Here's a very funny story that features one of the most bizarre
career-advancement ploys that anyone is ever likely to see…
Eileen Gunn worked as one of the top-paid technical writers in the
country for various large corporations for too many years (doubtless
there is no resemblance between them and the company
portrayed here), which is probably why it took her ten years to make
her first three sales—since then she has wised up, plunged herself into
decent poverty like everyone else as a freelance SF writer, and in
short order has rapidly made three more sales. With luck and
continued nonemployment (Business Leaders of the Pacific Northwest:
Don't Hire This Woman!), there will soon be a lot more, as she's not
only one of the best young writers in the business, but has one of the
weirdest imaginations this side of Howard Waldrop (she can occasionally
be seen just this side of Howard Waldrop in convention
photographs; he is the one wearing the Zippy The Pinhead T shirt). Her
work has appeared in Amazing, Proteus, Tales By Moonlight,
and Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine. She lives in
Seattle, Washington, where she is eyed warily by her neighbors, and
occasionally plays a Radar Angel or the S & M Fairy in the quaint
nature festivals indigenous to the region.
I awoke this morning to discover that bioengineering had made
demands upon me during the night. My tongue had turned into a stiletto,
and my left hand now contained a small chitinous comb, as if for
cleaning a compound eye. Since I didn't have compound eyes, I thought
that perhaps this presaged some change to come.
I dragged myself out of bed, wondering how I was going to drink my
coffee through a stiletto. Was I now expected to kill my breakfast, and
dispense with coffee entirely? I hoped I was not evolving into a
creature whose survival depended on early-morning alertness. My
circadian rhythms would no doubt keep pace with any physical changes,
but my unevolved soul was repulsed at the thought of my waking
cheerfully at dawn, ravenous for some wriggly little creature that had
arisen even earlier.
I looked down at Greg, still asleep, the edge of our red and white
quilt pulled up under his chin. His mouth had changed during the night
too, and seemed to contain some sort of a long probe. Were we growing
apart?
I reached down with my unchanged hand and touched his hair. It was
still shiny brown, soft and thick, luxurious. But along his cheek,
under his beard, I could feel patches of sclerotin, as the flexible
chitin in his skin was slowly hardening to an impermeable armor.
He opened his eyes, staring blearily forward without moving his
head. I could see him move his mouth cautiously, examining its internal
changes. He turned his head and looked up at me, rubbing his hair
slightly into my hand.
"Time to get up?" he asked. I nodded. "Oh, God," he said. He said
this every morning. It was like a prayer.
"I'll make coffee," I said. "Do you want some?"
He shook his head slowly. "Just a glass of apricot nectar," he said.
He unrolled his long, rough tongue and looked at it, slightly
cross-eyed. "This is real interesting, but it wasn't in the catalog.
I'll be sipping lunch from flowers pretty soon. That ought to draw a
second glance at Duke's."
"I thought account execs were expected to sip their lunches," I said.
"Not from the flower arrangements…" he said, still exploring the odd
shape of his mouth. Then he looked up at me and reached up from under
the covers. "Come here."
It had been a while, I thought, and I had to get to work. But he did
smell terribly attractive. Perhaps he was developing aphrodisiac scent
glands. I climbed back under the covers and stretched my body against
his. We were both developing chitinous knobs and odd lumps that made
this less than comfortable. "How am I supposed to kiss you with a
stiletto in my mouth?" I asked.
"There are other things to do. New equipment presents new
possibilities." He pushed the covers back and ran his unchanged hands
down my body from shoulder to thigh. "Let me know if my tongue is too
rough."
It was not.
Fuzzy-minded, I got out of bed for the second time and drifted into
the kitchen.
Measuring the coffee into the grinder, I realized that I was no
longer interested in drinking it, although it was diverting for a
moment to spear the beans with my stiletto. What was the damn thing
for, anyhow? I wasn't sure I wanted to find out.
Putting the grinder aside, I poured a can of apricot nectar into a
tulip glass. Shallow glasses were going to be a problem for Greg in the
future, I thought. Not to mention solid food.
