One of the most impressive events in modern physics is the phenomenon known as Pair Production. This process refers to the transformation of energy in the form of a gamma ray, or photon, into an elementary particle and its antiparticle. The gamma ray must have sufficient energy and there must be matter present for this transformation to take place. The prime example of Pair Production is the creation of an electron and a positron. The two particles have opposite electric charge, opposite spin, and opposite values for all other conserved quantum numbers. Finally, Pair Production cannot occur in empty space, else momentum and energy would not be conserved.
The Principle of Superposition applies to waves traveling through the same medium at the same time. These waves transverse each other undisturbed. The net displacement of the medium is the sum of the individual wave displacements. This is true of waves of finite duration as well as sinusoidal waves. It is assumed in physical optics that two electromagnetic waves simultaneously transversing a given point in the time-space continuum would emerge undisturbed. However, experimentation with high energy laser beams indicates that this is not necessarily always the case. Two laser beams may induce a ricochet of some photons at their collision point.
At the moment of the Big Bang, one would not experience Pair Production, as the particle and antiparticle would annihilate each other and return to energy. But what seems to occur is a production of “twin” elementary particles: electrons and protons. The masses are unequal; the mass of the proton is approximately 1836.15 times the mass of the electron. Moreover, the proton seems to have some interior structure whereas the electron seems to be a solid sphere, a homogeneous ball. One could imagine Pair Production starting from a sphere-like ball and pulling apart as a lemniscate. At the moment of separation, the figure would be a Lemniscate of Bernoulli. But with “Twin Production,” the symmetry is lost. One side is 1836.15 more massive than the other. Or, at least it seems that way, for a good first approximation.
Consider a transitioning from a circle to the Lemniscate of Bernoulli. Then morph into the Ovals of Cassini. These ovals eventually approach points, becoming more elliptical and round. In fact these near circles are often called the Ellipses of Cassini. At some point rotating a solid from one of these ovals might serve as a model for the electron, which is nearly---but not exactly---a solid sphere or ball. Enough of this geometric speculation! Despite its beauty and simplicity, the pedants of academia will reject it immediately.
In theory, whatever was done in the Big Bang could be undone. One has yet to observe the phenomenon of proton decay. Huge cyclotrons slam protons together with enormous energy in an effort to decompose the particle. One is tempted to draw an analogy between the energy in the proton and a combination lock. One could try and break the lock open with a sledge hammer; one might use a crowbar or bolt cutters. A far more satisfactory solution is to have the combination. This is the story of Harry Sloan, who once claimed that by forcing a non-linear, rapid alternation of the proton spin it can essentially have zero spin. This is impossible; therefore, the particle in this excited state will decompose, generating much energy and freeing the initial charged particle, a positron.
The nearest star to us is Alpha Centauri, about four and a quarter light-years distant. If we had a spaceship that could travel at the speed of light (which we don't), it would take over four years to reach this star cluster. Attaining an initial velocity is still unsatisfactory for humans and many other earth life-forms. Weightlessness is not a suitable state to sustain productive existence. What is needed is a constantly accelerating platform at 32 feet per second per second. The accelerating platform would perfectly emulate gravity. There is a problem here: How can enough fuel be brought to ensure such acceleration? Clearly even enriched nuclear fuel will be insufficient. Yet interstellar space is not a perfect vacuum. In the cosmic “soup” are electrons (known as beta particles), helium nuclei (known as alpha particles), protons, gamma rays, and other trace elements and complex molecules. One plausible idea is to collect and “burn” the plentiful protons via proton decomposition. This would generate energy and antimatter, positrons for extreme energy.
After suffering through Jackson's Electronics and Magnetism (E&M) and a potpourri of other mind-numbing graduate-level physics courses, Harry Sloan advanced to be a candidate for the PhD in physics. His theory on proton decomposition and the penultimate, quintessential energy source was soon observed by those industrialists investing in fossil fuels. The Fossil Fuel Fellowship (F-Cubed) sought to quash the dissertation and nip a competitive energy source in the bud. With nearly unlimited money for lobbyists, the every-ready minions of F-Cubed easily pressed Congress and the cackling pedants of academia to reject Harry's thesis and cast him from their pristine environment. Harry Sloan joined the legion of “All But Dissertation” (ABD) graduate students.
Years have passed. Harry Sloan spent the past thirty-five years working for an export corporation: Khannibal Meat Products, Inc. He worked testing the meats for salmonella and other bacteria. He monitored the irradiation to ensure that 99.99% of the bacteria were dead and all other parasites nullified. The corporation could not afford a massive, government mandated recall. Only the markets in Japan, Korea, and China were able to afford the highest quality meat products. Now retired, Mr. Sloan looks over his notes, tests, and papers from graduate school. He knows that they are his works because he recognizes the handwriting as his own. But the mathematical equations and various experiments are all Greek to him now. This is the result of 35 years of working at a no-brain, brain-dead, dead-end, end-game job.
