Russian Spring by Norman Spinrad Page B

opening bars of the theme from the
Superman
movie, and oh no, it was indeed some muscular dork poured into a full Superman suit, red cape and all, who stood there with his hands on his hips above her, and then, what the—
    A penis sprouted from the crotch of his costume, silvery and throbbing, and as the customers in the bar cheered, grew, and grew, and grew until it was about the size of a baseball bat. As the
Superman
theme played louder, and louder, and louder, the Man of Steel somehow managed to plunge the full length and width of it into the woman on the couch and began humping away.
    Jerry took a fiery slug of his drink, not really knowing what he was doing, and certainly not comprehending the impossible thing he was seeing!
    Superman humped and humped, and the redhead thrashed and thrashed, and then they both came. You could tell because sparks and stars and smiling sperm shot out of her ears and Superman was propelled backward off of her and out of the spotlight by the billowing red blast of a dick which had metamorphosed into a booster rocket complete with ornate Flash Gordon tailfins.
    The girl on the couch turned a sleek shiny black, her nipples glowed bright neon red, her ears grew and rounded, her eyes became wide white circles with central black dots, and yes, there she was, a lusciously buxom Minnie Mouse, rolling her eyes, grinning her wide cartoon smile, and ready for action.
    And here came Pluto, the canine klutz, scampering into the spotlight with a foot and a half of bright red tongue lolling out of his mouth, which he proceeded to apply between Minnie’s legs. . . .
    “Holy shit!” Jerry finally exclaimed. “It’s all a hologram!”
    “Better than anything in any of the Disneylands, n’est-ce pas?” André said dryly. “A triumph of French technology!”
    And so it was. Mickey Mouse dislodged Pluto, found himself being buggered by Donald Duck. Woody Woodpecker made it with Jessica Rabbit, the Michelin Rubber Man displayed an awesome flexibility,Daffy Duck, Porky Pig, Mr. Natural, Batman, and Wonder Woman, all joined in the general orgy.
    It was even more impressive when Humphrey Bogart and Marilyn Monroe and the American President and Adolf Hitler and James Dean and the Pope began to join in the action, along with a whole panoply of others, who from the jeers and hoots and laughter they drew from the crowd must have been famous French show-business personalities or politicians—for they must have done such stuff by holoanimating two-dimensional film library material, even black-and-white stills, and that took wizard programs and gigabytes of memory.
    And then the show metamorphosed again, into something that drew Jerry’s attention out of the bits and bytes of what he was seeing and into a marvelous and beautiful erotic reality.
    The crazy-quilt orgy melted into an equally crowded Indian erotic temple frieze, stonework turned sinuously and sleekly subtle to the drone and driving rhythm of sitar and tabla, breasts and thighs and legs and lingams and yonis moving in and out and around to the rising beat like a living arabesque of intertwined sensuality. . . .
    Becoming a classical Greek version of the same sexual tableau, pale white marble flesh, finely delineated musculature, rounded nippled breasts, strong thighs and clean athletic arms, noble visages under flowing ringlets, idealized realistic bodies moving against each other like gods and goddesses to the music of flute and lyre . . .
    And in turn transforming into a living painting of the high Renaissance in full rich oil tones and dancing chiaroscuro modeling, with violas and woodwinds, with fauns and full-fleshed nymphs of rosy-fleshed cheeks and tremulous buttocks . . . a Flemish realist version to a cerebral Bach fugue . . . a French Romantic version, all swirling bodies and Beethoven bombast . . . softening into the perpetual sunset and shimmering eroticism of Maxfield Parrish Art Deco damsels and fey swains to the