My particular problem, however, if I could figure out what I was
supposed to eat for breakfast, was getting to the office in time for my
ten A.M. meeting. Maybe I'd just skip breakfast. I dressed quickly and
dashed out the door before Greg was even out of bed.
Thirty minutes later, I was more or less awake and sitting in the
small conference room with the new marketing manager, listening to him
lay out his plan for the Model 2000 launch.
In signing up for his bioengineering program, Harry had chosen
specialized primate adaptation, B-E Option No. 4. He had evolved into a
text-book example: small and long-limbed, with forward-facing eyes for
judging distances and long, grasping fingers to keep him from falling
out of his tree.
He was dressed for success in a pin-striped three-piece suit that
fit his simian proportions perfectly. I wondered what premium he paid
for custom-made. Or did he patronize a ready-to-wear shop that catered
especially to primates?
I listened as he leaped agilely from one ridiculous marketing
premise to the next. Trying to borrow credibility from mathematics and
engineering, he used wildly metaphoric bizspeak, "factoring in the need
for pipeline throughout," "fine-tuning the media mix," without even
cracking a smile.
Harry had been with the company only a few months, straight from
business school. He saw himself as a much-needed infusion of talent. I
didn't like him, but I envied his ability to root through his
subconscious and toss out one half-formed idea after another. I know he
felt it reflected badly on me that I didn't join in and spew forth a
random selection of promotional suggestions.
I didn't think much of his marketing plan. The advertising section
was a textbook application of theory with no practical basis. I had two
options: I could force him to accept a solution that would work, or I
could yes him to death, making sure everybody understood it was his
idea. I knew which path I'd take.
"Yeah, we can do that for you," I told him. "No problem." We'd see
which of us would survive and which was hurtling to an evolutionary
dead end.
Although Harry had won his point, he continued to belabor it. My
attention wandered—I'd heard it all before. His voice was the hum of an
air conditioner, a familiar, easily ignored background noise. I drowsed
and new emotions stirred in me, yearnings to float through moist air
currents, to land on bright surfaces, to engorge myself with warm, wet
food.
Adrift in insect dreams, I became sharply aware of the bare skin of
Harry's arm, between his gold-plated watchband and his rolled-up
sleeve, as he manipulated papers on the conference room table. He
smelled greasily delicious, like a pepperoni pizza or a
charcoal-broiled hamburger. I realized he probably wouldn't taste as
good as he smelled, but I was hungry. My stiletto-like tongue was there
for a purpose, and it wasn't to skewer cubes of tofu. I leaned over his
arm and braced myself against the back of his hand, probing with my
stylets to find a capillary.
Harry noticed what I was doing and swatted me sharply on the side of
the head. I pulled away before he could hit me again.
"We were discussing the Model 2000 launch. Or have you forgotten?"
he said, rubbing his arm.
"Sorry. I skipped breakfast this morning." I was embarrassed.
"Well, get your hormones adjusted, for chrissake." He was annoyed,
and I couldn't really blame him. "Let's get back to the media
allocation issue, if you can keep your mind on it. I've got another
meeting at eleven in Building Two."
Inappropriate feeding behavior was not unusual in the company, and
corporate etiquette sometimes allowed minor lapses to pass without
pursuit. Of course, I could no longer hope that he would support me on
moving some money out of the direct-mail budget…
During the remainder of the meeting, my glance kept drifting through
the open door of the conference room, toward a large decorative plant
in the hall, one of those oases of generic greenery that dot the
corporate landscape. It didn't look succulent exactly—it obviously
wasn't what I would have preferred to eat if I hadn't been so
hungry—but I wondered if I swung both ways?
I grabbed a handful of the broad leaves as I left the room and
carried them back to my office. With my tongue, I probed a vein in the
thickest part of a leaf. It wasn't so bad. Tasted green. I sucked them
dry and tossed the husks in the wastebasket.
I was still omnivorous, at least—female mosquitoes don't eat plants.
