“What?”
“Surely you know something about the mechanics of love production?”
“No,” Simon said. “I thought it was — natural.”
Mr. Tate shook his head. “We gave up natural selection centuries ago, shortly after the Mechanical Revolution. It was too slow, and commercially unfeasible. Why bother with it, when we can produce any feeling at will by conditioning and proper stimulation of certain brain centers? The result? Penny, completely in love with you! Your own bias, which we calculated, in favor of her particular somatype, made it complete. We always throw in a the dark sea-beach, the lunatic moon, the pallid dawn —”
“Then she could have been made to love anyone,” Simon said slowly.
“Could have been brought to love anyone,” Mr. Tate corrected.
“Oh, lord, how did she get into this horrible work?” Simon asked.
“She came in and signed a contract in the usual way,” Tate said. “It pays very well. And at the termination of the lease, we return her original personality — untouched! But why do you call the work horrible? There's nothing reprehensible about love.”
“It wasn't love!” Simon cried.
“But it was! The genuine article! Unbiased scientific firms have made qualitative tests of it, in comparison with the natural thing. In every case, our love tested out to more depth, passion, fervor and scope.”
Simon shut his eyes tightly, opened them and said, “Listen to me. I don't care about your scientific tests. I love her, she loves me, and that's all that counts. Let me speak to her! I want to marry her!”
Mr. Tate wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Come, come, young man! You wouldn't want to marry a girl like that! But if it's marriage you're after, we deal in that, too. I can arrange an idyllic and nearly spontaneous love-match with a guaranteed, government-inspected virgin —”
“No! I love Penny! At least let me speak to her!”
“That will be quite impossible,” Mr. Tate said.
“Why?”
Mr. Tate pushed a button on his desk. “Why do you think? We've wiped out the previous indoctrination. Penny is now in love with someone else.”
And then Simon understood. He had realized that even now Penny was looking at another man with that passion he had known, feeling for another man that complete and bottomless love that unbiased scientific firms had shown to be so much greater than the old-fashioned, commercially unfeasible natural, and that upon the same dark sea-beach mentioned in the advertising brochure –
He lunged for Tate's throat. Two attendants, who had entered the office a few moments earlier, caught him and led him to the door.
“Remember!” Tate called. “This in no way invalidates your own experience.”
Hellishly enough, Simon knew that what Tate said was true.
And then he found himself on the street.
At first, all he desired was to escape from Earth, where the commercial impracticalities were more than a normal man could afford. He walked very quickly, and his Penny walked beside him, her face glorified with love for him, and him, and him, and you, and you.
And of course he came to the shooting gallery.
“Try your luck?” the manager asked.
“Set'em up,” said Alfred Simon.