_What_Bunnies_Are_For_- Part_1_

        He stared at the bunnies as they moved between the tables.
They seemed so... Life-like? Of course they were life-like, they were
alive! But what was it about them that he couldn't put his finger on
as they went about in their traditional, black-satin uniforms? Was it
the way they walked, not like animated dumbies, but real... women?
Was it the way they smiled at the customers, as if they actually ment
it? Or the way they flirted back, the way their eyes twinkled when
some gin-soaked patron made vaguely complimentary crude remarks, as
if they could accept the spirit of the comment and ignore the poor
delivery? Or the way he felt when he looked at them, anxious and
protective like a school boy, all lonesome inside....

        He mentally slapped his wrist. He was here to do a job. He'd
not let these... these damned, black-leg furries get to him! He'd see
what he'd come to see, report it, then never come back unless it was
to... Never mind, he'd burn that bridge when he came to it. Meanwhile
he reviewed some mental notes.

        When Thyme/Crier had bought the famous magazine they hadn't
wanted the mansion, but their maker had had family when he died and
they'd insisted that white elephant was part of the package. It sat
all but empty for years, a historical site and undemolishable. Then
they'd been approached by the new Genetech division of Zen/Maizier,
who'd had a product they wanted to anounce with a special flourish.
        The Bunnies went from lab rabbits to a legal no-mans-land,
mined with emotional charges that rivaled capital punishment and
abortion. Everyone from the ACLU to the Teamsters to the Vatican and
every university money could buy in between made representations to
Congress. No laws could govern furry rights then. None could yet....

        "Mr. Smith?"
        He looked up, into the gentle smile of a bunny.
        "My name is Tabatha. I'll be serving you this evening, unless
you wanted a certain bunny. If you do, I can arrange it."
        "Uh... no, ah, that's fine."
        Her smile warmed at that. "Please call me Tabby, then. May
I bring you something from the bar, or are you ready to order now?
<giggle> Or both?"
        "A... a bottle of beer, please, and, ah...."
        "I'll give you a little more time to decide," she said,
without a trace of patronization, and turned. She wiggled as she
walked. Her cotton-ball tail wiggled with her. Uncanny! That was
the word to describe her. But uncannily what?

        The beer was premium. The steak was blood rare; they'd made
it tender somehow, and they hadn't even change the taste. The baked
potato was perfect, the peas and carrots were tasty and crunchy, the
apple pie had a wedge of old, sharp cheese and the coffee came with a
little pitcher of cream. The floor show was a pretty skunk morph with
a heart-breaking voice singing love songs in French, accompanied by a
sampling synthesizer. (Didn't Thyme/Crier pay _anyone_ union scale?)
        And all through dinner there was Tabby. Somehow she was just
_there_ when he wanted another beer or another coffee or some water.
She made a show of serving him just so, as if he were the house's
oldest, most important customer. When that pretty skunk sang a torch
song that always got to him, Tabby crouched beside him and enjoyed it
with him. She sniffled and dabbed at her own eyes before offering him
a tissue; she'd looked so embarassed over it that he hadn't been.
        But when he picked up his cheque from the little, black tray
she'd brought it on, there was something else there, too; a plastic
card, about the size of a business card, with a magnetic stripe on
the back and a bar code opposite it. It bore a pleasant musky scent.
The front held a picture of Tabby and her room number. Beside these
she'd written a message.
        "Jamie; I get off work at ten. Please come up and see me. I
like you, you're nice. Tabby"
        Jamie was his name; he'd reserved the table as Bill Smith!


        The wolf at the elevator door glanced at him as he slid the
magnetic stripe through a reader slot, smiled tolerantly and looked
away when it worked. The upstairs halls were panelled in oak; the
mansion was old enough that it was probably real. There were bar code
readers in front of each door, except for two rest rooms. There was a
women's room as well as a men's; Jamie decided not to wonder why.
        The reader beside Tabby's door accepted the card. The bedroom
was generous; roughly two hundred square feet, he guessed. There was
a set of double doors, the kind used for closets, so the third door
must be an on-suite bathroom. The wallpaper and the decor were pink
and white; it matched the white of her fur, the pink inside her ears.
The queen-sized bed was ticked in powder blue, though, like her eyes.
The rest was maple, lightly stained, very good quality; there was a
coffee table and chairs, a vanity and a chest of drawers. A wardrobe
belied the closet. Everywhere there were Polaroids, a few of other
bunnies but most of men, variously undressed, with her and alone. He
examined the ones on the vanity. A familiar musky scent came from one
of her perfume bottles. He examined it, but there was no label.
        "It's my own scent," came a voice from the door. "I like to
put a drop on my door cards, <giggle> it makes them more personal.
        "Jamie Mullens," Tabby recited, teasingly, as she closed her
door. "Representing the IWW and People Not Furries. <giggle> I'm glad
you came, Jamie," she added, soberly. "We have a lot to talk about."

Copyright 1995 Allan D. Burrows         (Continued)
All Rights Reserved after publication