So the process wasn't complete…
I got a cup of coffee, for company, from the kitchenette and sat in
my office with the door closed and wondered what was happening. The
incident with Harry disturbed me. Was I turning into a mosquito? If so,
what the hell kind of good was that supposed to do me? The company
didn't have any use for a whining loner.
There was a knock at the door, and my boss stuck his head in. I
nodded and gestured him into my office. He sat down in the visitor's
chair on the other side of my desk. From the look on his face, I could
tell Harry had talked to him already.
Tom Samson was an older guy, pre-bioengineering. He was well versed
in stimulus-response techniques, but had somehow never made it to the
top job. I liked him, but then that was what he intended. Without
sacrificing authority, he had pitched his appearance, his gestures, the
tone of his voice, to the warm end of the spectrum. Even though I knew
what he was doing, it worked.
He looked at me with what appeared to be sympathy, but was actually
a practiced sign stimulus, intended to defuse any fight-or-flight
response. "Is there something bothering you, Margaret?"
"Bothering me? I'm hungry, that's all. I get short-tempered when I'm
hungry."
Watch it, I thought. He hasn't referred to the incident; leave it
for him to bring up. I made my mind go bland and forced myself to meet
his
eyes. A shifty gaze is a guilty gaze.
Tom just looked at me, biding his time, waiting for me to put myself
on the spot. My coffee smelt burnt, but I stuck my tongue in it and
pretended to drink. "I'm just not human until I've had my coffee in the
morning." Sounded phony. Shut up, I thought.
This was the opening that Tom was waiting for. "That's what I wanted
to speak to you about, Margaret." He sat there, hunched over in a
relaxed way, like a mountain gorilla, unthreatened by natural enemies.
"I just talked to Harry Winthrop, and he said you were trying to suck
his blood during a meeting on marketing strategy." He paused for a
moment to check my reaction, but the neutral expression was fixed on my
face and I said nothing. His face changed to project disappointment.
"You know, when we noticed you were developing three distinct body
segments, we had great hopes for you. But your actions just don't
reflect the social and organizational development we expected."
He paused, and it was my turn to say something in my defense. "Most
insects are solitary, you know. Perhaps the company erred in hoping for
a termite or an ant. I'm not responsible for that."
"Now, Margaret," he said, his voice simulating genial reprimand.
"This isn't the jungle, you know. When you signed those consent forms,
you agreed to let the B-E staff mold you into a more useful corporate
organism. But this isn't nature, this is man reshaping nature. It
doesn't follow the old rules. You can truly be anything you want to be.
But you have to cooperate."
"I'm doing the best I can," I said, cooperatively. "I'm putting in
eighty hours a week."
"Margaret, the quality of your work is not an issue. It's your
interactions with others that you have to work on. You have to learn to
work as part of the group. I just cannot permit such backbiting to
continue. I'll have Arthur get you an appointment this afternoon with
the B-E counselor." Arthur was his secretary. He knew everything that
happened in the department and mostly kept his mouth shut.
"I'd be a social insect if I could manage it," I muttered as Tom
left my office. "But I've never known what to say to people in bars."
For lunch I met Greg and our friend David Detlor at a health-food
restaurant that advertises fifty different kinds of fruit nectar. We'd
never eaten there before, but Greg knew he'd love the place. It was
already a favorite of David's, and he still has all his teeth, so I
figured it would be okay with me.
David was there when I arrived, but not Greg. David works for the
company too, in a different department. He, however, has proved
remarkably resistant to corporate blandishment. Not only has he never
undertaken B-E, he hasn't even bought a three-piece suit. Today he was
wearing
chewed-up blue jeans and a flashy Hawaiian shirt, of a type that was
cool about ten years ago.
"Your boss lets you dress like that?" I asked.
"We have this agreement. I don't tell her she has to give me a job,
and she doesn't tell me what to wear."
