Early on the morning of her forty-second birthday, Thelma Vole stood naked inside the closet in which her four MALE robots hung and debated which one to pack for her trip to the Bureau conference. Boss Vole, as she was known in the office, had a knot of dull anger in her jaw and it pulsed with her thoughts. She hated business trips. She hated hotels. She hated the youngsters who were her peers in the Bureau ratings though they were many years her junior. She hated having to go to a meeting on the weekend of her birthday.

In her present mood it would be best to take the Wimp along. She reached into the folds of the robot’s deflated crotch and pinched the reinforced tubing that became an erect penis when the Wimp was switched on and operational. She picked up one of the dangling legs, stretched the calf across her lower teeth, and bit down deliberately. The anger in her jaw clamped on the Near-Flesh. If the Wimp had been activated, the force of her bite would have produced red tooth marks and a convincing blue bruise that disappeared only after she shut him down.

Thelma had treated herself to the Wimp on an earlier birthday, her thirty-sixth, to be specific. The inflated Wimp was a thin, meek-faced, and very young man, the least impressive of Thelma’s MALEs to look at. But he was designed for Extreme Sadism, far beyond anything Thelma did, even in her worst whiskey tempers. She had saved the Wimp’s purchase price several times over in repair bills. And his Groveling program and Pleading tracks gave her unique pleasure.

Still, she didn’t want to celebrate her birthday in the frame of mind that required the Wimp. It was Thelma’s custom to save up her libidinous energy before a birthday and then engage in unusual indulgences with her robots. While these Bureau meetings happened twice and sometimes three times a year, it was the first time she could remember having to travel on her Birthday.

She always took one of her MALEs along on these trips, usually Lips or Bluto. She was too fastidious to rent one of the robots provided in hotels. Hygiene concerned her, but she also worried about what might happen with a robot that had not been programmed to her own specifications. There were terrible stories, rumors mostly, probably all lies, but still…

Thelma rearranged the Wimp on his hook, and reached up to rub her forearm across the mouth of the robot on the adjacent hook. Lips, her first robot. She had saved for two years to buy him, seventeen years ago. He was old now, outmoded and sadly primitive compared to the newer models. He had no variety. His voice tracks were monotonous and repetitive. Even his body was relatively crude. The toes were merely drawn on, and his non-powered penis was just a solid rod of plastic, like an antique dildo. Lips’s attraction, of course, was his Vibrator mouth. His limbs moved stiffly, but his mouth was incredibly tender and voracious. She felt sentimental about Lips. She felt safe with him. She brought him out when she felt vulnerable and weepy.

Bluto was the Muscle MALE, a sophisticated instrument that could swoop her up and carry her to the shower or the bed or the kitchen table and make her feel (within carefully programmed limits) quite small and helpless. Thelma never dared to use the full range of his power.

Bluto was frequently damaged and his repairs were expensive, which is why Thelma had purchased the Wimp. Something about the Muscle robot made her want to deactivate him and then stick sharp objects into his vital machinery. Bluto scared Thelma just enough to be fun. She always made sure she could reach his off switch. She even bought the remote control bulb to keep in her teeth while he was operational. His Tough-Talk software kept the fantasy alive. His rough voice muttering “C’mere, slut” usually triggered some excitement, even when she was tense and tired from work. Still she had to admit that he was actually only as dangerous as a sofa.

She rubbed luxuriously against the smooth folds of Bluto’s deflated form where it hung against the wall. 

Thelma turned her back on the Brain, sauntered out to the full-length mirror, and stood looking at herself, seeing the reflection of the Brain’s green light from the open closet. She stretched her heavy body, stroked her breasts and flanks. The green light continued to blink.

She didn’t look at the body on the fourth hook. She didn’t glance at the corner where the console sat on the floor, its charging cord plugged into the power outlet. The console was the size and shape of a human head and shoulders. A green light glowed behind the mesh at the top. She knew the Brain watched her, wanted her to flip his activation switch. She deliberately slid her broad rump up and down against the Bluto MALE. Out of the corner of her eye she registered a faint waver in the intensity of the green light. She looked directly at the Brain. The green light began to blink rapidly. 

Thelma turned her back on the Brain, sauntered out to the full-length mirror, and stood looking at herself, seeing the reflection of the Brain’s green light from the open closet. She stretched her heavy body, stroked her breasts and flanks. The green light continued to blink.

