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

like a human mouth again. “One keeps up appearances.”
    He noticed that Katje’s dress was dry. Carefully he folded it in two and hid it beneath his mattress.
    Looking for a place to pass some time without being further importuned by Strunk, Alan made his way to the ship’s bridge. The radio operator was a congenial Australian using the default nickname Sparks. Alan had a pleasant talk with Sparks about his equipment, and even offered a suggestion for healing a buzz in the system. The fix worked, and Sparks willingly lent Alan his circuit diagrams and his repairs manual. Alan loved reading about the latest kinds of radio tubes. Studying the possibilities back in his room, he began sketching out a design for a circuit that could send a signal to make his skuggy body still more malleable and easy to control.
    At lunchtime, Alan dropped his researches to stake out the mess-room, watching from a perch on the deck. He managed to enter the mess just as Katje and her mother were leaving. Dexterously he seated himself at their now-empty table, and stuffed Katje’s used napkin into his pants. Neither Vassar nor Strunk were around just now. After a quick bite to eat, Alan locked himself in his room with his treasure and began examining the napkin’s stains. And there, yes, was just the bit he’d been hoping for.
    With a sense of high ceremony, Alan undressed and lay naked on his bed, draping the napkin over his face. He dropped his perceptions down to a deep biological level and urged on the autonomic functions of his inner skug. Make me into her .
    Katje had left a tiny fragment of skin from her lip on the napkin, and Alan was pressing it to his own mouth. His lower lip twitched and tingled, gathering in the scrap of Katje’s flesh.
    Alan’s heart pounded, his ears buzzed with the happy chanting of the skug. His flesh and bones began to flow, subtly on the whole, but with occasional lurches, as when his pelvis broadened to being half again as wide. Cell by cell, Alan’s tissues were learning Katje’s genetic code.
    After an indefinite period of time, he sat up and regarded himself in the mirror. He’d morphed into a very close semblance of Katje indeed, complete with breasts and a vagina. He wondered if the genitalia were shaped right. Although he’d been engaged at one time, and had even spent a couple of awkward nights with his fianceé, Alan had no clear image of the details. But surely Katje’s genes knew.
    It was very odd to be shorter and wider than before. And a little disturbing to have no penis—just that triangular little wisp of hair with a line at the bottom. Alan began thinking of the swarthy Vassar pushing his way into him, with his strong arms holding Alan tight. The image made him almost unbearably aroused.
    There was a lot of noise from the deck, and it had been going on for some time. Alan realized that they’d maneuvered into the port of Funchal in Madeira, and were hoisting cargo on board. In due time, people would be going ashore for dinner. Excellent.
    Slowly, almost in a trance, Alan donned Katje’s dress, and sat on his bunk, studying himself in the mirror. It wouldn’t do to appear as an exact copy of the Belgian woman. He rubbed and kneaded his face, guiding the features into a more foxy and feral form—effectively making the new face more like his own.
    He had no make-up, nor any notion of how to apply it. But it was easy to amplify the redness of his lips from within. He wouldn’t worry about underwear—the lack might well titillate Vassar. And as for shoes—oh, botheration. Certainly Alan’s cracked old oxfords wouldn’t do. There was nothing for it but to go barefoot. They were, after all, in the tropics.
    When the voices and footfalls of the crew and passengers had finally damped down, Alan issued forth. The air was pleasantly damp and warm. And the decks were nearly deserted, save for the blasted Ned Strunk, who was sitting near the gangplank, doing nothing whatsoever, his