David's perspective on life is very different from mine. And I don't
think it's just that he's in R&D and I'm in Advertising—it's more
basic than that. Where he sees the world as a bunch of really neat but
optional puzzles put there for his enjoyment, I see it as… well, as a
series of SATs.
"So what's new with you guys?" he asked, while we stood around
waiting for a table.
"Greg's turning into a goddamn butterfly. He went out last week and
bought a dozen Italian silk sweaters. It's not a corporate look."
"He's not a corporate guy, Margaret."
"Then why is he having all this B-E done if he's not even going to
use it?"
"He's dressing up a little. He just wants to look nice. Like Michael
Jackson, you know?"
I couldn't tell whether David was kidding me or not. Then he started
telling me about his music, this barbershop quartet that he sings in.
They were going to dress in black leather for the next competition and
sing Shel Silverstein's "Come to Me, My Masochistic Baby."
"It'll knock them on their tails," he said gleefully. "We've already
got a great arrangement."
"Do you think it will win, David?" It seemed too weird to please the
judges in that sort of a show.
"Who cares?" said David. He didn't look worried.
Just then Greg showed up. He was wearing a cobalt blue silk sweater
with a copper green design on it. Italian. He was also wearing a pair
of dangly earrings shaped like bright blue airplanes. We were shown to
a table near a display of carved vegetables.
"This is great," said David. "Everybody wants to sit near the
vegetables. It's where you sit to be seen in this place." He
nodded to Greg. "I think it's your sweater."
"It's the butterfly in my personality," said Greg. "Headwaiters
never used to do stuff like this for me. I always got the table next to
the espresso machine."
If Greg was going to go on about the perks that come with being a
butterfly, I was going to change the subject.
"David, how come you still haven't signed up for B-E?" I asked. "The
company pays half the cost, and they don't ask questions."
David screwed up his mouth, raised his hands to his face, and made
small, twitching, insect gestures, as if grooming his nose and eyes.
"I'm
doing okay the way I am."
Greg chuckled at this, but I was serious. "You'll get ahead faster
with a little adjustment. Plus you're showing a good attitude, you
know, if you do it."
"I'm getting ahead faster than I want to right now—it looks like I
won't be able to take the three months off that I wanted this summer."
"Three months?" I was astonished. "Aren't you afraid you won't have
a job to come back to?"
"I could live with that," said David calmly, opening his menu.
The waiter took our orders. We sat for a moment in a companionable
silence, the self-congratulation that follows ordering high-fiber
food-stuffs. Then I told them the story of my encounter with Harry
Winthrop.
"There's something wrong with me," I said. "Why suck his blood? What
good is that supposed to do me?"
"Well," said David, "you chose this schedule of
treatments. Where did you want it to go?"
"According to the catalog," I said, "the No. 2 Insect Option is
supposed to make me into a successful competitor for a
middle-management niche, with triggerable responses that can be useful
in gaining entry to upper hierarchical levels. Unquote." Of course,
that was just ad talk—I didn't really expect it to do all that. "That's
what I want. I want to be in charge. I want to be the boss."
"Maybe you should go back to BioEngineering and try again," said
Greg. "Sometimes the hormones don't do what you expect. Look at my
tongue, for instance." He unfurled it gently and rolled it back into
his mouth. "Though I'm sort of getting to like it." He sucked at his
drink, making disgusting slurping sounds. He didn't need a straw.
"Don't bother with it, Margaret," said David firmly, taking a cup of
rosehip tea from the waiter. "Bioengineering is a waste of time and
money and millions of years of evolution. If human beings were intended
to be managers, we'd have evolved pin-striped body covering."
"That's cleverly put," I said, "but it's dead wrong."
The waiter brought our lunches, and we stopped talking as he put
them in front of us. It seemed like the anticipatory silence of three
very hungry people, but was in fact the polite silence of three people
who have been brought up not to argue in front of disinterested
bystanders. As soon as he left, we resumed the discussion.
