Kill All the Young Girls

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Larry Zion, whose only real identification was as chairman of the board of Consolidated-Famous Pictures, drifted along Interstate 95 in the direction of Miami, letting his big Italian car proceed at its own speed. Fewer than thirty of these impressive monsters had been sold in the United States market, almost all to executives or top-money stars in the motion picture industry. A TV talk-show host had recently been seen at the wheel of one, and this was an indication to Zion that it might be time to start looking for another symbol.

But it was a marvelous piece of machinery. Not like people. People were becoming harder and harder for Zion to manipulate, and there was even some danger that his company might be slipping out of his grasp. But the great car, which had cost Consolidated $18,000, was not only the most powerful on the highway, it was fully under Zion’s control; and that was a pleasant feeling. He stepped up the fingertip-pressure slightly. It responded at once. His women used to be like that, but no longer. They balked and asked questions and wanted him to be interested in their ideas. Their ideas, for the love of God.

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