The Ultimate Quest

Man has evolved slowly, always striving toward a nebulous goal somewhere in his future. Will he attain it—to regret it?...
Striding down the corridor on long thin legs, Art Fillmore mentally glanced over the news and his wide brow puckered. Scientists to awaken twentieth century man, the mental beam proclaimed. Dark age to yield untold volumes of ignorance.
Fillmore paused before the twelve-foot door, closed his eyes and concentrated until he had achieved the proper attenuation, then entered the office without opening the door. The bald man in the reclining chair dropped his feet from the five-foot-high desk and sat up with a start.
I wish you wouldn't do that, Art, he said nervously. You know I've got the itch.
Sorry, Fillmore apologized. Wasn't thinking. Had my mind on my forthcoming wedding.
Wedding? The bald man's narrow mouth dropped open, revealing small fragile teeth. Why didn't you tell me? What does she look like?
Haven't seen her yet, Fillmore grinned. Just mental images, and you know how girls are when they project their own images. But she's a mental pippin: seven feet eight or nine with a shape you dream about. Must weigh about eighty-two or three pounds.
Too fat, the bald man grunted. I never liked the short and fat type. Have you paid for her yet?
Not yet, but I've got the cash and I'll get a discount.
How much?
Dollar sixty-nine less three per cent.
Good Lord! The bald man leaned forward, aghast. For that price she must be a pippin. Why, you can buy two hundred average women for that and the market's glutted with them. How old is she?