"I mean it," David said. "The dubious survival benefits of
management aside, bioengineering is a waste of effort. Harry Winthrop,
for instance, doesn't need B-E at all. Here he is, fresh out of
business school, audibly buzzing with lust for a high-level management
position. Basically he's just marking time until a presidency opens up
somewhere. And what gives
him the edge over you is his youth and inexperience, not some
specialized primate adaptation."
"Well," I said with some asperity, "he's not constrained by a
knowledge of what's failed in the past, that's for sure. But saying
that doesn't solve my problem, David. Harry's signed up. I've signed
up. The changes are under way and I don't have any choice."
I squeezed a huge glob of honey into my tea from a plastic bottle
shaped like a teddy bear. I took a sip of the tea; it was
minty and very sweet. "And now I'm turning into the wrong kind of
insect. It's ruined my ability to deal with Product Marketing."
"Oh, give it a rest!" said Greg suddenly. "This is so boring. I
don't want to hear any more about corporate hugger-mugger. Let's talk
about something that's fun."
I had had enough of Greg's lepidopterate lack of concentration.
"Something that's fun? I've invested all my time and most of
my genetic material in this job. This is all the goddamn fun there is."
The honeyed tea made me feel hot. My stomach itched—I wondered if I
was having an allergic reaction. I scratched, and not discreetly. My
hand came out from under my shirt full of little waxy scales. What the
hell was going on under there? I tasted one of the scales; it was wax
all right. Worker bee changes? I couldn't help myself—I stuffed the wax
into my mouth.
David was busying himself with his alfalfa sprouts, but Greg looked
disgusted. "That's gross, Margaret," he said. He made a face, sticking
his tongue part way out. Talk about gross. "Can't you wait until after
lunch?"
I was doing what came naturally, and did not dignify his statement
with a response. There was a side dish of bee pollen on the table. I
took a spoonful and mixed it with the wax, chewing noisily. I'd had a
rough morning, and bickering with Greg wasn't making the day more
pleasant.
Besides, neither he nor David has any real respect for my position
in the company. Greg doesn't take my job seriously at all. And David
simply does what he wants to do, regardless of whether it makes any
money, for himself or anyone else. He was giving me a back-to-nature
lecture, and it was far too late for that.
This whole lunch was a waste of time. I was tired of listening to
them, and felt an intense urge to get back to work. A couple of quick
stings distracted them both: I had the advantage of surprise. I ate
some more honey and quickly waxed them over. They were soon hibernating
side by side in two large octagonal cells.
I looked around the restaurant. People were rather nervously
pretending not to have noticed. I called the waiter over and handed him
my credit card. He signaled to several bus boys, who brought a covered
dart and took Greg and David away. "They'll eat themselves out of that
by Thursday
afternoon," I told him. "Store them on their sides in a warm, dry
place, away from direct heat." I left a large tip.
I walked back to the office, feeling a bit ashamed of myself. A
couple days of hibernation weren't going to make Greg or David more
sympathetic to my problems. And they'd be real mad when they got out.
I didn't use to do things like that. I used to be more patient,
didn't I? More appreciative of the diverse spectrum of human
possibility. More interested in sex and television.
This job was not doing much for me as a warm, personable human
being. At the very least, it was turning me into an unpleasant lunch
companion. Whatever had made me think I wanted to get into management
anyway?
The money, maybe.
But that wasn't all. It was the challenge, the chance to do
something new, to control the total effort instead of just doing part
of a project…
The money too, though. There were other ways to get money. Maybe I
should just kick the supports out from under the damn job and start
over again.
I saw myself sauntering into Tom's office, twirling his visitor's
chair around and falling into it. The words "I quit" would force their
way out, almost against my will. His face would show surprise—feigned,
of course. By then I'd have to go through with it. Maybe I'd put my
feet up on his desk. And then—
But was it possible to just quit, to go back to being the person I
used to be? No, I wouldn't be able to do it. I'd never be a management
virgin again.
I walked up to the employee entrance at the rear of the building. A
suction device next to the door sniffed at me, recognized my scent, and
clicked the door open. Inside, a group of new employees, trainees, were
clustered near the door, while a personnel officer introduced them to
the lock and let it familiarize itself with their pheromones.