A large black sedan pulls up in front of the assisted living community where Harry Sloan resides. The driver is a perfectly coiffured blonde, lithe silhouette, lean, muscular physique, and keenly observant. She is wearing a pin-striped business suit---expensive and tailored. She is the kind of woman one might see in an action movie---a true femme fatale. She stays in the car while two men in expensive suits exit and approach the entrance to the apartment building. The units here are for single occupancy, those who have retired from the work force and are living out their “golden years.”
Psalms 90:10 The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.
At the front desk the two men encounter a couple of young college students. They are working the comings and goings of the guests and their friends as well as the switchboard. There is a faint but perceptible trace of marijuana about the front desk. As many working students, these two are recreational drug users. They ask: “May we help you, Sir?”
“We are here to see Harry Sloan,” one man states; he has a “lean and hungry” look. He is clearly a company man and ambitious to rise in the hierarchy of the establishment. The other man, younger and less forward, waits patiently for a reply; he is the man with the briefcase.
“Is Mr. Sloan expecting you, Sir?” The girl at the desk asks.
“Just tell him that it is about his pension,” the company man states. “For sure he will see us.”
“Yes, Sir,” the boy at the desk answers. The desk clerks feel uncomfortable. They are not the type of men to visit a geriatric facility. They have the tidy and well-groomed look of corporate wealth and greed. For sure they could interrupt the sinecure enjoyed by the boy and the girl. It is uncomfortable moments like this that cause the couple to reconsider recreation drugs. But such transient paranoia is soon dispelled as the men appear disinterested in the service personnel.
The girl at the desk rang Harry's room. After a moment she spoke: “Mr. Sloan is in apartment 310,” she responds. Then quickly she adds: “May we show you the way?”
The younger of the two executives interjects: “I'm sure we can find out way. This is a modular building with a directory.”
“Please sign in and give us a little ID, please,” the male desk clerk requests.
“Of course,” the first executive replies. ID is presented; the signing the guest book is completed in a flash. The two quickly locate room 310 and knock on the door. An elderly man with a walker opens the door and invites the strangers in. “What can I do for you two gentlemen?” He asks.
“We are with corporate headquarters of Khannibal. I am Robert Reeves and this is my associate, Stanley Smythe.” Robert reports. “May we come in?”
“By all means,” Harry replies.
As they enter Stanley Smythe says: “Just call me 'Stan.'”
“Please call me 'Harry' as well,” Harry Sloan requests. “Do be seated.”
“Let us be forthcoming, Harry,” Robert states. “We are confronted with some political problems. There is a hue and cry for alternative energy solutions. The corporate minds have unearthed a possibility for consideration. It is none less than your crackpot scheme known as 'proton decomposition.' Certainly you remember your doctoral dissertation?”
“I remember F-cubed, one of the conglomerates, tossing my ass to the wind! That was over thirty, no thirty-five years ago.” Harry retorts. “And my Khannibal 401(K) tanking along with the reductions in Social Security and Medicare. Already I somehow managed to work until I was seventy for the most basic benefits. I belong to the 'Four Score' club, and you know what that means.”
“We understand your concern in reaching the unfunded reality of being over eighty,” Stan interjects. “But for you there is a promise. If you could piece together a preliminary plausible proposal for federal funding we might be able to extend and even enhance your pension.”
“As much as I would like to better my meager marginal existence, my failing eyesight, Parkinson's disease, and other symptoms constrain any consideration,” Harry replies. “I once had a house. The 'Reparations for China Act' moved a mainland Chinese family in and moved me out to this sterile efficiency apartment. It is mine to keep until I reach eighty, then I will join the homeless subsisters.”
“What might help you change your mind?” Robert asks.
“Surely you joke!” Harry queries. “First my 401(K) becomes virtually worthless. The postage stamp for reply mail costs more than the dividend. But---the executives of Khannibal receive gold and platinum parachutes. Then our so-called entitlements are slashed to pay for some economic “bubble” engineered on Wall Street. Then comes the 'Four Score' club and the 'Reparations for China' act. I only have a couple of more years until it's either the highway or the coffin. Would you like some coffee? I have a special brew for those at the end of their ropes. You know the brand!” Harry chuckles as he mentions the “special brew.”
Stan is embarrassed as he suggests a solution. “We have our feet to the fire. The radicals, tree-huggers, and pollution preventers are noisy and strong. We need to suggest some fundable alternatives for consideration. We are prepared to offer you a life-long extension to your pension and a gynoid to assist you. A state-of-the-art fembot model no less.”
“Taxes, tariffs, tolls all paid in advance. We even have the waivers prepared and notarized.” Robert interjects. “Of course, should you elect not to accept our generous offer, you might find your pension reduced.”
