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flowing oil, suddenly appeared on the inside of her dancing thighs, and the air seemed to fill with... a hard pull of... wanting. I heard Styrbjörn gasp softly by my side, saw him step forward a half step out of the corner of my eye.
    Whose dream is this, then? They say they can read your mind, the allomorph things, but it’s not my dream. Not my dream at all.
    When I turned and looked at my friend, he was looking at me, face screwed up in some kind of comic agony, silly desperation, and I could see an erection was already tenting the front of his pants. So much for whose dream... He said, “Murph. Do you mind?” Gesturing at the dancing thing.
    I shrugged. “Be my guest.”
    He turned quickly away, having forgotten me, struggling to get his chit out of a back pocket, handed it to the dancer, fumbling, almost dropping it. She slowed to a stop, smiling, took the wafer from him, put it briefly in her mouth, handed it back. Then took him by the hand and led him stumbling away into the darkness.
    And me?
    When the next allomorph came dancing forward, I stepped forward too, chit already in my hand. Put my other hand on her shoulder, stopping her before she could turn, before she could strip off the robe, before she could change. Stood looking for a long, empty moment into those fathomless eyes of glass.
    She took my chit, still looking at me. Bit down softly, gave it back. I slipped it into my pocket again, wondering if Mother would know, when the charge appeared in the household accounts, that Einar’s Total Glutton Pizzahouse or whatever guise these things used, was really...
    I can hear her now, screaming at my father, How the fuck could Dagmar and his friends eat that much pizza?
    Dr. Goshtasp, wincing, murmuring, Well, growing boys, you know...
    Growing boys, my ass.
    The allomorph stood close enough for me to feel tiny budding breasts, surely having detected by now that I longed for neither men nor girl children, looked up into my face, and whispered, “What do you want me do be?”
    What. Not, who. I said, “Nothing. Not yet.” Then I took her by the hand and led her down a long, dark hallway, led her past a score of open, empty bedroom doors and out the back door of the establishment. Led her out into the brilliant, clean midday stemshine.
    o0o
    I led her away from the house, away from the village, led her down the river and into the cool shadow of the trees, following a trail along the banks of a river red with mud, holding one small hand in mine, curiously conscious of delicate bone, of the cool stillness of her fingers. Something indefinable here. Something... utterly unlike the hands of real girls, held on so many dates.
    Quick, fragmented memory of Ludmilla Nellisdottir, holding my hand as we walked outside, walked through the night, night of the promenade dance. Holding onto me, gripping my hand so firmly in her own.
    I remember she stopped me in the darkness. Stopped me, faced me, looked up at me, waiting for that stolen kiss. Laughing softly to herself as we walked on.
    Not at all like this thing’s hand now.
    Nothing from my little allomorph as I led her by the hand, deeper and deeper into the abandoned forest, led her up a steep trail away from the river and through the trees, until finally we burst from shadow and into the brilliant stemshine of a forest glade, acres of meadow stretching out before us. Quiet stillness and... no, those are not flowers.
    Before us on the dark green grass, dots of yellow here and there, moving gently, though not to the residual breeze of Audumla’s faraway air conditioning fans. Thousands of pale yellow butterflies, clinging quietly to their stalks of grass, waiting for... something. Every now and again as we watched, one or another of them would rise up, fly for a little while, a delicate flutter of living color, then settle again, wings flexing gently, open, close, open again. Waiting.
    Unbidden, the allomorph said, “Pretty.”
    I turned and looked at her then, as she