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<TITLE>Cold Fusion</TITLE>

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<H1>Cold Fusion</H1>

By

P.J. Wright

<H3>"Briefing"</H3>

United States Military Reservation

Pacific Coast

South Western United States

3:48PM PST

"Lieutenant Michael MacDonnaugh reporting for duty as ordered,

Sir."

General Thornton returned my salute and then motioned me to one of

the empty seats near the foot of the conference table behind which he

stood. There was another half dozen people, some in uniform, some

obviously civilian, already seated. They all were giving me appraising

looks.

"Very well MacDonnaugh. Take a seat and I'll introduce you

around."

I complied, trying not to return some of the stares I was

getting. The General continued.

"Gentlemen, this is Second Lieutenant Michael MacDonnaugh. He's the

man who's going to make or break this operation. You all already know

his impressive background and credentials in the field of physics,

particularly fusion mechanics."

Well, at least that was a hopeful note. I guess my reputation had

preceded me. It was a reputation I was proud of, had worked hard

for. I'd spent . . . let me see now . . . was it really seven years of

postgraduate work? Where did the time go? That's how I'd gotten roped

into the Army. I'd had to let Uncle Sam pay for a lot of my tuition

and now they'd called in the marker and activated my reserve

commission. Well, at least I didn't have to worry about that 'one

month a year' of National Guard active duty this year.

"You can also see that he's the ideal physical type for the job."

Now what the hell did that mean? And why was that little balding

wimp mid-way down the right side of the table suddenly nodding and

smiling at me?

"As for your introductions MacDonnaugh . . . " He first gestured to

a dark, Latino-type sitting near the head of the table. "This is Marco

Perez. He's from the 'intelligence community'. It was . . . his

. . . Agency . . . that first discovered what Cardoza was doing. He

will be your liaison and your intel support during your mission."

Perhaps it was the academic in me. I raised my hand. "Excuse me

sir. 'Cardoza'? 'Mission'?"

First breach of etiquette; lower-than-pond-scum second lieutenants

do NOT interrupt a one star General in the middle of his briefing. The

glare I got quickly reminded me of that.

"We'll be getting to that MacDonnaugh. If I may proceed?"

"Of course Sir . . . sorry Sir."

A very distinguished looking white haired patrician next got the

General's nod. "And this is Professor Holtzman. I expect your

recognize that name."

Did I ever! I jumped to my feet and offered my hand. "Herr

Professor! What an honor! I'm . . . Wow! . . . I think I've been using

your texts as my Bible for . . . What an honor!"

The Professor made my week by taking my hand in his and

smiling. "And you young man. I have read your works as well. Your

paper on 'Strategies for Propagation of Electrons in Fluid Media' vas

most interesting. I would like an opportunity to discuss some of your

points some time."

I was just about speechless. I didn't even mind the General's

growled "If we might continue? The Professor won't be too deeply

involved in this mission, but he will be looking over your shoulder

when you send in your data."

I sat down trying to wipe the goofy grin off my face.

Last, the General pointed at the little balding guy. There was an

odd note of distaste in Thornton's voice when he said, "And this is

Sketch. His talents are going to be crucial to your mission as well."

The little guy nodded and grinned and in the broadest Australian

accent I've heard since Paul Hogan said, "G'day mate! 's a pleasure."

I nodded back. Now what kind of 'talents' could he have that were

crucial to a military mission?

The General sat down and began to warm to his topic.

"MacDonnaugh, you've been selected as uniquely qualified for a very

important mission. I'll let these other gentlemen fill you in on the

details." Then he nodded to the C.I.A. man, Marco.

When he spoke, it was with a noticeable, though not especially

heavy Spanish accent.

"Nine months ago it came to our attention that an individual named

Hector Cardoza had become interested in hiring the services of

scientists and specialists in the field of nuclear fusion. He had made

it known that he was particularly willing to pay top dollar for people

with expertise in cold fusion research."

Since this was just a civilian, I wasn't so timid about sticking my

oar in again. "Who is this Hector Cardoza?"

Marco grimaced. "He's one of the most powerful drug lords in all of

Central and South America. He avoids the publicity of the more

notorious types, but make no mistake. Just because you haven't heard

his name, don't think he isn't every bit as wealthy and powerful. He's

also every bit as ruthless as the very worst of that lot."

"Why would a South American drug lord be interested in cold

fusion?"

"Cardoza is an opportunist. He never passes up an opportunity to

turn a profit and he's not shy about trying new things. We've learned

that nine months ago Cardoza was approached by one Doctor Igor

Velnikov. Is that name familiar to you?"

I nodded and exchanged a look with Professor Holtzman. "Yeah. I

know that name. Everybody in physics knows about that charlatan. He

has enough training, enough knowledge, but mostly enough savvy to make

his ideas sound good, but he rarely comes up with anything useful or

important. Mostly, he's just a con-man."

The Professor's expression was grave. "That may not be the case

this time Michael. We have been hearing alarming rumors that Velnikov

has in fact managed to produce a sustainable cold fusion reaction in

the laboratory Cardoza has provided for him."

I sat back in my chair. "If that's true, it's . . . well, it's one

of the most important breakthroughs in the Twentieth Century! Cold

fusion represents . . . " I was almost speechless at the

implications. Cold fusion had been the Holy Grail for all physicists

since the 70's.

The General picked up the ball again. "You seem to be missing the

most significant point MacDonnaugh. Cold fusion is great . . . but

what would it mean if someone as evil as Hector Cardoza possessed it

before anyone else?"

Marco spoke up. "Think of the economic impact alone. The person who

could sell cold fusion to the world could name his price and get

it. He would become a significant factor in all the world's financial

markets. He could become so powerful as to control whole currencies

. . . and thereby whole nations."

The Professor; "He could control the course of further

inquiries. He could shape the path of scientific study for several

years to come."

The General; "And then there's the military angle. Remember that a

nuclear warhead is nothing more than an unchained fusion reaction. I'm

told that a cold fusion weapon could be every bit as destructive as

our largest nukes, while being much smaller and easier to

produce. Unless the technology is tightly controlled, pretty soon

every piss-ant banana republic tyrant would be lobbing them at the

dictator next door . . . and maybe at us too."

By this point I was waving my hand in surrender. "You've sold me. I

completely agree that cold fusion is something to be controlled and

harnessed by the right people for the benefit of everyone, not to

elevate some sludge like this Cardoza person to the state of 'ruler of

the world'."

The General nodded, apparently pleased by my response. "We're glad

you see things that way Lieutenant because you may play a very

important role in ensuring that 'the right people' do control the

technology."

"I'm not sure I follow, Sir."

"Ever want to be James Bond, Lieutenant?"

"Uh . . . are you suggesting that I be . . . what? . . . some kind

of secret agent?"

Again the General nodded. "That's exactly what we're suggesting. We

don't yet know for certain if this Velnikov character has managed to

produce this reaction or what ever you call it. We only know that last

week Cardoza put out some quiet offers to some very 'wrong'

people offering the secret of cold fusion for sale. We have reason to

believe that he'll be meeting with these Buyers sometime in the next

month."

The light began to dawn. "Oh, I get it. You want me to infiltrate

Velnikov's lab and see if the claims are legit. And then . . . like

. . . steal the formula or something?"

It was Marco, the C.I.A. man who took up the tale. "No. We tried on

several occasions to infiltrate Velnikov's lab, all with no

success. Cardoza is very good at internal security. Apparently

Velnikov hand-picked his own team and no outsiders were allowed

anywhere near the experiments."

"I don't suppose you could just 'snatch' Velnikov and grill him for

the secrets?"

Marco shook his head, his features grim. "They discovered

Velnikov's body in the trunk of a car abandoned near the Russian

embassy in Barranquilla . . . Cardoza's Venezuelan home city. He'd

been shot twice in the back of the head. Classic execution style. The

very same day, Velnikov's lab burned to the ground. Perhaps it was an

accidental fire . . . perhaps . . ." An expressive shrug.

I was getting lost. "I don't get it. I can't help you interrogate

Velnikov . . . I can't infiltrate a lab that doesn't exist anymore

. . . What do you want me to do for you?"

There was an uncomfortable silence as everyone looked at everyone

else. I got the distinct feeling that there was a wordless 'you tell

him . . . no you' going on. Finally the General bit the bullet.

"We know that Cardoza has to have stored the formula or what ever

you call it somewhere. We know that he has a fairly expensive and

sophisticated computer system installed in his mansion. We've looked

around and are pretty certain that if the formula exists at all, it

has to be in that computer. What we need is someone who can penetrate

Cardoza's security, get a look at the stored files and then make the

decision as to whether or not the threat is real. If it's not, then we

just walk away. If it is . . ." Again, there were exchanged

glances. "Well . . . you don't need to know about that."

I really didn't like the way this was going.

"Excuse me Sir. I . . . I think you must have the wrong person for

this. Granted, I believe if you could show me Velnikov's data, I could

pretty quickly tell you if it was genuine or not. But I'm not any kind

of spy. I . . . I don't know how to sneak into a heavily guarded

fortress."