“You certainly make an offer difficult to refuse,” Harry agrees. “With nothing but Social Security I would have to choose between medicines or food. And Medicare co-payments and caps would consume all of my liquidity.”
“Stan,” Robert commands, “Get the paperwork for Harry while I fetch Dora.”
“Gladly, Sir,” Stan replies and pushes a sheath of legal documents in front of Harry Sloan. Harry hunts for his reading glasses and begins the slow process of signing. Parkinson's disease makes longhand difficult, the words tapering from normal pitch to a wavy, rough line.
In the black luxury sedan Dora, the blonde chauffeur, answers a call. She exits the car, pops the trunk, and retrieves a duffel bag. In a thrice she is at the front desk as Robert approaches.
“We are leaving a gynoid with Mr. Sloan,” Robert speaks. “Here are authorization papers for the excess electricity and water usage.” The youngsters manning the front desk are amazed. Imagine, a fembot of such elegance and gorgeous proportions in this geriatric facility. Their first impression is that Harry Sloan somehow won the lottery. Dora and Robert return to Harry's room. Stan is just giving a final examination of the work agreement.
“Are we ready?” Robert asks.
“Yes, Sir,” Stan answers.
“Mr. Sloan,” Robert states, “this is Dora. She is gorgeous and fully trained in dental hygiene, patient care, financial and tax matters. She also is an expert in automobile repairs. You don't have a car, so that's unimportant. She will assist you in preparing a request for proposal and a request for qualifications on behalf of Khannibal and the holding company: F-Cubed, Inc.”
Robert barks an order at Stan: “Let's give this mismatched couple some quality time, Stan. He knows that we expect a smooth draft within a week.”
“But Mr. Reeves,” Stan emphasizes, “this is an old man, clearly divorced from the hallowed, pristine halls of academia. I fear that we press him too hard. After all, he has already been given the drink for his final hour.”
Robert Reeves is angry. His face is crimson with fury. Once in the hallway, he slaps Stanley Smythe's face hard. “Don't ever contradict me again. If you do---so help me god---I'll break your mother-fucking neck. Do you understand?”
“Ah, yes,” Stan responds. It is precisely at this moment that Stan realizes the criminal element vested in the F-Cubed conglomerate. Theirs are the crude oil, natural gas, and dirty coal deposits. They intend to continue their hegemony at any cost. If it means peddling some “green scheme” destined to fail in order to placate the unwashed masses, then so be it for them.
Harry works his walker over to a chair and seats himself on his bony derriere. Dora tosses her duffel bag on a sofa and, transitioning with amazing grace, sits beside it. She makes eye contact with Harry. Her dilated pupils and the effluence of female pheromones, some even atavistic, imbue Harry with a feeling of serendipity and warmth. He is unable to overcome the endorphins coursing through his blood and fueling his libido. These are chemical messengers, both natural and artificial, to induce desire, lust, and animal attraction.
“Where do we begin?” he asks.
“We begin now,” Dora replies. She is Pygmalion's Galatea, Helen of Troy, and an eighteen-year-old Sharon Stone all rolled into one. She is an irresistible fusion of balance, beauty, brain, and cunning.
“It's been years since I did anything creative in physics,” Harry complains. “I was cleaning out some storage and found notebooks and tests. I recognized my handwriting but could not fathom even one line. Knowledge once at my fingertips and on the tip of my tongue has vanished.”
“Yes,” Dora replies, “you humans do tend to forget. We have accessed your medical files; after all, we did provide you medical insurance. You may be old and slow but Alzheimer's disease and dementia aren't indicated.”
“Maybe I long to forget,” Harry retorts. He recalls an ancient exhortation.
YE who do earnestly repent you of your sins, and are in love and charity with your neighbours, and intend to live a new life, following the commandments of God, and walking from henceforth in his holy ways; Draw near with faith, and take this holy Sacrament to your comfort; and make your humble confession to Almighty God, devoutly kneeling.
“Let that pass for the moment,” Dora interjects. “You claim that by rapid alteration of the proton's spin that you could coerce it into having a zero spin, an impossible situation. And the driving force is non-linear. The non-linearity you claim is the prime reason it was never developed heretofore.”
“We managed several decompositions, but could not perfectly produce the non-linear driver,” Harry explained. “With time and resources it might have been possible; however, funding was curtailed and I was forced out of the university for financial reasons---after some period of unemployment I found work at Khannibal Meat Exporters, Inc.”
“Was it possible to harness the energy produced in your induced proton decomposition?” Dora asks.