“I think, just for once, I won’t take any of these on this trip.” The green light went out for the span of two heartbeats. Thelma nearly smiled at herself in the mirror. The green flashing resumed at a greater speed. “Yes,” Thelma announced coyly to her mirror, “it’s time I tried something new. I haven’t shopped for new styles in ages. There have probably been all sorts of developments since I looked at a catalogue. I’ll just rent a couple of late models from the hotel and have a little novelty for my birthday.” The green light in the closet became very bright for an instant and then went out. When it illuminated again it was steady, dim, no longer flashing.

When Thelma finished encasing her bulges in the severe business clothes that buttressed her image as a hard-nosed Bureau manager, she strode into the closet and flipped a switch at the base of the Brain console. The screen glowed with varied colors, moved in rhythmic sheets. The male voice said, “Be sure to take some antiseptic lubricant along.” The tone was gently sarcastic.

Thelma chuckled. “I’ll take an antibiotic and I won’t sit on the toilets.”

“You know you’d rather have me with you.” The console’s voice was clear, unemotional. A thin band of red pulsed across the screen.

“Variety is good for me. I tend to get into ruts.” Coquetting felt odd in her business suit, grating. She was usually naked when she talked to the Brain. “It’s too bad,” she murmured spitefully, “that I have to leave you plugged in. It’s such a waste of power while I’m away.” She watched the waves of color slow to a cautious blip on the screen. “Well, I’ll be back in three days… ” She reached for the switch. 

“Happy birthday,” said the console as its colors faded to a dim green.

Boss Vole strode off the elevator as soon as it opened. She was halfway down the line of work modules before the receptionist could alert the staff by pressing the intercom buzzer. The Vole always made a last round of the office before these trips. She claimed it was to pick up last-minute files, but everyone knew she was there to inject a parting dose of her poisonous presence, enough venom to goad them until her return.

Lenna Jordan had been the Vole’s assistant for too long to be caught off guard by her raiding tactics. She felt the wave of tension slide through the office in the silenced voices, the suddenly steady hum of machines, and the piercing “Yes, ma’am!” as the Vole pounced on an idling clerk.

Jordan pushed the bowl of candy closer to the edge of the desk where the Vole usually leaned while harassing her, and went back to her reports.

She heard the tread of the Vole’s feet and felt sweat forming on her upper lip. Boss Vole hated her. Jordan was next in line for promotion. Her future was obvious, a whole district within five years. Boss Vole would stay on here in the same job she’d held for a decade. The Vole’s rigid dedication to routine had paralyzed her career. She grew meaner every year, and more bitter. Jordan could see her now, thumping a desk with her big soft knuckles and hissing into the face of the gulping programmer she’d caught in some petty error.

When the Vole finally reached Jordan’s desk she seemed mildly distracted. Jordan watched the big woman’s rumpled features creasing and flexing around the chunks of candy as they discussed the work schedule. The Vole was anxious to leave and abbreviated her usual jeers and threats. 

When she grabbed a final fistful of candy and stumped out past the bent necks of the silently working staff, Jordan noticed that she carried only one small suitcase. Where was her square night case? Jordan had never seen the Vole leave for a trip without her robot-carrier. A quirk of cynicism caught the corner of her mouth. Has the Vole found herself a human lover?

The notion kept Jordan entertained for the next three days.

Thelma flopped onto the bed, kicked off her heavy shoes, and reached for the phone. She ordered a bottle of Irish whiskey and a bucket of ice. After pausing so long that the computer asked whether she was still on the line, she also asked for a Stimulus Catalogue. 

By the time Thelma Vole closed the door on the hotel bellman and checked out the conveniences, she knew that this trip would be like all the others, lonely and humiliating.

Back when she’d gone to her first convention as an office manager, most of the other attendees were still hiding their baby teeth beneath their pillows. 

Thelma flopped onto the bed, kicked off her heavy shoes, and reached for the phone. She ordered a bottle of Irish whiskey and a bucket of ice. After pausing so long that the computer asked whether she was still on the line, she also asked for a Stimulus Catalogue. 

She poured a drink immediately but didn’t pick up the glossy catalogue. The liquor numbed her jittery irritation and allowed her to lie still and stare at the ceiling. The Brain was right. She was afraid and she was lonely for him. All her life she had been lonely for him.

When she first landed her G-6 rating she knew she might as well devote herself to the Bureau since nothing else seemed a likely receptacle for her ponderous attentions. That was when she jettisoned the one human she had ever felt affection for. He was a shy and courteous little man, a G-4, who professed to see her youthful bulk as cuddly, her dour attitude as admirable seriousness.