Thornton held up a hand to still me. "We doubt that even a highly

trained agent would have much luck trying an opposed entry into

Cardoza's estate. It's just too heavily guarded. No. We need to insert

someone through subterfuge."

I tried to put a good face on it. "Yes Sir. But again, I don't

think I'm the man for the job. It sounds like you're looking for some

kind of master of disguise now. That certainly isn't me."

All eyes turned to that little Australian wimp. He nodded and

smiled. " 's all right mate. Turns out I am. 's gonna be my job ta

make it so's ya gets in ta do yer creep and peep bit."

This ugly little troll was a master of disguise?

"Uh . . . I . . . uh . . . What are you going to disguise me as? I

mean . . . am I supposed to be one of the servants . . ." A thought

occurred to me. "Or one of the Buyer's perhaps? I think I could pull

that off."

It was C.I.A. Marco who answered. "No. Again, Cardoza's security

would prevent something as obvious as a turn-coat servant. Since we

are not certain just exactly who has been invited to bid on the

formula, we can't predict what kind of disguise would permit entry

that way."

Thornton again; "They've looked at this thing from top and bottom

and every side they can think of . . . son. And it's been decided that

there's really only one way in, in the time we have left."

I looked from face to face. Nobody seemed willing to fill me in on

the secret so I had to ask. "So . . . what? . . . What am I going to

be?"

It was Sketch, the balding, Australian, Master of Disguise who

answered me.

"Well mate . . . somebody said 'James Bond'. That's not quite right

though. I guess Mata Hari would be closer to the mark."

United States Military Reservation

Special Products Facility

9:03 AM PST

The first thing you learn in your military career is the truth

behind the truism "Hurry up and wait." You get orders to report to a

certain place at a certain time, you bend every effort to be where

you're told to be at the appointed hour. When you get there,

invariably, you wind up standing around for an hour or two until what

ever is supposed to happen finally happens.

The only exception to this is the one time you figure 'Ha, well,

I've figured this out! I'll just do something else for an hour and

then when I get there, I'll actually be right on time.' In that

instance, the entire military-industrial complex has been waiting on

you for a whole hour and some General lets you know about it in no

uncertain terms.

So, when I got orders first thing on the morning after my briefing

to report to room 109 at precisely 9:00 AM, I made sure I was there at

precisely 9:00 AM. Of course, I then waited around for a good twenty

minutes before anyone else showed up. I spent that twenty minutes

building an increasing anxiety.

It was obvious what was going to go on in this room. It was about

the size of a common dining room. The walls were all lined with

mirrors. There were waist-high counters along each wall with a sink

centered in each. I could see various cosmetics and makeup set out. In

the middle of the room was what looked for all the world like a

dentist's couch.

I guess this was where they were going to try to work whatever

magic they thought they could work on me. Needless to say, I thought

their chances were pretty slim. Visions of movies like "Some Like It

Hot" and "Tootsie" had been circling in my mind since the

briefing. I'd seen what Hollywood considered a 'convincing' job of

turning a man into a woman, and I already knew; I wasn't going to make

a very believable female. My only real hope was that I'd make such a

miserable 'faux femme' the whole plan would have to be scrapped. If

Sketch actually managed to make me 'somewhat passable' though

. . .

There was a very real chance that my life hung in the balance of

what would go on in this room in the very near future.

As I say, I'd been standing around for about twenty minutes,

examining the makeup and trying to soothe my increasingly jangled

nerves when the door opened. I turned, expecting to see Sketch walking

through the door.

Even in my agitated state, I couldn't help but feel a little thrill

when not Sketch, but an absolutely stunning woman strode into the

room. She was twenty-ish about five feet six, with short straw blonde

hair. She was wearing a kind of . . . oh . . . beautician's smock or

nurse's uniform or something like that that came to about mid-thigh on

her. She had long, luscious legs and the cutest little ass. But best

of all, pressing against her uniform were a pair of tits that simply

took your breath away. She set a kind of tackle box looking thing down

on one of the counters and then finally turned and faced me with a

sunny smile.

"Hi! I'm Lisa. I'm Sketch's assistant."

Her voice was what I call a "female tenor". You know, one of those

kind of husky, smoky voices that can be so sexy. I always think of the

actress Holly Hunter when I think of that kind of voice. It also had

just the slightest hint of 'Valley Girl' giggle to it.

"Hi. I'm Mike . . . Mike MacDonnaugh." I was wondering if I was

supposed to shake her hand when she saved me the decision by sticking

her own hand out, that perky little smile growing wider.

"Hi Mike. I'm really pleased to meet you. Sketch will be along in a

while. He had some finishing touches to put on one of the

appliances. While I've got you alone, I wanted to say how excited I am

about all the fun we're going to have the next few days."

I took the offered hand and gave it a polite little squeeze. She

surprised me by returning a firm (though not excessive) grip with her

own slender fingers. "I'm pleased to meet you too Lisa. And since we

are alone, I might as well be blunt and admit that I wish I could

share your enthusiasm."

She released my hand and leaned back against the counter, her

expression now one of gentle concern, her arms crossed beneath those

astonishing boobs. "Why? What's wrong?"

"Well, don't misunderstand. I'm sure that you and Sketch are really

wonderful makeup artists. I'm sure that you're both going to do your

absolute best. But . . .well . . . I don't know if they've told you

why we're doing this . . ."

"I know it's for a mission of some kind. Sketch and I have done

this kind of thing for the government before."

"Really? Well, then you know . . . this isn't just community

theatre or something. This is very serious. I mean, lives might just

hang in the balance here."

"And you're afraid you're gonna look like something out of

"Charlie's Aunt", right?"

I nodded. A more moderate form of that smile returned to her full

lips. "Don't worry, 'kay? You haven't seen Sketch at work. Or

. . .well, you probably have. You just didn't realize it. If I weren't

under contract limitation I could tell you about how some of the

things you've seen on the movie screen and on TV weren't really

anything like what they appeared to be."

That gave me pause for a moment. In any event, this discussion was

all academic. I was committed to the attempt at least. I tried to

match Lisa's smile. "Okay. I'm putty in your hands." Lisa giggled

unfolding her arms putting them behind her, her hands grasping the

edge of the counter. She thrust that chest forward just a bit, lowered

her long lashes and I got a second little tingle when she cooed. "Oooo

. . . just the way I like men!"

I chuckled along with her wondering if there was a bit more in that

exchange than just polite by-play. "Uh . . .If we're gonna do this,

shouldn't we get started?"

She nodded and that moment of sexual tension passed. "Um hmm. Have

a seat." She indicated the dentist's couch. I tried to get as

comfortable as possible while she rummaged in that tackle box. She

finally came up with a small aerosol spray can. "Hold out your hand

please." I complied and she sprayed a little blob of foam on the

inside of my wrist.

"What's this?"

"It's a depilatory. I've got to check to make sure that you're not

going to have a reaction to the chemicals. We're gonna be using a lot

of this stuff on you and we can't be sending you off on a secret

mission with a really bad case of diaper rash all over your body, now

can we?"

"No, I don't suppose so. Did you say 'all over my body'? I thought

that you guys were going to use some kind of latex . . . something or

other that covered me."

She was examining my wrist closely and it was a bit distracting to

have those long fingers gently stroking my wrist, those full

voluptuous breasts just millimeters away from my fingertips. "We are

going to be using appliances, yes. But they don't cover all that much

skin area. That would defeat the purpose if we're trying for a really

'believable' illusion. After all Michael, nothing mimics human flesh

as well as human flesh, right?"

"I guess that makes sense."

"Sure! So, we'll be adding some nice little boobs and a cute

little ass and . . . well . . ." I got a hot, sexy leer from her that

almost started me sweating. " . . . some other 'things'. But for the

most part, it's gonna be the same skin you were born with that makes

up most of the illusion."

"So, no body hair."

"No body hair. On one hand, it would interfere with the adhesion

of the appliances. On the other, who likes a hairy chick? Huh?"

"Not me."

"Good!" I got a little wink. "I shaved just last night." There

definitely was something going on here besides polite conversation. I

was beginning to wonder what kind of an assistant Lisa was to Sketch

. . . when they weren't working.

Lisa giggled then looked at my wrist one last time. "Great! No

reaction. You might still get a little bit of a rash in your more

sensitive areas, but I'm sure we can take care of that with baby

powder." She wiped the little blob of foam off, tossed the used tissue

into the trash and then give me another of those sunny smiles. "Okay,

Mike. Time to get this show on the road. Why don't you stand up and

take those clothes off?"

A lump rose in my throat. It seemed that I was at the threshold

now, that I was about to take an irrevocable step forward into what

could be a very dangerous mission. Not only that, here was a gorgeous

woman whom I'd just met, telling me to take off my clothes.

I admit it. I hesitated.