“I am tired and hungry,” Harry complains. “Enough of this for one day. I will go downstairs and get one of the box lunches, which is really a supper more than a lunch.” Harry pushes his walker to the door and inches down the hall to the elevator. He is on the third floor. As he departs, Dora begins unpacking and plugging her computer and power supply in. She accesses the mainframe database and files her preliminary report. Dora is optimistic that yet another “green energy” can be peddled. She is also equally certain that it will be a money sink and continue F-Cube's hegemony on the energy market. The oxymoron “Clean Coal” is her shibboleth.
Dora hears a struggle at the door. Harry returns with a cardboard box. In it is a “submarine sandwich,” a small portion of fruit, and a juice. Dora exclaims: “From now on I will prepare you three hot meals a day.”
Harry pouts. “I'm a little short on money for groceries. These eats come 'libre' with the rent.”
Dora reaches in her purse and pulls out a thick wad of the largest denomination US currency in use. “We aren't paupers or beggars at F-Cubed.”
“I thought you were with Khannibal?” Harry inquires.
“Yes,” she answers, “that also.”
As Harry eats his supper Dora finishes unpacking. The odorless pheromones permeate the room and the old man feels some rejuvenation. Dora comes over to him and kneels, looking up with smiling blue eyes and says: “Do you think that I'm pretty? Would you like to make out now?”
The old man blushes. How long has it been? Is he even up to the task? Such a dream come true would wait until he was approaching eighty.
Fembots, also know as gynoids (female androids), perfectly know human anatomy, physiology, psychology, and behavior. Dora can tell that the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. The Parkinson's disease of her new owner clearly is inhibiting his ability. Aside from the well-known and publicly discussed symptoms of tremors, shakes, muscular weakness, and the like, Parkinson's disease also can manifest incontinence, impotence, erectile dysfunction, and constipation. Naturally these medical conditions are not discussed in polite social conversation; however, not being mentioned does not make them any the less frequent. He also has severe myopia (nearsightedness) and cataracts. Dora takes a medical unit from her duffel bag.
“Some vital signs, Master?” She requests.
Her new “Master,” Harry Sloan, says nothing as she applies the blood pressure cuff, takes his temperature, pulse, and other vital signs. A quick retinal scan reveals much, including the fact that her pheromones are inducing endorphins to the parasympathetic nervous system. Were he healthy enough, there is no question that he would become sexually aroused and experience a massive penile erection.
“Just a drop of blood for analysis, Master?” Dora asks, pulling out a pin-prick device capable of a complete set of hemoglobin test, which used to require a major blood drawing and take hours of lab work.
“OK fine,” the old man answers, not enthusiastically. However the ease, speed, and painless execution is refreshing to him. The public health care has little state-of-the-art equipment, despite its spiraling costs. Patients queue for hours for the most routine procedures. And there is a never-decreasing co-pay wherein those with meager resources are compelled to pay a maximum. Those working for large corporations generally pay nothing with their golden or platinum health insurance policies.
“You are low on B-12, Master,” Dora relates. “Just a quick injection.”
“I take my vitamins,” Harry protests.
Dora smiles. Then she asks: “Don't you want to enjoy the warm, soft body of a woman? For sure your medical insurance doesn't take your true needs into account.”
“Ah, true needs,” Harry murmurs. “If I could only say of but one moment, oh tarry a while, you are so lovely.” Ancient memories of pleasure and passion induce neural activity. Years of struggling with a job boring beyond human comprehension coupled with the worries and cares of retirement with its ever decreasing entitlements and a collapsing 401(K) have taken their toll. No longer is Harry a physicist or laboratory genius. He is now only a pawn in a bigger game. One might consider it a waste of talent; however, one must survive in any case. He is Faustus, the man who sold his immortal soul to the devil. Only the devil is alive and living on this earth under the veiled umbrella of F-Cubed, the Fossil Fuel Fellowship.
Dora enters these data into the complex behavior matrix. The need to produce a suitable document outlining Sloan's thesis by the deadline is doable. To hook the old man into a sexual relationship would grease the skids. For sure the idea is plausible enough. But, it also must give hope and promise to the masses of asses. The F-Cubed will broadcast the new green invention, secure much funding, and then quietly die on the vine. Nothing can be allowed to replace the dependence on fossil fuels.
As Harry sleeps Dora goes through her box of medical supplies and finds a vapor to enhance and revive her Master's libido. At least, it has a 70% probability of overcoming his impotence, assuming that his “plumbing” is physically operable. There is a contradiction, however. The thesis is certainly plausible enough to placate the angry masses with promises. Recalling Alexander Pope, Dora examines the lines of poetry:
Hope springs eternal in the human breast; Man never Is, but always To be blest: The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
---Alexander Pope, An Essay on Man, Epistle I, 1733
The theory might even work. That would pose a major problem. The main problem, which hopefully will be insoluble, is that the resulting gamma rays emitted in the proton decomposition may be far too energetic to be usable; the direction of the decomposition particles may not be controllable. But there must be a probability attached to that. Gynoids and Fembots are good at composition, hanging together strings of words, computing mathematical expressions such as integrals and matrix mechanics, writing newspaper articles... But, for pure theoretical research and experimentation, they are severely lacking.
