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Frost still coated every surface, it hadn’t thawed at all, no heat was getting through to the base.He rifled through the cans, sending a couple of t...em rolling, his gut cramping uncomfortably as he searched for something with a legible label. Most were either so faded or so damaged by the moisture and ice that he couldn’t read them. Ah, here was one that he could just about make out. He lifted the can, examining it under the dim lights. Kidney beans, perfect. He couldn’t make out an expiration. However,the machine's programming determined that most of its users' alterationswere for sexual purposes, so it tried never to lower libidos. Duncanwould at least have maintained his through the transformation. But themachine didn't stop there. It tried to determine the subjective sexualrequirements of its users. Through interfacing with its users and thegeneral mindset of the surrounding population it had judged theperceived sensuality of Duncan's new form. Not young, though still nearher. He was probably a year or two olderthan. He was tall and thin but had the build of an athlete. He lookedlike the kind of guy that would be a high school quarterback." What happened next?" He... he put his hands on my waist. I told him to get off, but hedidn't listen. He slid his hands around my back and tried to pull metowards him. I hit him in the face with my elbow and he stumbledbackwards." What happened next?" I turned to run and bumped into the other two guys. When I turned backaround the. ‘So how often do you play tennis then?’ I asked. ‘As often as I can,’ she replied. ‘Usually about three or four times a week.’ ‘You really do like it then,’ I sipped my coffee. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t live without it.’ Her hand was resting on the arm of her chair so I reached over and started to stroke her fingers. She wiggled them and stroked my hand back. I can’t remember what we talked about for the next ten or fifteen minutes as we sipped our coffee and stroked each other’s hands..
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