Lisa must have sensed my discomfort because she again leaned back

against the counter, still smiling. "Shy Michael? Don't be. I've done

this lots of time with other men." She gestured to the surgical scrubs

I was wearing. "I can tell you've got a good body under there. Nice

and slender. Lot's of women think that's sexy you know. It's nothing

to be ashamed of."

If that was supposed to help, it wasn't working. If anything, I

was even more embarrassed knowing that she was aware of my body and

was hinting that she found it sexy. "Lisa . . . I'm sorry . . . you'll

have to bear with me a bit here. You may have done this before, but I

haven't."

She nodded, that sympathy I'd seen earlier again making her face

winsome and beautiful. "Oh Michael, I understand. Please don't feel

badly. Here! I have an idea that might help!"

And with that, before I could really even express alarm or

exception, Lisa had begun to unbutton her uniform.

"What . . . ? Lisa, what are you . . . ? Wait!"

"It's all right. Don't worry. This will help, you'll see." The

final button came unfastened and she very casually slid the dress off

both shoulders letting it fall around her ankles. She then stepped out

of it and stood, arms at her sides, smiling at me with that same sunny

grin.

Oh God.

She was wearing a skimpy little lilac colored bra that wasn't much

more than two triangular pieces of lace against which those full,

pouting breasts strained for release. I could see two bumps where a

pair of pert nipples pressed against the fabric. Her briefs were a

matching lilac color, again not much more than a strategically placed

bit of shimmering fabric and a narrow waistband of lace. A little

lilac bow rode above her sex, matching a little bow that nestled

between her breasts. Her skin was a flawless light bronze with no hint

of a 'tan line' to be seen. Evidently, Lisa sun-bathed in the

nude.

"There, see? Now . . . your turn."

I swallowed. I didn't know what to do. The last thing I wanted was

to start getting naked! If I hadn't been embarrassed before, I

certainly was now! But how did I say 'no'? I think my rational mind

was so locked in the seeking a solution, that my subconscious managed

to get my jersey top off before I realized I was doing it.

She looked me up and down, and I could see a fire beginning to

burn in her eyes. This was no longer 'professional'. Her gaze was

becoming predatory. "Oooh, yeah. Now we're getting somewhere." She

reached behind herself and unhooked her bra. Before it could drop

away, she quickly crossed her arms in front of herself, her hands on

opposite shoulders, her elbows holding the bra against her breasts for

a moment longer. She gazed right into my eyes, her own eyes

smoldering, and then slowly, teasingly she slid her hands down her

shoulders and upper arms, slipping off the straps of the bra in the

process. It finally slid off her arms and fell at her feet.

I could only stand there and stare.

Her left hand slowly traced the inner curve of her left breast

while her right rested low on her taut little belly. She had closed

her eyes, turning her head slightly to the left and down. If that

turning of her head was modesty, it was beguiling. If it was a

calculated pose, intended to inflame me even more, it was working. Her

breasts were everything I'd imagined they'd be . . . and more. She was

one of those women with large, pink areola. Her nipples left no doubt

that she was feeling the passion too. They were fully erect. She

softly murmured "Please, Michael . . . your turn again. Okay?"

I struggled for a moment with the drawstring but finally managed

to drop my pants and kick them away. She raised her head and opened

her eyes, which were huge and luminous. "Oh, Michael . . ." She

stepped forward and gently pressed me back down into the dentist's

chair. Her hands stroked my chest . . . my sides . . . as she stood

over me. That already smoky voice was now a throaty growl. "You're

going to make such a hot little bitch. I can tell. You and I

will have so much fun." She took both of my hands in hers and pressed

them against her breasts. They filled my hands with silky softness,

rock hard nipples pressing against my palms. "It's not too late to

make some changes. I can get Sketch to use me as the model for your

appliances. Would you like that? Would you like to be able to just

reach up under your blouse . . . to slip your hand into your panties

. . . and touch me anytime you wanted . . . anywhere you

wanted? We can do that for you Michael. All you have to do is trust

us."

I could only lie there, truly putty in her hands at this

point. I'd long ago ceased to question this bizarre opportunity for

sex. Frankly, I'd long ago stopped thinking at all. She'd already

kicked off the plain white flats she was wearing. Now she slipped her

fingers into the lace waistband of her panties and wiggled out of

them. Her sex was beautiful and golden and ready for me. Before I

could pull my own briefs off, she had climbed onto the chair with me,

straddling me, her knees outside my own, the tops of her feet

caressing my shins, her hands pressing down on my chest. She lowered

her face to mine, her eyes shut, teasing me with a kiss that never

came.

"Michael . . . before we do it. There's something I have to know,

and something you have to understand."

I managed an inarticulate croak to indicate I was trying to focus

on whatever question she needed answered. Again, she tempted me with

an undelivered kiss. Her voice was a soft, urgent whisper.

"Michael . . . do you want me? Really want me?"

I finally found enough voice to gasp. "Of course!"

"That's good. It's important that you want me." To my great

dismay, she pulled away a bit and gazed down into my eyes. "And I

really wish we could. But you see . . . what you have to understand is

. . ."

And then my heart just about exploded . . .

. . . As 'Lisa's' fake Valley Girl voice vanished and Sketch

informed me in that broad Australian drawl ". . . though we can make

it look good as you can see, bugger all if we can figure out a

way to actually make it work."

*********

The door didn't have any identifier on it other than the number

"223".

It was twenty minutes later. I was once again dressed in those

surgical scrubs. I was a bit early for my appointment, but I didn't

care at this point.

My head was still spinning.

Sketch had climbed off me and once more leaned back against the

edge of the counter. I just lay in the dentist's chair, gasping like a

fish out of water.

"Sorry mate." His voice carried a genuine note of apology and

remorse. "It's not personal and it's not to be cruel. There's a reason

for this. Get your togs back on. You've got an appointment with The

Doctor and she don't like ta be kept waitin'. We won't be doin' any

more today, you an' me."

I finally managed to get my head together enough to climb out of

the chair and stand there, staring at the "Lisa Illusion". The anger

started to rise. I think my fists balled up of their own accord.

Sketch just stood there, arms akimbo, gazing at me with a soft,

sad smile. Then 'Lisa' murmured. "Could you really do that to me

Michael?" Her tone wasn't taunting. It was just a quiet, simple

question.

And I found . . . I couldn't.

My fists opened and I just stood there with a cold lump of ashes

in my throat. I knew it was really Sketch, that balding little wimp

from yesterday and not a beautiful, fragile woman standing before

me. But I still couldn't hit her.

Or him.

Lisa's smile softened a bit, widened a bit. "Thank you

Michael. Don't be ashamed that you can't. It means that at heart,

you're a good, gentle person, just like The Doctor said. Now it's time

for you to meet her. Upstairs. Room 223. Be there in half an

hour."

Then she and I ignored each other as we got dressed. I finished

before her and left the "Transformation Room" without a backward

glance.

I debated knocking on the door, but I guess that there was still

enough anger left for me to just reach down, twist the knob and stride

in.

It was a small, nicely decorated space, the kind you'd find in any

doctor's office. There was a couch, a pair of comfortable looking

chairs in intimate closeness to a handsome rosewood desk. Seated

behind it was a pleasant looking middle-aged woman with dark chestnut

hair, just starting to go white at the temples. She looked up from an

open file as I entered. Her smile was warm and genuine.

"Michael. Welcome. Please, come in."

I just stood in the doorway, my hand still on the knob.

She folded her hands on the desk before her and nodded, that smile

becoming an echo of 'Lisa's' last expression for me. "You're angry and

confused. You're being pushed around and deceived and you don't know

what's going on. You don't like it. You're thinking 'I'll be damned if

I let somebody else take a shot at me.' Right?"

There was a rather ugly note of sarcasm in my voice. "Let me

guess. You're The Doctor, right? And in your case, 'Doctor' would mean

Psychiatrist, right?"

"Clinical psychologist actually, though I do have an

M.D. Please. Come in and sit down. You and I really do need to

talk. I'll try and explain a lot more of what's going on. And as a

show of good faith, which I think we owe you at this point, I'll make

you this bargain. If I ever try to lie to you or deceive you, you can

walk away from this whole project, no questions asked. Is that a

deal?"

My curiosity and my need to understand finally overrode my anger

and I closed the door behind me, taking a seat before her desk.

She nodded and smiled. "Let me get the ball rolling. My name is

Ruth Langerhaus. As I said, I'm a clinical psychologist under contract

to the Department of Defense. I do studies in human behavior for their

Psychological Warfare programs. If that brings up visions of sinister

scientists sticking needles of truth serum into folks arms or of

nefarious men in black suits planning propaganda campaigns, please let

me assure you that's not what I do. Mostly, I just watch folks and try

to figure out how they'll react in different situations."

"Is that what was going on down there a few minutes ago? Were you

trying to figure out how I would react?"

Her smile became a bit shy and she looked down. "Frankly? A

little. That wasn't the principal reason though." She met my eyes

again. "I've already studied your profile, what the Army has on you

from your interviews and from your biographical materials."

