The Parallel Man by Richard Purtill

men and women whose badges proclaimed them as starcrew. We felt foolish, but we felt human again.
    It was late and I headed for the starport gates, planning to get some proper rest and head for the castle in the morning. A small man in brown caught my attention with a courteous gesture as I strolled away from the theater and I paused to see what he wanted of me. On closer inspection there was something rather unpleasant about his smooth manner and foppish appearance, and I regretted not having ignored him. He came to my side and spoke in a low rapid voice, not looking at my face; “The honorable startrader may wish to complete his emotional recovery by sampling our wares,” he said, “the finest gynas, perfect simulacra of the most beautiful women in the Commonwealth, programmed for your pleasure. . .”
    I did not completely understand what he was offering, but I understood well enough to be disgusted. “Be off with you!” I said and raised my hand as if to cuff him. He cringed and slid off into the shadows.
    “Good for you, flitter,” said a woman’s voice behind me. I turned to see a richly dressed woman of considerable beauty, with a hardness to her voice and features that let me guess her profession. “Too many flitters are spending their credit on those mechanical dolls. Afraid of a real woman, most of them. If you’re not, I’ll give you a special rate for sending that puppet pimp about his business.”
    I gave her a grin. “Not tonight, my pretty one. But good hunting,” I said. She gave a little trill of laughter, raised a hand in salute and strolled languidly off, her eyes searching the faces of the men who were emerging from the theater.
    Back aboard Argo I found Pellow lying on his bunk and told him of my adventures. He nodded dully, still wrapped in emotional freeze. “Yes, blackouts will do the job all right, but I don’t want out of freeze until I leave this ship,” he said. “It will be bad enough knowing I can’t flit again except as a passenger without living in crew quarters and seeing starflitters about me every day. I’ll look for lodgings in the city tomorrow, I think. What about you?”
    I hesitated, “I may know more after tomorrow. Don’t leave Argo for good without leaving me word of where I can find you.” He nodded listlessly and was stretching out again as I asked, “These gynas the man spoke of, what are they? The bawdy called them dolls, and puppets . . .”
    Pellow shrugged. “That’s what they are, mechanicals just like andros, Technically I suppose they’d have to expose the blue dome under their wigs if they ever went out of doors But you’ll never find them outside a bawdy house. Physically they’re a perfect replica of a woman but their programming is pretty limited; they’re made for only one thing. The ones that are replicas of famous actresses and other well known women are kept in pretty tight seclusion; their owners would be in big trouble if the duplication could be proved. You hear stories of women who’ve been copied without their permission hiring wilders to break up a bawdy house and destroy the gynas. On the other hand, you hear stories of 3V stars who let themselves be duplicated for a share of the profits.”
    I groped for a way to put the question I wanted to ask without exposing my ignorance. “The andros—I’ve seen none of them here so far.”
    Pellow shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t expect to see any here. They can’t flit, the effect of Q on them are too unpredictable. A general-purpose andro like we were pretending to be costs a small fortune to build; more than most cits make in five years. It’s not worthwhile making them on a backwater planet like this; there are humans to do even the most menial jobs. Gynas are another matter; you can always peddle exotic sex, especially near a starport.”
    I fell into my bunk, my head whirling. The “andros,” then, were some sort of doll or puppet, moved by enchanters’ arts. No wonder they