She was hesitant. To Thelma displays of affection meant someone was out to use her. He was persistent, and she allowed herself to entertain certain fantasies. But one day, as she stood with her clean new G-6 rating card in her hand, and listened to him invite her to dinner as he had many times before, Thelma looked at her admirer and recognized him for what he was: a manipulator and an opportunist. She slammed the door in his injured face and resolved never to be fooled again by such treacly shenanigans.

She saved up for Lips. And Lips was good for her. The long silence after she left the office each day was broken at last, if only by the repetitive messages of the simple robot’s speech track.

She bought Bluto when she was pumped with bravado by her promotion to G-7 and office manager. Bluto thrilled her. His deliberate crudity allowed her a new identity, the secret dependency of the bedroom. But she was still lonely. There were the rages, destructive fits once she turned the robot off. She never dared do him any harm when the power was on. There were strange trips to the repair shop, awkward lies to explain the damage. Not that the repairman asked. He shrugged and watched her chins wobble as she spoke. He repaired Bluto until the cost staggered her credit rating. On the ugly day when the repairman informed her that Bluto was “totaled,” she stared into her bathroom mirror in puzzled embarrassment.

It took her two years to pay for rebuilding Bluto and another three years for the Wimp. And still she was a G-7. She sat in the same office sniping and snarling at a staff that changed around her, moving up and past her, hating her. They never spoke to her willingly. Occasionally some boot-licker new to the office tried to shine up to her with chatter in the cafeteria. But she could smell it coming, and took special delight in smashing any such hopes on the wing. She visited no one. No one came to her door. 

Then she overheard a conversation on the bus about the new Companion consoles. They could chat intelligently on any subject, and—through a clever technological breakthrough—they could simulate affection in whatever form the owner deemed most acceptable. Thelma’s heart kindled at the possibilities.

She found the preliminary testing and analysis infuriating but she endured it. “Think of this as old-fashioned computer dating,” the technicians said. They coaxed her through the brain scans and hours of interviews that covered her drab childhood, her motives for overeating, her taste in art, games, textures, tones of voice, and a thousand seemingly unconnected details. It took months of preparation. Thelma talked more to the interviewers, technicians, and data banks than she had ever talked in her life. She decided several times not to go through with it. She was worn raw and a little frightened by the process.

For several days after the Brain was delivered she did not turn it on but left it storing power from the outlet, its green light depicting an internal consciousness that could not be expressed unless she flicked the switch. Then one day, just home from work, still in her bastion of office clothing, she rolled the console out of the closet and sat down in front of it. 

The screen flashed to red when she touched the switch. “I’ve been waiting for you,” said the Brain. The voice was as low as Bluto’s but clear, and the diction was better. They talked. Thelma forgot to eat. When she got up for a drink she called from the kitchen to ask if it wanted something, and the console laughed with her when she realized what she’d done. They talked all night. The Brain knew her entire life and asked questions. It had judgment, data, and memory. It was always online and searching for every news item, joke, image, story, or movie that might interest her. The Brain’s only interest was Thelma. When she left for work the next morning, she said goodbye before she switched the console back to green.

From then on, every night after work she hurried into the bedroom, switched on the Brain, and said hello. She had once gone to the theater occasionally, sat alone, cynically, in the balcony. She went no more. On weekends she used to go out for walks through the streets. Now she shopped as quickly as possible to return to the Brain. She kept him turned on all the time when she was home. At work she made notes to remind her of things to ask or tell the Brain. She never used the other MALEs now. She forgot them, was embarrassed to see them hanging in the same closet where the console rested during the day. They were together several months before the Brain reminded her that his life was completely determined and defined by her. She felt humbled.

She took the Brain into the kitchen with her when she cooked, and the Brain searched online for clever variations on her favorite recipes, praised her culinary skills, and increased her pleasure in food.

Thelma never fell into what she considered the vulgar practice of taking her robots out to public places. She snubbed the neighbor down the hall who took his FEMALE dancing and for walks even though her conversation was limited to rudimentary Bedroom Praise.

The Brain took responsibility for her finances immediately, paid the bills, prepared her tax filings. When repair work or cleaning was needed in the apartment, the Brain ordered it done and paid for it from her account. 