"Great! In other words, you've already shrunk my head."

She laughed. It was a pleasant, earthy sound. "Sorry. My poison

tipped darts and my blowgun are out for repairs. No head-shrinking

this week. No. I read some open access files and made a few educated

guesses about you Michael. Nothing more. I needed to understand you to

be able to help you succeed in this mission. That was the motivation

for and the extent of my intrusion on your privacy."

I was finding it harder and harder to maintain my anger at this

open, forthright woman. "So, you admit that what you, what all of you

are doing is an invasion of my privacy."

She nodded. "Yes. I do admit that. Your anger over that is both

understandable and justified. But what's done is done. I can't undo it

or alter the past actions of others or myself. I can only ask your

forgiveness and promise that from here on out you will know every

step, every action that we take."

"And that makes it right?"

"No."

It was like trying to grab a blob of Jell-O. My attempts at anger

just slid off her. "You're manipulating me right now, aren't you?

You're making it impossible for me to stay mad at you."

She nodded. "Yes. See Michael? I won't lie to you."

"WHY?!"

Her smile became one of gentle compassion, an offer of

friendship. "Rather broad question, that. Can you be a bit more

specific?"

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"Why am I 'manipulating' you now? I'm behaving in a way that I

intend to reduce your anger towards me. Anger prevents the type of

relationship you and I need to forge, a relationship of mutual

understanding and trust."

"TRUST?! You take part in what happened to me down there with

Sketch, and you can talk to me about trust?"

"Yes I can, because that little exercise with Sketch was about

trust too. Very much about trust."

I was dumbfounded. "How do you figure that was about trust? I've

never been lied to so badly in all my life."

She leaned back in her chair making a steeple of her fingers in

front of her lips. "On one level, yes. It was a deception. You were

led to believe that what you saw was a beautiful woman offering you a

chance at some really marvelous sex. If we'd continued the deception

beyond what we did, that would have been cruel and unnecessary."

I broke in. "It seems you managed 'cruel and unnecessary' and then

some!"

"Michael, consider. What were your initial thoughts while we made

you wait in the Transformation Room?"

I was getting my anger back. I just folded my arms and looked

away.

"You were thinking, 'This isn't going to work. I'm not going to be

able to deceive anyone. Sketch is just going to glue some fake boobs

to my chest, plop a blonde wig on my head and I'm going to be sent

into harm's way looking like a reject from La Cage Aux Folle.'"

I mumbled "Some Like it Hot".

Ruth grinned. "I love Jack Lemon! Anyway. Object lessons are the

best lessons. We didn't just tell you that we could work miracles. We

showed you. We showed you that it's quite possible to work the

deception that you'll need to work to accomplish your mission."

"That deception being?"

"Using Sketch's amazing skills, we can make it possible for you to

be attractive enough a woman to seduce a man, to make yourself

irresistibly desirable to him."

"All right. Granted. I guess I can see why the charade. But

knowing now what it is you want of me, or at least part of what you

want of me, I'm back to thinking it won't work. Yes, Sketch suckered

me completely. But I'm not Sketch! He can act like a woman,

sound like a woman. I can't. What he does has to be the result of

years of training."

"Actually, it's a whole lifetime that you're seeing in Sketch. Let

me digress for just a minute Michael, and tell you a little about

Sketch. It's important that you know about him so you can understand

him and trust him too."

"I wouldn't press my luck if I were you Doctor."

For the first time, I detected just a hint of anger in her

voice. "Don't judge too swiftly. Sketch is a remarkable person and a

close friend. He's also . . . he's also been a patient of mine for

over nine years."

"Sketch is fucking crazy?! Why doesn't that surprise me?"

Her eyes had grown cold. "When you put it that way, 'crazy'

doesn't sound like such a nice description, does it? I assure you that

Sketch is not . . . crazy . . . at least not in the way you seem to

imply. For a psychologist, insanity means that state of mental

disorder such that the patient can not function in a meaningful way

within society. Sketch is very functional. In fact Michael, Sketch's

life is a story of triumph over disability, and for that reason alone,

he's worthy of your respect."

"So, what's wrong with him? Is he a split personality or

something?"

"Actually, no. He's rather the opposite. True M.P.D., "Multiple

Personality Disorder" is the shattering of one personality into many,

distinct and disintegrated fragments. It's a very rare disorder. Few

psychologists ever see it in its true form. Sketch on the other hand

is much rarer still. His disorder hasn't even been categorized

officially. We estimate that there may be no more than a dozen people

with this disorder in any generation. Sketch has one . . . 'foundation

psyche' . . . for want of a better term. It is always there, always in

command, fully integrated and whole. But for some reason which we've

never been able to deduce, that psyche lost the means to find

expression for itself. In most cases, this leads to withdrawal and

catatonia. And for many years of his early life Sketch was in just

such a vegetative mental state. Then, somehow, though some mechanism

we don't yet understand, he began to learn to create artificial

'personae'. These personae became his bridge to the outside world. And

before you start thinking that it's just some form of schizophrenia,

let me assure you it isn't. Sketch is fully in touch with the reality

around him. Once he has one of his personas in place, he's a very well

adjusted individual. He's even aware of and can lucidly discuss his

situation. In other words, he's more 'normal' than a lot of people

you'd never think of as 'fucking crazy.' The only thing that sets him

apart is; he's spent his whole life 'becoming' various individuals so

he can experience the interaction that we all desperately need to be

whole people. That's his miracle. Needless to say, over a lifetime of

practice, he's become very adept at creating his 'selves'.

"I'll attest to that. But this is making it even worse! You're

telling me that to be as believable as Sketch, I'm going to have to be

just as . . ."

I paused for a moment searching for some polite alternative to

'crazy'.

" . . . as 'challenged' as he is."

Ruth's anger evaporated and she smiled at me again. "No. There are

other ways for you to accomplish intentionally what Sketch does from

necessity. That's the second part of my function here. Let's move on

to my functions. This seems like a good place to do that. As I say,

I'm here to perform two functions. First: I AM going to 'shrink the

head' of your target for you Michael. I'm going to tell you just

exactly what you need to do, step by step and point by point so that

at the end, you'll have him groveling at your feet."

She gave me an intimate, wicked little grin that I found difficult

not to join.

"Won't that be fun? Come on, admit it Michael. Won't it be just a

little amusing to get some payback for all the times we evil women

have worked our nefarious wiles on you? To get a chance to play for

'the other team' for just a bit? Don't be embarrassed to say

'yes'. It's a perfectly normal desire. Women experience jealousy of

men and men envy women."

"If this was just for fun, I might say 'yes', but this is deadly

serious."

Her playful grin smoothed into a business-like expression. "Of

course. Your deception must be sophisticated and completely

believable, as you well know. Sketch can give you the 'look', but

you're mature enough to know that there's more to being feminine than

just outward appearance. That's the second part of my function here

Michael. I'm going to give you access to a 'female psyche' of your

own. One that you can call on and use. One specifically tailored for

your task at hand."

I leaned back in my chair. "Why am I suddenly remembering your

disclaimer of 'brainwashing'?"

That earned me another earthy laugh. "There really isn't any such

a thing, did you know that? Or at least, there really isn't any such a

thing as so over-riding a person's will that they loose all control

over their actions."

"I'd always thought that that was what happened to prisoners of

war . . . in Korea and the like."

"No. Not really. I'll give you a specific example. I'm going to be

using a lot of hypnosis on you Michael. That's how I'm going to create

your 'female alter ego', through hypnotic suggestion."

"Oh wonderful. Will I quack like a duck on command too?"

She grinned. "Not if you don't want to. See? That's the key. The

popular concept of hypnosis is; the hypnotist's will over-rides the

subject's. They, the subjects, loose all ability to carry out

independent acts, to exercise their own will. But that is never the

case. The fundamental truth of hypnotism is; you can't make anyone do

something they don't want to do. They did a study once of hypnotism

subjects in a theatre setting. You know, got some people who thought

that they were being 'put under' by a stage performer. The hypnotist

had them barking like dogs and, as you say, quacking like ducks and

generally making fools of themselves, when somebody started yelling

'Fire!'."

"And all the 'hypnotized' folks ran just like everyone else."

"Sure. See the point?"

"So, you're saying that I have to subconsciously want to be a

female, if this is going to work?"

"No. I'm saying that you have to want your mission to succeed,

which I think you're dedicated enough that we can assume, and you're

going to have to believe in yours and our abilities. That's all."

"And that comes back to trust?"

"And that comes back to trust."

I sat there for a while. I thought about the implications of

Cardoza's possession of cold fusion. Of what that would mean to so

many people, of the suffering and harm that I could prevent, if I

could fulfill my mission, whatever it might be.

I wanted to succeed.

I looked at Ruth. She sat in her chair, her smile gentle, her eyes

bright.

I wanted to trust her.

"I'm game to try."

