"Mmm-mo-o-o-u-u-u-n-n-nnt!" the sheep bleated as it hardened back into stone.

"But I just mounted," Prior protested. Then: "Oh—that's your word of advice. Sorry. Thanks." He petted her on the woolly back.

So it continued. The dog gave him a fine slurpy blow job and barked "Ice! Ice!" The stallion rammed about nine inches into what it thought was his anus—Prior was getting good at fooling statues—and pumped out its lather, neighing "Cream! Cre-e-e-a-am!" "Don't I know it!" Prior replied, looking at the stuff on the ground. The eagle and the griffin were more difficult, and he had to pause to recharge before making a trio out of the statue man-and-sheep duo. Some of the exercises were rough, but in each case he did what was necessary or faked it, and hoped his increasingly sore body would recover in a reasonable time.

He understood, now, why Oubliette was so tired after making this journey to visit the Eggers. He, at least, could change into a fresh penis every time; she had to stick with her natural equipment. He wondered what information she needed, to prompt such an excursion every month or so. Or was it merely her generous nature, bringing physical joy, however transitory, to her menagerie and to the horny Eggers?

At last he had the complete message:

GO TO MOUNT ICECREAM. CLIMB THE CHERRY TREE.

And directions how to get there, and what else to do.

Prior contemplated his notes, rubbed chapstick on his chapped anatomy, threw away a bitten penis-unit, washed his mouth out three times with cold water, and combed the animal refuse out of his hair. Then he walked the short remaining distance to the cabin of the Eggers.

He knew that a different man would be there, for the Earthside layover was only a few days for each, but that didn't matter. The Eggers knew how to travel between the stars, and Prior needed their help.

For the Cherry Tree was on Mt. Icecream, and Mt. Icecream was on a planet circling a star not even visible from Earth. He had to take the Eggers' pass.

But at the end of this devious route lay the solution to his problem. The hazards were fantastic and the concomitant chores tedious, but he could win his natural penis back.

If he was man enough with the prosthetics.

Part III: The Cherry Tree

Chapter Twenty

Six of them began that grim trek toward disaster and disillusion. The Kid had started it, his adolescent chatter like a match that touched the right tinder after sputtering futilely for half a lifetime. Miles Long was his name, and Prior could see the scars on his psyche. The Kid must have learned to fight at the age of three and how to sneer at four. Prior, with a scar of his own where it didn't always show, would have felt more sympathy if the brat wasn't so good at both.

Miles (the Kid) Long had won twelfth prize in an Earthside Snapplepop contest by making daily collections from every other kid in the ward for boxtops. He had amassed about twelve hundred entries, and given in return a hundred and fourteen split lips, seventeen damaged teeth, forty-eight black eyes and two hundred and ninety-one substantive threats. When he won, he had opted for the tour: one week at Mt. Icecream. Naturally he had been bored crazy after the first day. So he thought he'd gain the fame he craved by climbing to the top, and the old fool Yale Payton had agreed with him, and the next thing there were five suckers clamoring for equipment. With Prior Gross the guide.

Prior had lacked the wherewithall to finance a jaunt through the Pass, so had had to make the best deal he could. Mt. Icecream Resort was perennially short on mundane personnel, so he'd signed on for a six-month hitch as caretaker-guide in return for a moderate stipend plus transportation to and from. He'd started duty three weeks ago—and like the Kid, he'd been bored stiff (without erection) after about twenty-four hours.

This was no piece of cake. It was a dish of ice cream.

Snow swirled bleakly ahead of them, the particles swooping up to cling messily to their nylafur outfits. It had a yellowish cast and sickly-sweet smell; that meant it was vanilla, or had been before the wind chipped it into crystals. The sugar tended to coat all warm surfaces, becoming more and more grimy as time passed. Human beings carried with them the bacteria of decay and the calories of body-warmth, and that meant perpetual trouble here. Eventually, with this rampant tourism, the entire area would be infected, and Mt. Icecream would become Mt. Rancidsludge, but no one seemed to care. Certainly Prior didn't. What was a little more pollution in the galaxy, after all? He'd had his fill, and not just figuratively. He'd had to eat a quart of ice cream every day, per the Resort policy of demonstrating that the surroundings were, indeed, good enough to eat. Yech!

He turned his head to check the party. Behind him was Stedman Awk, a fat, wealthy slob of a man who'd made his fortune in hamburgers (despite thirteen injunctions over the years against cutting the meat with chickenneck, fishheads, horsemeat and plain old—very old—stale bread) and now he wanted to see how the other half functioned. The dessert-racket half, specifically. And he had caught the adventure fever from the Kid. He would learn about a lot more than rancid ice cream before he got home!

Third was the lone female, Chloe Samuels, who claimed to be a specialist in something or other. It could have been interesting, having a woman along in a necessarily tight formation like this, but it wasn't. For one thing, she was dumpy; for another, even a beauty would have been unapproachable in this cold and grime.

Next was the old man, Yale Payton, followed by the Kid.

At the end was Ambert Black: a huge Negro with too much muscle and an unpleasant militancy. There might have been trouble between him and the Kid, but the Kid was just smart enough to know he was outclassed. Black was no amateur trouble-maker; he was a pro. He had figured to make the climb on his own, but Resort regulations specified a party of at least three, one of these being a guide, for any overnight excursion from the base. Black would have tried it anyway, but knew that the robot snowsleds would have cut him off. He hated meddling robots even worse than meddling people.

A motley crew, Prior thought, without a doubt. An old man, a fat man, an adolescent, a bitter Black and a dumpy doll. All come to see the fabulous mountain of ice cream—and finding it as motley as themselves.

Prior peered ahead again, but the yellow haze cut visibility and hid the peak. Just as well; its beauty was ironic.

They reached the Stage One campsite in midafternoon. The days were about twenty hours long here and the gravity about nine-tenths of a gee, both of which fouled up visitors in subtle but determined fashion. Disorientation, irritation, even outright illness—Mt. Icecream was good for an hour's visit or a six-month tour (but not very good for either), but a week was too long for patience and too short for metabolism. As these characters would find out soon.

Prior knew the party wouldn't make it to the top. No party ever did. Probably this one wouldn't get beyond the Stage Two campsite. The old man would give out first, then the fat one, then the woman. Prior had been briefed on such dynamics, and was already an old hand. The Kid would stick it out longer, trying to prove himself. He would think it was manhood and courage he was demonstrating, but actually it was perversity and idiocy. The Negro—now, he was tough. Black wouldn't quit—but after Stage Three the party would be down to two, Black and Prior, and that was below the minimum. The robots would converge, frustrating human ambition in the name of human safety. So it would come to nothing, as it always did.