Thelma never fell into what she considered the vulgar practice of taking her robots out to public places. She snubbed the neighbor down the hall who took his FEMALE dancing and for walks even though her conversation was limited to rudimentary Bedroom Praise.

Thelma was never interested in the social clubs for robot lovers, those red-lit cellars where humans displayed their plastic possessions in a boiling confusion of pride in their expense, technical talk about capacities and programming, and bizarre jealousies. She read the accounts of robot swapping, deliberate theft, and the occasional strangely motivated murder with the same scorn she had for most aspects of social life.

She couldn’t remember exactly how she started longing for the Brain to have a body. The Brain himself probably voiced the idea first. She did remember a moment when the low voice first said he loved her. “I am not lucky,” he said. “They built me with this capacity to love but not to demonstrate love. What is there about strong feeling that yearns to be seen and felt? I think I would know how to give you great pleasure. And I will never be content with myself because I can never touch you in that way.”

Still, she was the one, three inches into a fifth of Irish on a chilly night, who reached out to stroke the console’s screen and whispered, “I wish you had a body.” The Brain took only seconds to inform her that such a thing was possible, and that he, the Brain, longed for exactly that so that he could service her pleasure in every way. After an instant’s computation he announced that her credit was sufficient to finance the project.

They rushed into it. Thelma spent days examining catalogues for the perfect body. The Brain said he wanted her to please herself totally and took no part in delineating his future form. Then came an agonizing month in which Thelma was alone and nearly berserk with emptiness. The Brain had gone back to the factory to be tuned to his body.

On the day he was delivered, she stayed home from work. The crate arrived. She took the console out first, plugged him in immediately, and nearly cried with excitement at his eager voice. Following his instructions, she inflated and activated the strong MALE body and pressed the key at the back of its neck that allowed the console’s intelligence to inhabit and control it.

As his arms reached around her she felt the warmth of the circuitry that maintained the robot’s surface at a human body temperature. He spoke. “Thelma, I have waited so long for this. I love you.”

In a shock of bewilderment, Thelma looked into the dark eyes of the Brain. His hand lifted her hair and stroked her face. The Brain was thick-chested, muscular, with a face stamped by compassion and experience. His features were eerily mobile, expressing emotions she was accustomed to interpreting from colored lights on the console’s screen.

As his arms reached around her she felt the warmth of the circuitry that maintained the robot’s surface at a human body temperature. He spoke. “Thelma, I have waited so long for this. I love you.” The deep, slow wave of his voice moved through her body and she knew he was real. She lurched away from him. “No,” she said.

She’d always known what a mess she was. What sane thing could love her? What did he want? Of course, she thought. The console wanted the power of a complete body. It was clear to her now. The designers had built in the feature as an intricate sales technique. She felt shamed, sickened by her own foolishness. The body had to go back. 

But she didn’t send it back. She hung it in the closet next to Bluto. She rolled the console into the corner next to the outlet and kept it plugged in. Occasionally she would switch it on and exchange a few remarks with it. She took to leaving the closet door open while she brought out Lips or the Wimp or Bluto, or sometimes all three to entertain her on the bed in full view of the console’s green glowing screen. She took pleasure in knowing the Brain was completely aware of what she did with the other robots. She rarely brought the Brain out, even to cook. She never activated his body.

So she lay on the hotel bed with the Stimulus Catalogue beside her. It had been months since she could talk to the Brain. She was sick with loneliness. It was his fault. He hadn’t been content but had coaxed and tricked her into an insane expense for a project that could only disgust her. He should have known her better than that. She hated him. He should be with her now to comfort her. And it was her birthday. She allowed a few tears to sting their way out past her nose. She poured another drink and opened the catalogue. It would serve the Brain right if she got a venereal disease from one of these hotel robots.

The final banquet was the predictable misery. She was seated at the back of the room and the girl across the table, a new office manager with her G-7 insignia shining on her collar, was the daughter of a woman who started with the Bureau in the same training class as Thelma. Thelma drank a lot and ate nothing. She left her car at the airport and took a cab home. She was too drunk to drive. 

She put her suitcase down just inside the door and kicked off her shoes. With her coat still on and her purse looped over her arm, she called, “Did you have a good weekend?”

She ambled into the bedroom and stood in front of the closet looking at the green glow. She raised the bottle in salute and took a slug. Then she set about shedding her clothes. She was down to her underwear when she felt the need to sit down. She slid to the floor in front of the closet door. “Well, I had a splendid time. I’ve been such a fool not to try those hotel robots before.”