Her voice was soft, gentle . . . and . . . I don't know . . . I

think I caught more than just a glimmer of that affection I'd seen

when she was speaking about Sketch.

"Thank you Michael."

*********

"What's 'sexy' Michael?"

Doctor Langerhaus and I were walking a concrete footpath that

wound along the crest of a bluff overlooking the ocean. We'd talked

for a few more minutes in her office, but she'd professed a need to

get outside into the beautiful spring day and I'd cheerfully

followed.

I thought about the question for a while as we casually strolled

along.

"You mean what do I find sexy? Specifically?"

"No. More generally. Define 'sexy' for me."

I thought some more. Ruth was the kind of person it was very easy

to talk to, (probably a good trait in a psychologist) and I wanted to

give her a frank answer.

"I don't know if I have a set definition. I guess it's like that

old line about fine art; 'I don't know art, but I know what I

like.'"

She nodded, arms folded behind her back, her head down, looking at

the path. " 'I'll know it when I see it', right?"

"Yeah."

"Would you stipulate then that something that subjective is

different for different people?"

"Oh, sure. Lots of times I've had friends who went ga-ga over some

woman who left me flat, and I'd drool over some chick that they

thought completely lame."

"Um hmm."

"What does this have to do with the project?"

"I mention it so you'll understand that the 'female psyche' I'm

going to build for you probably isn't one that you'll find

particularly attractive. At least that would be my assumption given my

understanding of your own personality."

That thought didn't thrill me, but it didn't alarm me all that

much. "I guess that's all right. I'd like to think that any woman that

could get Hector Cardoza's motor running shouldn't light my fire. If

Cardoza is as much of a slimeball as they say, anyway."

Ruth walked on for a bit, seemingly lost in thought. I got the

impression I'd touched a nerve, but I didn't see how. Finally she

looked up and then nodded to a small park bench with a spectacular

view of the curve of the bay. "Let's sit down for a moment, shall

we?"

I sat beside her and again she seemed lost in thought. The she

sighed. "We were talking about building relationships based on

trust. One of the ways to do that is to get all 'the bad stuff' out in

the open early so there aren't any little landmines to trip us up

later. So . . . here's a little 'bad stuff' for you. You aren't going

to be seducing Hector Cardoza."

I didn't see how my not having to cuddle up to slime like him was

'bad' and I said so.

She just looked off toward the horizon. "Michael, you have a

strongly developed sense of morality and fair play. That's apparent

from you files. Based on that, I bet Sketch that you wouldn't attack

him this morning once you'd found about the deception. I won five

dollars off your admirable honor."

"And Sketch didn't get his face rearranged in a more permanent

manner so I guess he won too."

Ruth smiled at me. "Don't be too sure about that. Among his many

talents, Sketch is also a third 'dan' black belt in akido.

That rocked me. Ruth turned back to the ocean.

"For your mission to succeed, you've got to achieve a quick

intimacy with the target of your seduction. This is because time is

limited. Yet, we have to proceed slowly here, at first, so that you

can be properly prepared to carry out the seduction with any chance of

success."

"And . . .?"

"And to do that, to succeed in your seduction in the shortest time

possible . . . Michael . . . you're going to have to pull some really

'dirty tricks'."

I looked down at my hands. "Hell, Ruth. I don't know what you'd

call this whole scheme if not one big 'dirty trick'. I've figured out

that we won't exactly be 'playing by Hoyle'."

She nodded again. "Of course. But there are dirty tricks and dirty

tricks. You're thinking that you're going to be some kind of

cliché seductress and that's already allowing you to build some

'distance' in your mind. I'm afraid that's not the role you're going

to get to play, and that's 'the bad stuff'. The role that we've cast

you in is one that's going to hit close to home for you Michael. It's

going to run squarely against your sense of 'fair play'. As a result,

it's going to cause you some real grief."

I was silent for a long time, looking first at my hands, then out

at the sea.

"In what way?"

"Hector Cardoza is an evil, dark-hearted man. The type of

sexuality we could use against him would not lead to the intimacy, the

trust, that would allow you any kind of useful access. Hector is

simply no longer capable of forming that kind of relationship with a

woman."

"So who will I be seducing?"

"Hector's twenty five year old son, Jame'."

"What kind of a person is this Jame'."

Ruth sighed again. "There's the problem. As so often happens, the

amoral, monstrous father has produced a basically good son . . . a

decent and honorable young man. The seduction we're planning uses this

young man's more noble instincts against him. Basically, we're going

to take frightful advantage of Jame's better nature to perpetrate a

really shitty trick on his father."

I didn't even know the specifics and already I knew that Ruth was

right. This was going to cause me some grief.

She laid a gentle hand on my arm. "In reality, I have three

functions in this mission Michael. I've told you the first two. The

third is to be here for you, both before and after your

mission. You're going to need someone Michael. I hope you'll let it be

me."

<H4>Prep Day Three</H4>

8:58 AM PST

Room 109, the "Transformation Room" again.

I arrived at precisely nine o'clock. I walked in, expecting the

room to be empty, and stopped short when I saw that it was already

occupied by a tall, slender blonde. She turned at the sound of my

entrance and gave me an appraising stare. She was statuesque,

approaching six feet, and attractive though not a 'knock out' by any

stretch. She was wearing loose white cotton shorts and a frantically

wild Hawaiian print shirt. Her hair was straw blonde and pageboy

short.

Apparently satisfied by her inspection she stuck out her right

hand.

"Hi, I'm Lisa. I'm Sketch's assistant."

I think I actually took a step backwards.

That earned me a small grin. "Let me rephrase. I'm Lisa Hobie

. . . the 'real' Lisa. I'm genuine girl through and through. I intend

to prove it by not taking off a stitch of clothing in your presence

and by assuring you that sex is out of the question until you've

bought me at least three expensive dinners."

"You know about . . . about . . . what went on in here

yesterday?"

She nodded. Then she folded her arms under an acceptable, though

unremarkable set of breasts and leaned back against the counter. The

gesture was so close to the 'Faux Lisa's' posture of yesterday that I

had to shake my head to make the image go away.

"And you don't mind that Sketch . . .?"

"Why should I mind? Didn't Doctor Ruth explain to you about

Sketch?" ('Doctor Ruth'? Is that really what they called her?)

"She told me a little. Why does that make it all right for him to

use you to . . . to . . ."

"Apparently, she didn't tell you the whole story. Sketch creates a

lot of his characters 'from scratch' as it were. But sometimes he

'copies' people he's really fond of or whom he admires. The fact that

I'm one of the people he copies when he wants to be a sexy woman

. . . I find that to be a really sweet compliment."

I could see now that the 'Fake Lisa' was an idealized impression

of the woman standing before me. Still, that didn't explain why she

was so nonchalant about the deception and her part in it (albeit by

proxy). "I guess I don't understand."

"That's because you don't really know Sketch. If you're lucky, you

might get to before this is all over." She turned back to the

counter. "Okay Mike. We really need to get started. Why don't you

strip and I'll start with the depilatory."

I had the jersey top and the pants of my scrub suit off and my

boxers down around my knees before I started to chuckle. "Plays me

like a fiddle" I muttered.

Lisa looked over her shoulder. "Excuse me?"

I pulled the boxers off the rest of the way. "Doctor Ruth. She

plays me like a fiddle. I just figured out another reason for the

charade yesterday."

To my relief, Lisa evidenced no sexual interest in my nude

form. She just nodded at the dentist's chair, a large can of

depilatory in her hand. "And what would that be?"

I hopped into the chair and Lisa began spraying the gunk on my

legs. "She knows I'm a basically shy fellow. I had a lot of trouble in

basic training getting naked with the rest of the guys. So she throws

me into a situation that magnifies that shyness a thousand times, then

hits me with something else that blows the shyness right out of my

mind. The upshot is; I'm sitting here buck naked, with a total

stranger, a woman no less, rubbing lather on my legs and I'm only just

now getting around to realizing that I ought to be blushing. And of

course, now it's way too late."

Lisa grinned and kept working. "That's our Doctor Ruth. She

pretends to be just a simple woman, but don't believe it. She's a real

bruja . . . a real sorceress. She knows what you're gonna think

long before you do."

I just relaxed and enjoyed the pleasant sensation of having a

pretty girl rub foam on my legs.

My reverie was shattered and my embarrassment at sitting here

naked came crashing back when a plump, matronly woman came bustling

into the room carrying several large . . . they looked like those

one-foot square Tupperware containers. She was probably about sixty

with salt and pepper black hair (heavy on the salt) tied back in a

bun. She was wearing a print dress, thick support hose and 'sensible'

shoes. A pair of coke-bottle glasses perched on a button nose

magnifying a pair of sparkling blue eyes that twinkled at me from a

fine net of wrinkles. Her voice had the slightest of Irish accent to

it. "Good morning my dears!"

Dear Lord! It was like having your Grandmother walk in while you

were sitting on the toilet.

Except this lovely little granny was a complete stranger! I was

frantically searching for something to conceal my masculinity when

Lisa glanced up, said "Morning, Sketch" and calmly went back to

work.