On the way down the hall, I passed Tom's office. The door was open.
He was at his desk, bowed over some papers, and looked up as I went by.
"Ah, Margaret," he said. "Just the person I want to talk to. Come in
for a minute, would you." He moved a large file folder onto the papers
in front of him on his desk, and folded his hands on top of them. "So
glad you were passing by." He nodded toward a large, comfortable chair.
"Sit down."
"We're going to be doing a bit of restructuring in the department,"
he began, "and I'll need your input, so I want to fill you in now on
what will be happening."
I was immediately suspicious. Whenever Tom said "I'll need your
input," he meant everything was decided already.
"We'll be reorganizing the whole division, of course," he continued,
drawing little boxes on a blank piece of paper. He'd mentioned this at
the department meeting last week.
"Now, your group subdivides functionally into two separate areas,
wouldn't you say?"
"Well—"
"Yes," he said thoughtfully, nodding his head as though in
agreement. "That would be the way to do it." He added a few lines and a
few more boxes. From what I could see, it meant that Harry would do all
the interesting stuff and I'd sweep up afterwards.
"Looks to me as if you've cut the balls out of my area and put them
over into Harry Winthrop's," I said.
"Ah, but your area is still very important, my dear. That's why I
don't have you actually reporting to Harry." He gave me a smile like a
lie.
He had put me in a tidy little bind. After all, he was my boss. If
he was going to take most of my area away from me, as it seemed he was,
there wasn't much I could do to stop him. And I would be better off if
we both pretended that I hadn't experienced any loss of status. That
way I kept my title and my salary.
"Oh, I see." I said. "Right."
It dawned on me that this whole thing had been decided already, and
that Harry Winthrop probably knew all about it. He'd probably even
wangled a raise out of it. Tom had called me in here to make it look
casual, to make it look as though I had something to say about it. I'd
been set up.
This made me mad. There was no question of quitting now. I'd stick
around and fight. My eyes blurred, unfocused, refocused again. Compound
eyes! The promise of the small comb in my hand was fulfilled! I felt a
deep chemical understanding of the ecological system I was now a part
of. I knew where I fit in. And I knew what I was going to do. It was
inevitable now, hardwired in at the DNA level.
The strength of this conviction triggered another change in the
chitin, and for the first time I could actually feel the rearrangement
of my mouth and nose, a numb tickling like inhaling seltzer water. The
stiletto receded and mandibles jutted forth, rather like Katharine
Hepburn. Form and function achieved an orgasmic synchronicity. As my
jaw pushed forward, mantis-like, it also opened, and I pounced on Tom
and bit his head off.
He leaped from his desk and danced headless about the office.
I felt in complete control of myself as I watched him and continued
the conversation. "About the Model 2000 launch," I said. "If we factor
in the demand for pipeline throughput and adjust the media mix just a
bit, I think we can present a very tasty little package to Product
Marketing by the end of the week."
Tom continued to strut spasmodically, making vulgar copulative
motions. Was I responsible for evoking these mantid reactions? I was
unaware of a sexual component in our relationship.
I got up from the visitor's chair and sat behind his desk, thinking
about what had just happened. It goes without saying that I was
surprised at my own actions. I mean, irritable is one thing, but biting
people's heads off is quite another. But I have to admit that my second
thought was, well, this certainly is a useful strategy, and should make
a considerable difference in my ability to advance myself. Hell of a
lot more productive than sucking people's blood.
Maybe there was something after all to Tom's talk about having the
proper attitude.
And, of course, thinking of Tom, my third reaction was regret. He
really had been a likeable guy, for the most part. But what's done is
done, you know, and there's no use chewing on it after the fact.
I buzzed his assistant on the intercom. "Arthur," I said, "Mr.
Samson and I have come to an evolutionary parting of the ways. Please
have him re-engineered. And charge it to Personnel."
Now I feel an odd itching on my forearms and thighs. Notches on
which I might fiddle a song?