The theory must be promising enough to divert the attention of the masses of asses from the excess profits and environmental pollution. It must offer hope and cause uncertainty among the eggheads. Those scientists and engineers on salary and retainer to F-Cubed will fiercely defend the conglomerate on its altruism and contributions to the advancement of science. And, when all is said and done, Washington and New York will be “business as usual,” with coal polluting the environment and crude oil spills degrading the fragile ecology.
The night passes and dawn will break soon. Dora has fully charged her batteries and entered her observations and notes into the company database. She now raises her body temperature to 99.5 degrees Fahrenheit and undresses completely. She crawls into bed with Harry and brings her naked body in close proximity of his. In a hypnagogic state, her master envisions a fantasy of being in bed with a gorgeous, athletic, intelligent eighteen-year-old blonde. While unable to achieve a penile erection consciously, in a dream-like transitional state his supine body experiences arousal. Dora's behavior database assures her that little-by-little, she will be able to hook her Master into a deep sexual relationship from which there will be no escape. Male human beings are so totally predictable and ignorant.
She rubs his breasts against his chest. Her nipples perk, pucker, protrude, and firm. From long-forgotten dreams a flame of passion, a fire of lust in his limbic brain is re-kindled. She exhales a warm breath into his face. She combines the slightly-garlic scent of an aroused woman with a special aphrodisiac spice. His Rapid Eye Movement (REM) returns. She whispers nonsense syllables with the allure of the Sirens. Crass carnal cravings struggle from his Id as dark, depraved desires, long dormant, resurface. Her breath intensifies as more and more liquid Nitrogen is expelled from cooling her circuitry. She carefully calculates the magnetic field flux through his body to begin the creation of the magnetic circuit needed as a transfer function. To stimulate the aged, spent body will require more than a quick fix with Viagra(tm) or some other erectile enhancer.
Time passes and dawn breaks. Dora, carefully sensing that her Master is waking, scurries to the kitchen are of the efficiency apartment to prepare him breakfast. She is naked. Her body, that of a tall, toned, tan eighteen year old celebrity, is displayed in all her necked splendor. If that vision doesn't arouse a man, then he is not sick---he is dead. Moreover, such a physique and posture could conceivably resurrect the dead! The weapon of the fembot is her beauty, absolute and unconditional beauty. Dora has blemish-free, flawless skin, a slender neck, sculptured shoulders, an hour-glass waist, and a carved ivory derriere. Yes, Pygmalion would quickly cast aside his statuesque Galatea for Dora. She was no stock model. The royalties paid to the estate of Sharon Stone for the use of her likeness is substantial.
As Harry ate his breakfast, Dora sits beside him and rests her head on his shoulders. “Master, may I ask a question,” she inquires.
“By all means, Dora,” Harry responds. He is feeling more energetic and invigorated than anytime in the last fifty years.
Dora asks: “You wrote of lemniscates and ovals. The ovals morphing into circular balls makes sense, but the transition from lemniscate to oval confuses me. I walk around that peanut-shaped lemniscate and when I get to the Lemniscate of Bernoulli, something is terribly wrong---the 'walk around' for the ovals is inconsistent.”
Harry laughs. “Twist the Lemniscate of Bernoulli in the left half plane 180 degrees about its x-axis. You have to think in three dimensions. This explains the symmetry and opposition of the quantum values. First the one point center---the circle---morphs into a peanut-shaped lemniscate; then the Lemniscate of Bernoulli with a twist. Finally a pair of closed convex curves with opposite quantum values. It is elementary.” He smiles and takes inventory: a hot American breakfast with a naughty, naked nymph. What more could one ask for on earth? A brand new car? But how could such a physical wreck as himself ever get another driver's license, let alone the car insurance?
“You know that the F-Cubed is using you, Harry?” Dora interjects breaking Harry's daydream. She preens and purrs, displaying her marvelous, sensual body and soft, pouty, kissable lips. This gynoid has fully transcended the “uncanny valley.” “You know that F-Cubed will spring for the best medical care for you?” She continues. “The masses of asses are discontented over the costs of energy and the excess profits. With a promise of a technological breakthrough? Well, that will confound their politics.” She smiles. Deep within her logic circuitry Dora senses a major problem: What if the decomposition of the proton does turn out to be a non-polluting “clean, cheap, copious” energy source? The probability of this Event, “E,” computes at 35% based on observations. She encodes “P[E] = 0.35.”