I wanted to reach up and slap my forehead. I should have

guessed.

'Granny Sketch' set the plastic containers on the counter and then

turned to Lisa. "Dear, would you mind going down to the Lab and

watching the buttock appliances through the last curing cycle? I'll

finish up here."

Lisa straightened up, wiped her hands on a towel and then

nodded. "Sure Sketch. How long on the cycle?"

"Two hours, love. Thank you."

And I was alone again with Sketch.

As soon as Lisa was gone, he gave me a conspiratorial little

wink. "Actually Michael, for some of the things we need to do this

morning, I thought you'd prefer it be 'just us boys'."

I sat there, my right hand over my mouth, my eyebrows just about

crawling off the top of my head. "Do you know how . . . how

. . . unusual that statement is?"

Sketch had set about finishing 'lathering up' my legs. He'd worked

his way up to my thighs. (Score another one for Doctor Ruth. I later

realized that I was so nonplused by this . . . outrageous

. . . situation I never thought to be worried about some man rubbing

my naked thighs.)

Sketch just looked up and winked, that same little smile playing

around his disguised lips. "You can say 'crazy' Michael. I'm not

nearly so sensitive about some things as poor Ruth."

"Fine! This is really crazy!"

"Of course it is dear. Sheer madness. Best just surrender to it."

She held out the can of depilatory. "Here love, do your own chest. All

the way from your waist to your shoulders, mind. But you can leave

your pubic hair."

I complied, searching for a way to even begin to enunciate my

thoughts on the whole matter.

Soon, I was a head perched atop a mass of soft white lather. Sketch

turned from puttering with something inside one of the Tupperware

containers.

"Good! Now, stand up and let me get a look at your back."

Again, I just complied as the course of least resistance.

"Wonderful! You've a lovely smooth and hairless back. I think we'll

just do a little . . . " I felt some of the foam around my shoulders

and, embarrassingly around my tush. (I'd already gotten under my

arms. I could figure that one out for myself.) Sketch consulted a

small pendant watch that hung around 'her' neck by a silk

ribbon. "We'll let that 'brew' for a few minutes, then you can wipe it

right off. I do so wish they'd thought to put a shower in here."

I sighed and just stood there. There was little else to do at this

point. Sketch went back to fiddling with what ever it was he was

working on.

"I take it we're going to begin the actual 'transformation'

today?"

"Yes, love. We should pretty well finish the 'gross' . . . and by

that I mean 'less subtle', not 'disgusting' . . . nothing we'll do is

'disgusting'! . . . elements. That would allow us to get down to the

really fun bits, the real 'artwork' tomorrow."

"You mean it's going to take more than one day just to do the

. . . transformation . . . or what ever you call it?"

"Yes dear."

"Well . . . how does that work then? I mean, we do the 'gross'

stuff. I take it off. We come back tomorrow and . . . "

And then it dawned on me.

"I don't take it off, do I?"

"No dear. Once we start, you stay 'en femme' till the end of the

mission. Too many good reasons for that to go into now."

"Oh. Beautiful."

"That's the spirit! And you will be too! You'll see!" Sketch

checked his watch again. "All done! Here, some lovely soft towels for

you."

It took a few minutes to get rid of all the hair-eating gunk. The

flesh that was revealed looked rather pale and vulnerable and not in

the least sexy. Sketch gave me a thorough inspection, 'touching up'

some areas that still displayed a remnant of my masculine pelt. He

finally pronounced me "new as a baby's bottom!" and sat me back in the

chair.

In a strange parody of the 'Fake Lisa' of yesterday, 'Granny

Sketch' now leaned against the counter. 'Her' voice took on a quiet,

business-like tone. "Now then Michael. Here's one of the places where

I thought it should be just you and me. Of all we're going to do, this

is the most 'intimate'. Doctor Ruth talked to you yesterday about

'trust'. Well, I hope you'll trust me now."

"Don't build up the suspense Sketch. Let's just do what we need to

do."

Sketch nodded, still all business. "Quite right Michael." He turned

to the container he'd been fiddling with and brought something out

cradled in both hands. I leaned forward, got a look at what he was

holding and promptly blushed. There in Sketch's hands was what I knew

would become, probably in very short order, the indisputable 'badge'

of my assumed gender; a triangular slab of pale 'flesh' surmounted by

a little bush of light brown fur. . . all surrounding a disturbingly

lifelike fake vagina. It was small relief to note that apparently, I

wasn't going to be in a constant state of 'heightened passion' as

'Lisa' had been yesterday.

I blew a deep breath between my slightly parted lips. "Okay. Let's

do it if we're going to do it."

To my surprise, Sketch set the fake pussy back into the box. "Well,

there's a preparatory step to be undertaken first Michael. That's the

hard bit. Since the prosthesis is semi-permanent . . . that is, you'll

be wearing it for several days at least . . . and since it might be

necessary, though God knows why, for you to . . . well . . . be

convincing in this part of the role too . . . "

"What?"

"I'm going to catheterize you Michael. That will allow me to 'hook

up' the prosthesis in such a way that you can 'go' with the best of

the ladies."

*********

It wasn't pleasant.

But as Nietzsche said, "That which doesn't kill us, makes us

stronger."

Sketch handled it, the 'procedure', very professionally and

skillfully. He must have had practice. That made me wonder just how

'intricate' his own impersonations had to be for his satisfaction. Did

he actually have to do this kind of thing to himself to make it

'work'?

After the "procedure" was over we got started on the

transformation. We started out with a rather unusual 'device'.

Sketch opened another of his Tupperware boxes and pulled out what

looked like a high-waisted pair of . . . well . . . boxer shorts in a

pale flesh tone.

"Finally Michael. Slip into these and at least you won't have to

start looking for a newspaper to fold over your lap every time someone

comes into the room. Be very careful with that

catheter. There's a little slot in the front that you can just pass it

through."

I struggled for a moment.

"Man. These things are tight! Are you sure this is my size?"

Sketch gave me a maternal chuckle. "That's the point Michael. It

soon will be. 'Your size' I mean."

"Oh, I get it. Ow . . . man . . . okay. Just through the slot and

let it hang?"

"Yes dear."

"Slit up the backside I see. I can figure that one out. Wow!

. . . Jeeze! . . . I can't breathe! I thought Lisa . . . I thought

you said yesterday that you wouldn't cover much flesh. This

thing's got me clear up to my rib cage!"

"It's a question of physiology Michael. This is the one part of

your physique that is simply fundamental different from a

woman's. Fortunately, a woman is both smaller in areas that we can

easily compress, and larger in areas we can easily pad."

I was still struggling to breathe. "Define 'easily compress'. What

the hell is this made out of anyway? Tensile steel?"

"Dense-weave Spandex. 'The mature woman's best friend.' Step over

here for just a moment."

I complied.

Sketch had a small aerosol spray can. He examined the fit of my

. . . 'new size' . . . and nodded. "Oh, that's just fine. Very nice

line." Then he carefully rolled down what would be the waistband if it

weren't just under my ribs and sprayed a little of what was in the

bottle around my entire circumference. It was cold, both in

temperature and in . . . well, the way that alcohol is when you put it

on your flesh. A kind of "chemical cold".

"What's this?"

"It's an exfoliant. It removes all the dead skin so we have a good

surface for the adhesive. You'll see a lot of this too, I'm

afraid."

"Hmm. So this thing glues on? Cripes! I'd think that with the death

grip it has on me that wouldn't be a concern."

Sketch was busily rubbing the exfoliant off with a tissue, closely

studying his work. "That's because you've never worn a girdle

dear. Bend over a few times and the pesky things have the most awful

habit of rolling them selves into a lovely little inner tube around

your waist. Bad enough when it simply ruins the line of your dress and

you have to escape to the ladies' room for repairs. In this case, if

this foundation rolled, why, it would take a lot of very carefully

applied 'magic' with it and that would be the end of the

illusion. There. Finished."

"That's not so bad. It burns a little."

"That passes in just a minute. You're being a very good sport."

"Not much choice. This thing is just a foundation right? I mean, it

doesn't look anything like skin. Something goes over it, right?"

"Oh yes dear. It doesn't even need to be flesh tone really. I just

used skin tone latex as the sheathe for the spandex because that was

the color I had handy."

"Hmm. Were you wearing one of these yesterday?"

Sketch looked at me with a twinkle in his eyes. "Goodness yes!" He

patted a very matronly set of hips. "You don't think I could get an

hour-glass shape like that without a little help, do you?" Then he

rummaged for a moment in the 'tackle box' for another small aerosol

spray.

"I never would have guessed. I mean, from the ribs down . . . it

was all fake? You even had, you know . . . like fine hair on your

skin. And an 'innie'."

Sketch paused and smiled over his shoulder. "Oh, Michael. What a

lovely compliment! Thank you dear. I do strive for detail." He turned

back to his work. "Women aren't hairless you know. They have hair in

most of the same places as men. It's just very fine. You'd notice it

if it weren't there. But it's very difficult and laborious to

duplicate. Now then." He held up the new spray bottle. "This is the

adhesive we'll be using. It's a cyano-acrylic."