She began to laugh and roll back and forth on the carpet. “Best birthday I ever had, Brain.” She peeked at the green glow. It was steady and very bright. “Why don’t you say something, Brain?” She frowned. “Oooh. I forgot.” She reached out a plump little finger and flicked the activation switch. The screen came up dark and red and solid.

“Welcome back, Thelma,” said the Brain. Its voice was dull and lifeless.

“Let me tell you, Brain, I could have had a lot of amazing experiences for the money I’ve wasted on you. And you have no trade-in value. You’re tailored too specifically. They’d just melt you down.” Thelma giggled. The screen was oscillating with an odd spark of colorless light in the red.

“Please, Thelma, let me help you. Remember that I am sensitive to your emotional state.”

Thelma heaved herself onto her back and stretched. “Oh, I remember. It’s on page two of the Owner’s Manual . . . along with a lot of other crap. Like what a perfect friend you are, and what a great lover your body combo is.” Thelma lifted her leg and ran the toes of one thick foot up the flattened legs of the Lips robot.

“Does it bother you to see me do this with another robot, Brain?” The screen of the console was nearly white.

“Yes, Thelma.”

Thelma gave the penis a final flick with her toes and dropped her leg. “I ought to sue the company for false advertising,” she muttered. She rolled over and blinked at the glaring screen. “The only thing you’re good for is paying the bills like a DOMESTIC.” She snorted at the idea. “A DOMESTIC! That’s what! You can mix my drinks and do the laundry and cleaning with that high-priced body! You can even cook. You know all the recipes. You might as well; you’re never going to do me any good otherwise!” She hiked her hips into the air and, puffing for breath, began peeling off her corset.

The Brain’s voice came to her in a strange vibrato. “Please, you are hurting yourself, Thelma.”

She tossed the sweat-damp garment at the console and flopped back, rubbing at the ridges left in her skin. “Fettuccini primavera, a big plate. Cook it now while I play with Bluto. Serve it to me in bed when I’m finished. Come on, I’ll be in debt for years to pay off this body of yours. Let’s see if it can earn its keep around here.”

She reached out and hit the remote switch. The girdle lay across the screen and the white light pulsed through the mesh fabric. A stirring in the body on the last hook made her look up. The flattened Near-Flesh was swelling, taking on its full, heavy form. She watched, fascinated. The Brain’s body lifted its left arm and freed itself from the hook. It stood up and the feet changed shape as they accepted the weight of the metal and plastic body. The lighted eyes of the Brain’s face looked down at her. The good handsome face held a look of sadness.

“I would be happy to cook and clean for you, Thelma. If another robot pleasured you, that would pleasure me. But you are in pain. Terrible pain. That is the one thing I cannot allow.”

Lenna Jordan fingered the new G-7 insignia clipped to her lapel and watched the workmen install her nameplate where the Vole’s had been for so many years. She was still stunned by her luck. G-7 a year earlier than she expected.

The workman at the door slid aside and a large woman slouched into the office. They’d elevated the serious, methodical Grinsen to be Jordan’s assistant. Jordan stepped forward, extending her hand. “Congratulations, Grinsen. I hope you aren’t upset by the circumstances.”

The young woman dropped Jordan’s hand quickly and let her fingers stray to the new insignia pinned to her own suit. She blinked at Jordan through thick lenses. “Did you see the television news? They interviewed Meyer from Bureau Central. He said Boss Vole was despondent over her lack of promotion.”

The workman’s cheerful face came around the edge of the door. “The boys in the program pool claim she accidentally got a look at herself in the mirror and dove for the window.”

Jordan inhaled slowly. “You’ll want to move into my old desk and go through the procedural manuals, Grinsen.”

Grinsen plucked a candy from the bowl on the desk and leaned forward. “The news footage.” Her large hand swung up to pop the candy into her mouth. “They said the impact was so great that it smashed the sidewalk where she landed and it was almost impossible to separate her remains from what was left of the robot.” Grinsen reached for another candy. “That robot was a Super Companion. Boss Vole must have been in debt past her ears for an expensive model like that.”

Jordan passed her a stack of printouts. “We’d better start looking over the schedule, Grinsen.”

Grinsen tapped the papers on the desk. “Why would such a magnificent machine destroy itself trying to save a vicious old bat like the Vole?”

Jordan slid the candy bowl from beneath Grinsen’s hand and carefully dumped the last of Boss Vole’s favorite caramels into the wastebasket.