Surfing the Gnarl by Rudy Rucker Page B

Denny.
    â€œWow,” said Silke.
    Up in the room they got to know each other. Denny showed Silke his phonebot and his sound system, pretended to start to play his guitar and to then decide not to, and told about some of the weird things he’d seen in the sky, looking out that broken pane. Silke, as it turned out, was a pay-vid sex dancer come here from West Virginia. She talked mostly in clear, but she was smart, and she liked to get wild, but only with the right kind of guy. Sex dancer didn’t mean hooker and she was, she assured Denny, clean. She had a big dream she wasn’t quite willing to tell him yet.
    â€œCome on,” he urged, popping the autowave food-packs open. “Decode.”
    â€œAh, I don’t know, Denny. You might think I’m skanky.”
    They sat side by side on Denny’s mattress and ate the pasty food with plastic spoons. It was good. It was good to have another person in the room here.
    â€Silke,” said Denny when they finished eating, “I’d been thinking Phil was kilp. Dook null. But if he got you here it was worth it. Seems I just need tech to relate, you wave?”
    Silke threw the empty foodtrays on the floor and gave Denny a big kiss. They went ahead and fluffed. It seemed like it had been a while for both of them. Skin all over, soft, warm, touch, kiss, lick, smell, good, skin.
    Afterwards, Denny opened the capsule of snap and they split it. You put the stuff’ on your tongue, it sputtered and popped, and you breathed in the freebase fumes. Fab rush. Out through the empty window pane they could see the moon and two stars stronger than the city lights.
    â€œOut there,” said Silke, her voice fast and shaky from the snap. “That’s my dream. If we hurry, Denny, we can be the first people to have sex in space. They’d remember us forever. I’ve been thinking about it, and there was always missing links, but you and Phil are it. We’ll get in the shuttlebox—it’s a room like this—and go up. We get up there and make videos of us getting under, and—this is my new flash—we use Phil to sell the vids to pay for the trip. You wave?”
    Denny’s long, maniacal smile curled across his face. The snap was still crackling on his tongue. “Stuzzadelic! Nobody’s fuffed in space yet? None of those gawks who’ve used the shuttlebox?”
    â€œThey might have, but not for the record. But if we scurry we’ll be the famous first forever. We’ll be starry.”
    â€œOxo, Silke.” Denny’s voice rose with excitement. “Are you there, Phil?”
    â€œYes, Denny.”
    â€œGot a new pitch. In clear.”
    â€Proceed.”
    â€œHi, this is Denny.” He nudged the naked girl next to him.
    â€œAnd this is Silke.”
    â€œWe’re doing a live fuff-vid we’d like to show you.”
    â€œIt’s called
Rapture in Space.
It’s the very first X-rated love film from outer space.”
    â€œZero gravity,” said Denny, reaching over to whang on his guitar.
    â€œEndless fun.”
    â€œMindless pleasure.”
Whang.
    â€œOut near the sun.” Silke nuzzled his neck and moaned stagily. “Oh, Denny, oh, darling, it’s …”
    â€œRAPTURE IN SPACE! Satisfaction guaranteed. This is bound to be a collector’s item; the very first live sex video from space. A full ninety minutes of unbelievable null-gee action, with great Mother Earth in the background, tune in for only fifty …”
    â€œMore, Denny,” wailed Silke, who was now grinding herself against him with some urgency. “More!”
    Whang.
“Only one hundred dollars, and going up fast. To order, simply leave your card number after the beep.”
    â€œBeep”
    Phil got to work the next morning, calling numbers of businesses where lots of men worked. The orders poured in. Lacking a business-front by which to cash the credit orders, Denny