"Super glue?"

He nodded. "A form of it, yes. This is a medical formulation,

specifically designed to bond skin to latex. And it doesn't come off,

not without a solvent. The good news is; you can bathe, go swimming,

sweat . . . anything you want. I guarantee, no embarrassing 'sudden

mastectomies' or the like. Nothing will fall off. The bad news is; if

you try to remove a part without the solvent, the layer of skin

beneath it will come off too."

"I'll bear that in mind."

We spent a few minutes gluing the foundation in place.

I hadn't been aware of the passage of time but two hours must have

come and gone. Lisa came through the door carrying another of those

Tupperware boxes.

"Ah, Lisa! Perfect timing a usual."

She set the box beside the others and then gave me a quick

appraisal. "Nice waist."

"Isn't it? I knew the CAD said it would be, but isn't it nice to

see it proven?"

"CAD? As in Computer Aided Design?"

"Yes Michael. Isn't technology marvelous? We already know exactly

what you'll look like." I got just a glint of that sexy leer from

yesterday. "You already know my opinion."

I think I blushed. Lisa chuckled. "Better sex through science!"

Sketch turned to Lisa and their suddenly professional tone reminded

me of a doctor talking to a skilled nurse or assistant. But Sketch

still spoke in that 'lovable granny' voice.

"I want to move right on to the vaginal set. I think we can meld

the fascia into the line later. I really want to get that catheter

tied down."

Lisa nodded. "Okay." She turned to me. "Hop up in the chair Mike."

I complied. Sketch was doing something with one of the boxes. "Sit

forward. Swing your legs over the side. Give me a nice big 'sexy

spread'."

Sketch didn't look up. His voice had a semi-playful growl to

it. "Lisa . . . behave."

I was actually getting into the spirit of things now that the "bad

stuff" seemed to be mostly over. Besides, I was more or less clothed

now and lots of my embarrassment had faded. I dropped one leg over

each side of the footrest part of the chair producing what would

indeed have been a very lascivious posture for a woman. I winked at

Lisa and grinned. My voice is a light tenor so I tried for a falsetto

(that didn't really work). "Oooh baby . . . you know what I want."

Sketch still didn't look up. "Michael. You too. And that voice

. . . " He made 'tsk tsk' sound that was an exact duplicate of my

maternal grandmother's. "Lots of work to be done there I see."

For a few minutes I really couldn't see what was going on as Sketch

and Lisa worked shoulder to shoulder, effectively blocking my view of

my own crotch. There were muttered commands of "Take that for a

second", and "A touch more glue there". I could feel that they were

very gently manipulating the catheter. I got a little lump in my

throat when Sketch asked for a pair of "scissors, the ones with the

flat blades" and there followed a distinct 'snipping' sound. There

were several more moments of effort then both of them straightened to

admire their handiwork.

Sketch fairly purred. "Oh yes. Very nice. What a good

beginning!"

With a strange sense of trepidation I looked down between my

legs.

It still took a great deal of imagination. The artificiality of the

'foundation', the fact that my legs were still very neuter, the fact

that I was looking down over my own recognizably flat chest

. . . there was no question of me being 'fooled' yet.

Still . . . one small part of my anatomy . . . just a few square

inches really . . .

. . . were now definitely, undeniably female.

*********

"Just let your thoughts float Michael. Don't try to fasten on any

one image. Just accept each, look at it, and move on. Your arms are so

pleasantly heavy now. That same 'heavy tired' as your chest, your

stomach, your legs . . . Tired, but in a such a good, drowsy way."

I was in Dr. Ruth's office. This was the first session of

hypnosis.

The images did float through my mind as Ruth's soft voice droned

on, and as she directed, I examined each and then let it float

away.

It had taken till a little after four in the afternoon, but the

'gross work' on my transformation was done. Beneath my surgical scrubs

I was a crazy-quilt patchwork of a half dozen more-or-less skin

tones. Some of the shades were my own natural beige. Some were almost

white. Some were reminiscent of 'Lisa's' golden tan from

yesterday. Sketch kept repeating, every time I glanced at one of the

omnipresent mirrors, "primer coat, Michael . . . this is just the

primer coat".

It was still disappointing. I kept remembering 'Lisa'. I just

couldn't believe that we'd go from this . . . apparition in the mirror

to her amazing beauty. I couldn't see how the transformation would

happen.

I had all the 'parts' . . . breasts (nice size and shape, they

might be real 'man-killers' when they were fully detailed, but

featureless at the moment and almost snow white), narrow waist (still

almost impossible to take a really deep breath), sensuously rounded

hips, a lovely, firm little butt . . .

And the crowning glory . . . my silky, sexy little pussy. Of all

the 'appliances', Sketch had explained that that 'part' had had to be

fully detailed from the outset. There was a question of finishing each

item of 'detail work' as the whole was 'assembled'. That's why, of all

the illusion so far, that was the one thing that looked now as it

would look at the end, when the transformation was complete.

It was rather hard to keep my hands away from it. I wanted to reach

down and touch it, to feel its 'reality'. But that seemed kind of

. . . 'rude' . . . if you can believe it, so I kept my hands to

myself.

I contented myself with occasionally squinting my eyes into 'soft

focus' and examining the work in progress in one of the mirrors.

It just didn't work. It was just me being transformed into

something still too amorphous to visualize.

Until, that is, Sketch announced that it was time to 'knock off for

today, my dears', and I climbed back into my surgical scrubs.

And the clothing didn't fit as it had. The jersey top that had been

baggy all over was now positively tent-like over my waist, but

. . . there was 'something' pressing it outward in front, pressing the

fabric in back against my shoulders. Contrarily, when I pulled the

drawstring tight on the pants (much further than I'd had to before to

get the waistband snug), it was suddenly very snug against my

posterior.

I looked up into the mirror.

My head, my arms, my hands . . .

. . . her body . . . only partially concealed by the

bagginess of the 'scrubs'.

"Michael? Come on. Snap out of it kiddo."

"Oh hell . . . Ruth. I'm sorry. I guess I was daydreaming."

Without even asking, I sat up and looked over at her sitting behind

her desk. She was smiling that pleasant, open smile.

I was truly disappointed. "I really hope this doesn't mean we're

going to have trouble with this hypnosis thing. I know that it's

crucial to the mission but that there are some people you can't

hypnotize."

Still she just smiled. "That's true Michael." There was a bemused

chuckle in her voice as she shook her head in amused wonderment. "But

you aren't one of them. You're one of the best subjects I've ever

had. I'm very encouraged."

"What do you mean?"

"Passion's sea Michael."

"What?"

"I said you're a very easy subject to work with, you take

suggestion very well."

"No, before that. You said . . . what did you say?"

"Look down at your right hand."

I did. I was 'counting' my fingers with my thumb. You know, that

thing the cops have you do when they're checking to see if you're

drunk. You touch your thumb to each of your fingertips, in order,

index to pinky, then back again. I was doing that . . . quickly

. . . furiously. I immediately stopped, clenching my fist.

Ruth just grinned.

I looked up, stunned. "You mean . . . you actually . . . "

She nodded.

"Quack . . .quack, Michael."

*********

4:48PM PST

"Oh . . . my God . . ."

*********

Last night had been an odd one.

I'd chatted with Ruth for a while longer. She was positively

ecstatic over the ease with which I took hypnotic suggestion. She told

me about all the studies that had been done trying to figure out just

exactly what hypnotism was. Finally, she'd admitted that to this day,

nobody really knew exactly. She did point out, (kind of as a salve to

my self-esteem I think), that the ease with which someone was 'put

under' had nothing to do with will power. In fact, there were several

studies that suggested that the more strong-willed a person, the

easier they were to hyptonize.

It was getting to be dinner time and the session ended when my

stomach growled loudly enough for Ruth to hear.

The base was a sprawling affair and I had several options as to

where I was going to get something to eat. I started to rise, to go,

when Ruth cleared her throat. I looked over at her.

"What were your plans for dinner, Michael?"

At first, I took that as a tentative prelude to an offer of a

'date'. I smiled and shrugged.

That shrug, as the front of my jersey shifted a few times, my

'breasts' jiggling beneath the fabric, together with Ruth's grin, told

me the real reason for her question.

I think she read the realization of my predicament on my face. She

tried to keep her tone light. "Were you going to go down to the Mess

Hall? Drop by MacDonald's?"

"Hmm . . . no, I guess not. Boy . . . I'm kind of stuck midway

between 'fish' and 'fowl' aren't I?"

Her tone was definitely ironic. "I'd say so. You'll be happy to

know therefore, that we planned for this situation. There's a room for

you up on the third floor. Number 331C. It's not much, but it has a

bed and a bathroom . . . and Cable. You'll be staying there for the

rest of your prep phase. They'll be sending up meals."

