Free Turing & Burroughs: A Beatnik SF Novel by Rudy Rucker Page A

action.”
    “I’m available,” said Alan, who’d never been shy about pressing for sexual favors. But Vassar gave no answer to that. Mildly abashed, Alan made his way alone to his room.
    His thoughts kept circling back to Katje Pelikaan’s dress. Presumably it was drying unguarded in the night. Alan could steal it and wear it—and reshape himself into a woman! Why not?
    Alan had already gone partway down that road two years ago. After he’d been convicted of having sex with a man, the Crown had sentenced him to their notion of biocomputational tweaking—injecting him with estrogens, supposedly to destroy his libido.
    But that hadn’t been enough for them. This summer the Queen’s minions had sent a crew around to murder Alan with cyanide in his tea. He was well outside the tribe now, free to act according to his own lights.
    Getting back to the subject of becoming a woman, Alan recalled that, while he’d been on estrogen, his skin had smoothed, and he’d begun to grow breasts. It hadn’t been entirely disagreeable. He’d felt, at times, a rare inner peace. Now that he had the power of the skug within him, why not finish the job—and bed Vassar Lafia?
    A big decision. But for starters, all he needed to do was to steal the dress.
     
     

Chapter 5: Shapeshifter
    A little unsteady on the rolling deck, Alan made his way to the clothesline that the passengers shared. There was Katje’s gown, swaying gracefully in the night. Quickly Alan folded the garment into a bundle, tucked it under his arm and turned to start back towards his room.
    “Hey, there. I’ve been wanting to introduce myself. I’m Ned Strunk.”
    Blast and damn. This, this— yahoo was standing much closer than Alan might have expected. He had some regional American accent. From the south? He’d popped out of the nearby passengers’ lounge. And now he was intent on the absurd and unsanitary custom of shaking hands. Alan had to shift the blue dress from beneath his arm, with Strunk blankly gawping at him.
    “Yes, I’m William Burroughs,” said Alan, grasping Strunk’s bony hand. “And I bid you good night.”
    “You’re talking kind of funny.” Strunk’s eyes were like holes in his haunted face. “If you’re supposed to be American.”
    “I’m an American who’s lived overseas for much of his life,” said Alan, moving away. “Not to be rude, but it’s been a long day, and my head’s like a wedge of cheese. Let’s enlarge our acquaintanceship at a more propitious time, shall we? Cheerio , Ned!”
    “I’d like to get kind of personal with you,” said Ned, slinking after him. “I think you’ll understand.”
    Was this a sexual proposition? If so, it was unwelcome. Giving no answer, Alan headed down the gray passageways to his room, his feet ringing on the metal floor. He double-locked the door, and set Katje’s dress to dry on his chair.
    Why deny your fellow? It was the voice of the skug within him, forming words in his head.
    I want nothing to do with Strunk , thought Alan. For all I know he’s from the CIA. Like an American Pratt.
    He’s like Pratt, but he’s not an agent, said the skug. Strunk’s one of us. He needs your help.
    Possibly these were hallucinations. Cutting off the stream of thought, Alan splashed cold water on his face and went to sleep. He was much too tired to pursue Vassar tonight.
    When he awoke the next morning he felt very strange. Where were his arms and his legs? His visual field was a mismatched pair of fisheye views.
    Bending one of his eyes downward, Alan realized that, in his exhaustion, he’d relaxed into the form of a seventy kilogram slug. He was a glistening shade of ochre, with a darker zone along his slick, body-length foot. Two feelers bracketed his mouth, and his eyes were mounted upon short, muscular stalks.
    Oh hell. Once again, Alan focused inward, coaxing his bodily structures into the desired Burroughs form.
    “Stiff upper lip,” he said aloud, as soon as he had something