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page0034.mm
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<p>Page 34.</p>
<h5>CHAPTER
EIGHT</h5>
<p>Before I left to meet Lola Banks for lunch, I stopped by the
Repository to get to dressed. I had a lot of legs in there, and some
fingers, and a hand that wasn’t very practical but I liked too
much to scrap. It could crush bricks. The impractical part was it
crushed everything, whether you wanted it to or not. It was very
twitchy.</p>
<p>After a few minutes’ deliberation, I chose Contour legs. These
were a matched titanium set with a bucket seat I wore around my hips.
You didn’t walk in them so much as sit there and let them take
you places. They weren’t my favorites, but they had the
advantage of a vaguely natural look, such that they might go
unnoticed beneath my jeans. Most of my other legs didn’t fit
under pants. Also they were heavy, and noisy, and vented gases.</p>
<p>As I clambered out of my Work legs and into the Contours, I realized
the irony of the situation. The first time I met Lola, at the
hospital, I told her I didn’t care about looking natural. But
here I was climbing into a set of legs chosen precisely because they
were least likely to make her recoil in horror. Thanks to Lola, I was
beginning to care what people thought. I was becoming aware of social
niceties. Soon I would be totally normal.</p>