The Dragon Man - Brian Stableford [39]
“I’d like a rose,” Sara said. “One flower, to begin with, just here.”
“Would you like to look at a color chart?” Ms. Chatrian asked.
“That’s all right,” Sara said. “I know exactly what shade I want. How long will it take? I won’t have to undress, will I?”
“No, of course not. You’ll have to lie still for a while in the gel tank, but you’ve done that before. Roses are very popular, so I’ll have no difficulty sorting out a cutting from stock, unless the color you have in mind is very unusual. I’ll have to position it carefully, then program a growth-pattern into the resident nanobots...let’s say two hours tank time, then a quick check-up, shower and home. The bud will take ten days or a fortnight to come fully into bloom. What about perfume?”
“Perfume?” Sara echoed. She realized immediately that although she’d spent a great deal of time at her bedroom window looking at florally-decorated smartsuits, she hadn’t thought about scent at all—to study that, she’d have needed much better software, or the actual physical presence of the models.
“The flowers don’t have to produce nectar,” Ms. Chatrian explained, mistaking the reason for her hesitation. “If you don’t want perfume, you don’t have to have it.”
“No, I want it,” Sara said. “It’s just that I haven’t studied the options. If you have some kind of sample kit....”
“Of course,” Ms. Chatrian said. “I’ll get it for you. Would you like a little time alone to make your choice?”
“If that’s no trouble,” Sara said. “I don’t want to hurry. It’s important.”
“Of course it is,” said Ms. Chatrian. “It’s no trouble at all.”
Sara guessed that the tailor, as a matter of professional courtesy, would never dream of pointing out that the only people likely to benefit from the scent of Sara’s rose in the near future were her eight parents, at least two of whom—and probably more—were sure to disapprove of whatever choice she made.
Ms. Chatrian ushered Sara into a tiny room that was little more than a cupboard with a wallscreen, with a hard round stool on which to sit. Patiently, the tailor showed her how to operate the equipment that would release scent into her nostrils, and then reabsorb the molecules to make way for the next sample. The position Sara had to take up in order that this could be done with maximum efficiency felt a trifle undignified, if not actually comical. Fortunately, Linda Chatrian had closed the door when she exited the room, to guarantee Sara’s privacy.
“Take it easy,” Sara murmured to herself, feeling that she was becoming slightly flustered by the unexpected sidetrack. “All the time in the world. Got to do this right.” She knew that it wasn’t just her parents who had to be shown that she could handle situations like this with calm authority; she needed to prove it to herself too. This was a big day, a day to set precedents.
As soon as she saw the catalogue list on the screen, though, the right choice leapt out at her with all the shock of a revelation. Even before she had sampled the scent, Sara knew that she had to have it. It was, she supposed, a bold decision—but this was a day to set precedents, and the rose itself was an advertisement of courage. Adding the right perfume was simply a matter of completing the design.
When she stepped out of the room again, Ms. Chatrian was waiting for her with an expression of exaggerated politeness that must have required centuries of practice to perfect. When Sara told the tailor exactly what color she required, and which scent she had chosen, Linda Chatrian merely nodded, as if she had expected Sara to make exactly that the decision.
The fitting eventually stretched to three and a half hours, and it cost a little more than Sara had anticipated—but she figured