hot breeze fluffed her hair.
Somewhere outside, a chime announced the arrival of Jackson Mellibant VII.
"Hurry, Maryn," said her mother's voice, in a special peremptory tone. As a child, Maryn had been greatly impressed by the memory box. Now she understood that her mother had merely sat down for a minute and rattled off her comments, touching the spacer button to put three minutes between this one and the next, and setting a special comment to be made when the dressing machine went on and another to be said when the front door chimed.
The finisher opened up and Maryn stepped out onto the travel rug. On her way out, she had a brief glance at herself in a full length mirror. To an outsider, the effect was designed to be one of lush beauty, combined with serene sophistication and impeccable breeding. Maryn herself had the impression she was watching a popular solido heroine setting out on her stereotyped adventure for the Caswell Brewing Co.
"Remember, Maryn," hissed her mother's voice, "use the rolov, not yourself."
"Yes, Mother," groaned Maryn, as she slid out the bedroom door and down the hall to the living room. She sighed miserably and ran her tongue over her teeth. Their surface felt unnaturally slick and slippery, and Maryn realized that somewhere along the line they had received a coating of Shinywhite. She wondered where. Momentarily distracted by this question, she did not at first see the tall, handsome, sophisticated, and impeccably-bred figure of Jackson Mellibant VII. She caught only the tail end of his flashing smile as he pivoted on his rug and raised his arm. Together, the two of them slid out the door and down the spiral ramp to the waiting car.