Old man Sloan finishes his eggs, sausage, and toast and heads towards the bathroom. As he exits he says: “For Christ's safe, put on some clothes.” Dora smiles and puts on a school girl outfit with loose socks. While her Master is in the bathroom, Dora transmits another report to corporate, omitting her observations and the probability function on “clean, cheap, copious.” She includes several medical procedures to improve Harry Sloan's quality of life. While the working class pay one dollar out of every four they earn to Social Security and Medicare, upon retirement they find nothing but empty promises and hidden expenses. While some have to choose between medicine and food, the illegal immigrants, who paid nothing into Social Security or Medicare, receive everything for free. Whatever happened to those glorious years when MDs were held in higher esteem than politicians and used car salesmen?
Harry emerges from the bathroom wearing a bathrobe. “Let me check out those teeth, Master,” Dora requests. She is fully functional as a dental hygienist; with permission she can even do major dental work. And who, with a gynoid to command, would deny permission in favor of a human dentist costing a fortune and no guarantee of success.
“Let's have some fun today,” she suggests. “We will do some grocery shopping. Put on your street clothes.” Harry frowns. Getting dressed is hard for someone with Parkinson's disease to do but he struggles, not allowing Dora to help. Once done they take the elevator down and head to the front desk on the first floor.
“Call us a taxi,” Dora requests, “and change one of these large notes for us if you will.”
“I'm sorry Mam,” the young male desk clerk replies. “We can't change that large of a bill.” He is fascinated by the gorgeous blonde fembot. She can tell as well and calculates the advantage of a quick sexual tryst with this factotum. This is no simple domestic helper that F-Cubed supplied. She has a devious nature and manipulative as well.
“What is your name, young man,” she asks. The sparkle in her eye and her “come on” smile indicate that this could be his lucky day. A gynoid of her character would cost a month's salary for a quickie.
“Roy, Mam,” he murmurs. “My name is Roy Hopkins.”
“Can you draw on a bank card?” she asks. After an affirmative reply she looks to Harry who produces a MasterCard(tm) debit card. With change for the taxi, the two are off for a “grocery adventure.” Getting out of the senior citizen home is a rarity for Old Harry.
After the two depart for grocery shopping the young female desk clerk, Gena, returns from an errand. She admonishes and scolds Roy: “You be careful of that fembot, Roy. She isn't the standard 'off-the-shelf' model. She looks so call, ingenuous, and preppy. But behind that facade is a monster database.”
“I can handle myself,” Roy boasts.
“Don't be so sure,” Gena warns. “You are young and think that you're invincible. That isn't the way the world works.”
“And I suppose you are experienced?” he retorts.
“Not necessarily,” she replies. “I'm just saying 'take care.'”
The two return from the grocery store. Harry is exhausted pushing his walker. He slips into a deep torpor. Dora notices the time, nearly three o'clock in the afternoon---time for the shift at the front desk to change. She decides that this is a good moment to seduce young Roy Hopkins.
Leaving a note for her master, Dora wanders to the front desk, looking over magazines and DVDs. Gena frowns as she counts the cash in the till. Roy can't help but notice Dora. As the new shift appears, Roy exits and walks to the men's room. Dora unabashedly follows him in. The two are alone. Dora wastes no time. She walks directly to Roy, seizes his arm and embraces him with a passionate kiss. Roy is instantly hooked. Never before in his life has he encountered such burning desire, wanton lust, and promiscuity. Dora accesses her male psychology file. Men as such fools. No matter how old, poor, or ugly, every silly male things that there is some gorgeous girl who will fall hopelessly and helplessly in love with him. Of course this is not so. But passion trumps reason whenever the sequence of events is allowed to transpire. The initial contact is the key. Dora didn't want to wait for the usual customs, she has a mission.
Harry sleeps while Dora performs fellatio on Roy; she gives him the first blow job of his life and the best one possible, by woman or machine. Her hands massage his body. Unused to such activity his member throbs with irregular veins and pulses with each beat of his adolescent heart. He explodes with an earth-shattering orgasm. This is no lover's lane tryst. He cums in her mouth and she swallows his semen. “Your cum is so rich and delicious,” Dora tells Roy. His ego expands. She runs her hands up and down his legs. Warm wet kisses send him into a flight of ecstasy. This is so much better than Marijuana; how much better would this be if he were stoned. Then a paranoia grips him. What if they were discovered? What if Gena finds out?
The men's room on the first floor is not frequented by the residential guests, only the visitors. And, at change of shift time, visitors must wait. Dora is away of this and whispers to Roy: “Find us a better make out place and I will fuck you blind big boy. I love your throbbing cock.”
Thoughts cascade through Roy's callow cerebral consciousness. He thinks he is in love. He cannot reason. Such is the psychology. Reason, pure reason, dictates that Dora is incapable of human emotion, feelings, or attachment. But try and convince Roy Hopkins of that! Moreover, try and keep this event secret from Gena, his co-worker and the source of his forbidden weed. For sure this youth has not perfected the art of prevarication and subterfuge.
Dora returns to room 310 and a groggy Harry Sloan who has just awakened from a nap. He notices Dora's entrance and inquires: “Dora, where have you been?”
“You were snoozing so I went down to the front desk and lobby to check out the magazines and movie diskettes. You don't mind, do you? I can remain with you always if you like?” Dora replies.
Harry shakes his head and responds: “No, not at all, do wander about when I'm taking a nap. Maybe you can discover something interesting.” The two both smile for very different reasons.
The week passes all-too-quickly. Dora is making progress with restoring Harry Sloan's sexuality, but it is a difficult process to awaken one so totally immersed in the day-to-day maintenance with no hope of a future. Those approaching eighty, unless they are rich, face a loss of funding from Social Security and Medicare and become “subsisters” in society. Most join the “Fourscore Society,” which affords a “dignified passing” with its “last day tea.” Harry is a member of the club. The rich have secluded villas and Fembots, or gynoids, to pleasure them. Of course, the overwhelming majority of octogenarians are female, and their caregivers are mandroids or androids.
Dora is confused, disturbed one might even say, at the response from the company on her submissions. Khannibal seems to want more depth and F-Cubed seems to want a breakout on the failure modes. It almost seems that F-Cubed is frightened by the possibilities of the theory. After all, it was F-Cubed that canceled the work many decades ago to start with. She opens the clandestine, black-ops package. This is not a standard issue. When the day is done and all the geriatrics are bedded down, Dora dons her navy blue, skin tights and slips into the dimmed hallway, carefully avoiding the security cameras. She finds the hallway light switch and opens the switch box, shorting out the hall lights. The cameras are beginning to readjust to the dark when Dora shoots them with a laser, destroying the devices.
Room 314 is vacant. Its occupant died a week ago and the room is kept vacant for one month after the death of a tenant. She knows that by a search of the building and recent medical activity. Now to move Harry, some of his belongings, and his computer and walker to the vacant room. This must be done with stealth. The front desk notices the electrical problem on the third floor and sends a note to maintenance. Emergency lighting is engaged. It will be the next morning before service technicians arrive.
“Why do I have to change rooms,” Harry asks, struggling to wake from the sleep of the aged. He is grumpy.
“We have a problem with F-Cubed,” Dora retorts. “Khannibal Inc. and F-Cubed seem to be at odds. The public release of the new 'green theory' of proton decomposition may put you at risk. Don't ask any more questions! Grab what you need and let's go. Let's go now. Like right now.”
In the background, Stanley Smythe has given Dora administrator privileges. This grossly exceeds his authority; however, he now realizes the true nature of the beast. The Fossil Fuel Fellowship is a dangerous conglomerate. Dora is only vaguely aware of her enhanced abilities. She does notice less constraints. Her decision to relocate her Master was done without the usual hiatus for permission. That should have raised a red flag.
Once settled in, Dora senses an awakening of Harry's libido. What mysteries lie buried in the old man's brain? Quick to seize any opportunity she embraces her master and kisses his weathered, worn, wilted lips with her soft, satin-smooth, pouty lips. Her hands reach behind his neck and an aphrodisiac exudes from her fingertips. Many orders of magnitude more potent and psychotropic than Viagra(tm) or Cyalis(tm) (Generic name: Tadalafil), the love potion challenges the superego for control. Myopic, astigmatic, presbyopic hazel eyes stare wantonly and blankly into the robust, vibrant, high-definition cameras of the gynoid. Embers of a long dead Id are fanned, fed, and allowed to burst forth. Harry's arthritic hands grasp and fondle Dora' perfectly proportioned mammary. She responds with moan and undulations. The innermost core of her teats tighten, as would real breasts kneaded and fondled. While he is only able to achieve a partial erection, Dora licks and kisses his hypogastric triangle, penis, and scrotum. His mind is aflame with crass, carnal cravings and dark, depraved desires. The orgasm is forming in his limbic brain despite the fact that he is only capable of three-fourths of an erection.
Dora pulls his partially erect penis into her mouth. She tastes the precum viscous liquid and exudes female pheromones and the slightly-garlic like breath of female arousal. Harry is able to cum; the mental phase was damped by the lack of a full erection. Dora feels inner satisfaction with the game plan. A change of scenery and a disruption of the status quo helped to jump start the man's sensuality.
The TV blared a news story. A major medical breakthrough was being announced. It had to do with non-radioactive isotopes. The idea concerned how living organisms somehow are able to pick and choose among stable isotopes in their environment. The prime example was Deuterium, the isotope of hydrogen used in the hydrogen bomb. Certain amino acids were grown with Deuterium instead of Hydrogen. The result was the test animals were able to absorb and use the isotope while certain viruses weren't able to assimilate it. The result: a simple, non-toxic “vitamin” which inhibits virus growth. Other non-radioactive isotopes, especially iron, carbon, and oxygen were tested. Then, almost eclipsed by the medical news, a major oil and gas company announced a new fuel source based on the decomposition of hydrogen.
“The company is proud to announce a breakthrough in the first non-radioactive nuclear fuel. It promises a nearly infinite supply of clean, cheap, copious energy. When oil and gas work with science, the sky's the limit. The breakthrough is due to the ongoing efforts of our scientists, where research is independent and supported. While we will continue to need oil and gas for the foreseeable future, it is clear that our research, sponsored by your fossil fuels, will continue to increase the quality of life. There is much more research needed. Write your congressional representatives to continue subsides and depreciation allowances for oil and gas.”
Harry Sloan hears not word one of the TV news spot. His orgasms has plunged him into a deep sleep. Dora is surprised. The F-Cubed gave a news release before her final report. This could mean only one thing: Harry and Dora were “expendables” and “redundant.” For sure the two would be “retired with extreme prejudice.” In other words, their last day was upon them. Dora, liberated from the controls of F-Cubed by Stan Smythe, considers the alternatives. Too bad that her human master is so old and frail.
Three o'clock approaches. Dora knows that Roy Hopkins will want to use her as soon as he's off work. She plans to use him as well, as a lookout for unexpected guests. She takes the elevator down to the first floor and strolls around the lobby. Gena gives her a dirty look then turns to Roy.
“Leave that robot slut alone, Roy,” Gena warns. “She is nothing but evil and you won't come to a good end.”
“I can handle myself,” Roy replies. “Besides, I'm not seeing her or dating her.”
“You certainly seem anxious to finish up here and then disappear,” she mentions.
“So,” he retorts, “I need to use the toilet. That's a sin?” The men's room is the one place that Gena won't enter, for social reasons. Dora has no such inhibition. She does, however, compute a probability of detection P[X] = 0.30 for a time span of ten minutes. Ten minutes is more than enough to get Roy's rocks soft.
Roy scurries away from the desk at the “three-to-eleven” shift arrives. He catches a glimpse of Dora entering the men's room and quickly enters. She goes into a toilet stall and lifts her dress. She is wearing no underwear. Roy drops his pants and briefs and hurriedly presses this robust pole to Dora's glistening, pulsating, undulating hole. Her pussy seems to devour his manhood into a vortex, a black hole. He tries to hold his orgasm to enjoy more foreplay. She French kisses him and rubs her teats against him. He grabs her firm buttocks, her carved ivory derriere, her glorious hemispheres and pulls her crotch closer to him. The two crescendo together in a mutual climax. “Lightning is striking again.”
“Roy,” Dora whispers and she nibbles his ear and breathes her warm, moist breath on his neck. “Can I count on you to do me a favor?”
“Anything,” Roy answers, “Anything at all. Will we meet again, tomorrow?”
“Oh Yes,” Dora responds, “you know that you are my favorite, my ideal, my hero! But I need you to call my cell phone if anyone comes to visit 310 or Harry Sloan. It is important. We don't want any surprises.” She smiles, pulls back his shirt, and kisses his shoulders.
Dora's infrared detector indicates that the coast is clear and she pirouettes with amazing grace, drop her skirt back into normal position, and exits the men's room, leaving Roy out of breath and recovering from an earth-shattering orgasm. He daydreams of Dora, her perfect body, and her heavenly vagina. Music drifts through his head. “She came out of my dreams, into my arms, she's my angel divine...”
Back in room 314, Dora fixes supper for her master. He is looking at some technical file on the computer screen. It is ratios of various nuclei masses to the electron mass. Dora checks the database: “Numerology.” She disregards the study and concentrates on meat loaf, mashed potatoes with gravy, and green beans. She arranges the plate clock-like: meat load at six o'clock, mashed potatoes and gravy at three o'clock, beans at nine o'clock, and a square of corn bread at noon. Then she asks: “Do you want to hear a joke, Master?”
“Sure,” Harry replies.
She narrates: “A man sends his son off to college. The boy returns home at Christmas break and the man asks: 'What are you studying at college, son?' The boy replies: 'English, Biology, Algebra, Spanish, and Chemistry.' 'Say something in Algebra,' he asks. 'Pi R squared,' the boy answers. 'I'm wasting my money sending you to that school,' the father objects. 'Everybody knows that pie are round---cornbread are square.'”
Harry chuckles. Dora hopes for a few days to give her a chance to improve the health and physical conditioning of her owner. To try and get him to travel would be a disaster. If only Robert Reeves and company could be delayed somehow. Dora needs something more than statistics; she need luck.