"You know, I just realized that I walked up here from '109' and

didn't even think about what I must have looked like to anyone. I

don't remember anyone gawking at me though."

"You needn't worry about that Michael. This building has seen far

stranger 'projects' than yours. The people who work here are used to

some . . . 'unusual' . . . sights. You won't ever get more than a

politely curious glance, I assure you."

I couldn't help clearing my throat. "Uh . . . yeah."

She smiled warmly. "Okay. We've worked you enough for one day. Off

you go. Get some sleep. Long day tomorrow."

*********

My new room was pretty Spartan, just as Ruth had said. But I was

used to such things by now. In fact, it wasn't really all that

different from the BOQ I'd just vacated. I did notice a large, full

length mirror against one wall. It didn't take any stretch of

imagination to guess what that was for. Obviously, I was being

encouraged to examine my new form, to get used to it.

That sparked a thought. I opened the closet, wondering if I had a

new wardrobe to match my new figure. I didn't. The only thing hanging

in there was another, clean, set of scrubs. Same for the small

dresser, just two pairs of clean jockey briefs in my size, OD green

and three pairs of socks.

I was actually a bit disappointed.

Dinner arrived almost as soon as I did, served by a young soldier

who, as promised, just gave me a curious glance, handed me the tray,

said "Bon appetite, sir", and walked away.

I surfed the cable channels for a while, but it was a case of

"sixty-four channels and nothing on". By seven thirty, I was indeed

feeling a bit drowsy. I debated taking a shower for a moment, but

decided against it. I hadn't been told not to, but then again, nobody

had said it was all right either. Better to error on the conservative

side.

I brushed my teeth, used the toilet . . . third time as a 'woman'

. . . still a rather strange experience, then shed my scrubs, turned

out the lights and crawled into bed.

All day long, I'd been reluctant to . . . 'explore' . . . my new

'gender'. It just didn't seem proper for me to be pawing myself in

public. I know that sounds strange, but it's the feeling I had.

But now I was alone, in the dark, beneath the covers of my bed.

I still had a guilty sense of doing something 'nasty'. I still

wondered if 'they' weren't watching me through some hidden camera or

something. I submit, given my unusual circumstance, that last bit of

paranoia wasn't too far-fetched.

Still . . . I just had to know. My hands slid up my newly-sleek

sides and onto my chest.

There was a woman in bed with me.

She had soft breasts, neither particularly large nor particularly

small, that molded themselves to fit my gentle caress. Small, pert

nipples demanded my attention. I gently rubbed the tip of one with my

index finger, remembering past chances to do that with other

partners. I recalled the sigh of pleasure it always provoked, from

both of us. My hands slid down the gentle curve of her belly, circling

around what I was sure was an absolutely adorable little navel

. . . another 'innie'.

I grinned when the words echoed in my head. "Would you like to

be able to just reach up under your blouse . . . to slip your hand

into your panties . . . and touch me anytime you wanted . . . anywhere

you wanted?

My fingers insinuated themselves beneath the coarse cloth of her

male briefs . . . (Why was Lisa wearing my briefs? How kinky!). The

tips of my fingers slid over the curly, silky ruff of her pubic hair

. . . tentatively touching, then caressing, then oh-so-gently entering

her . . . stroking her . . . probing her . . .

OUCH! WOW!

I jerked my fingers out of 'Lisa' and grabbed my crotch in agony. I

was suddenly . . . FORCEFULLY . . . reminded of my catheter.

I could only lie there for a moment waiting for the sudden burning

sensation to pass. Well. There was one item that'd I'd not need to

worry about. My 'illusion' wouldn't ever be spoiled, the 'line' of my

skirt would never be ruined, by the sight of a pretty girl. I just

hoped I'd never have to explain to anyone why my female alter ego

suddenly doubled over in pain when a sexy chick slinked by.

*********

I woke up the next morning fairly early. I still don't sleep well

in 'strange' beds even after a year of military life.

I was groggy as hell, as I usually am before at least two cups of

coffee. I staggered into the bathroom, flipped up the toilet seat,

reached into my briefs . . .

. . . and of course, got the surprise of my life.

Well, at least I didn't need any coffee this morning. I was sure as

hell awake now!

I made it down to "Transformation 109" at my usual time of nine

o'clock. As with yesterday, Lisa had beat me in. Today she'd replaced

that Hawaiian riot with a white tee shirt. I could just see "The

Tasmanian Devil" from the old Warner cartoons snarling at me over the

top of her funky bib overalls.

"Morning Mike! Ready to start finding out how the other half

lives?"

I grinned, dropping into my familiar spot in the dentist's

chair. "I don't know if I'm 'ready'. I know I'm sure as hell

curious. Sure as hell eager to see if you guys can make good on the

warranty."

She gave me a sly grin. "Oh . . . we can. You wanna make a little

bet?"

I 'saw' the grin and raised it a 'challenge'. "I've been know to

bet on occasion. What are you proposing."

"Just this. By this afternoon . . . not much past five I'd guess

. . . if Michael isn't gone and in his place there isn't a woman who'd

get a least a small woody outta you . . . when you get back from the

mission, you gotta buy the first three round of drinks for Sketch and

me."

I felt just a momentary coldness in the pit of my stomach at the

mention of "the mission". I could have said, " `If' I get back, not

`when' " but Lisa was trying to banter with me and I didn't want to

start the morning off on such a "downer" note. I just forced my grin

to stay in place and shot back, "And if I don't start drooling at what

ever you guys think you can patch together?"

"Then I buy the first three rounds. And we'll count that night as

the first of those expensive dinners."

I had to think a minute to recall what she was referring to with

the "expensive dinner" comment. Then I remembered.

"Done and done. But how will you know if what ever you're going to

build on me produces 'a small woody'?" The words were hardly out of my

mouth when I started to blush, remembering the agony of last

night. Lisa grinned.

"Sketch told me about you and my doppelganger. You're a 'square

shooter' Mike. You'll admit it and pay up if you loose. Besides, if we

do as good a job as I think we will . . . " Her grin became almost

viscous. "I bet you'll . . . 'indicate' it. I know how male catheters

work."

"Okay. Like I say; `done and done'."

At that moment Ruth and a man walked through the door together. The

fellow was about five and a half feet tall with dark, Mediterranean

features, jet-black hair worn in a ponytail that fell below his

shoulders, a pencil-thin moustache and narrow goatee. I looked at him

for just a moment, and then pleased myself by saying, in unison with

Lisa, "'Morning Sketch."

He glanced at me in passing, giving me a wink and a smile. "Bon

girono, my dears. And how are my two lovelies this morning?"

"Curious as hell. Good morning Ruth. What brings you down to the

mad scientist's lair today?"

She set the doctor's bag she was carrying on one of the

counters. "Two reasons. One; you aren't the only one who's `curious as

hell'. Two . . ." She patted the doctor's bag. "Official business."

She turned to Sketch. "Should I do that now? Do you guys have a minute

. . . ?"

He was already in consultation with Lisa as they worked on

something beneath one of the counters. "Si Doctore'. It takes a

few minutes to set up the airbrush. Now would be a good time."

I divided my attention between trying to guess Ruth's `official

business' and trying to guess what an airbrush had to do with my

transformation, and failed at both. I couldn't see what Sketch and

Lisa were doing so I turned to Ruth just in time to see she had pulled

a hypodermic syringe out of her bag and was filling it from a small

bottle.

I don't like shots, but I'm not a particular coward about

them. Besides, that's something else you soon get very used to in a

military career; being used as a pincushion by every doctor that comes

along.

"I wondered when you were going to get around to the truth

serum."

Ruth chuckled as she held the syringe up to the light to check for

bubbles. "Nah. I can get any secret I want out of you during the

`sessions'." She quickly glanced down from her inspection of the

syringe. "That's a joke you know. I can't really pump you for secrets

nor would I ever . . ."

I cut her off with a chuckle of my own. "Not to worry Ruth. You

asked for trust early on. I think by now you know you've got it."

Her face softened for just a moment, her professionally friendly

manner slipped just a bit. She didn't need to say a word. In that

instant I knew; I'd found a new friend.

The moment passed and she held up the syringe. Her manner was once

again professional playfulness. "Michael my dear, you're a boy. You've

got a boy's voice, boy's skin, and most of all . . . a boy's

beard. Sketch can cover the major physical `tell-tales' but he can't

really cover your face such that that beard won't be a problem. And he

sure as hell can't do anything about your voice."

"I wondered how you guys were going to handle that; the fact that I

have to shave every morning. And just what you were going to do about

my voice." Before Ruth could reply, I figured it out for

myself. "Female hormones. You're going to shoot me up with

estrogen."

"Well, not exactly. I think you're thinking about, H.R.T., `Hormone

Replacement Therapy'. It's what's used in combination with surgical

procedure during gender re-assignment. Right?"

I nodded.

"Unfortunately Michael, HRT is a long term process, taking several

months for significant modification in the body's systems. Of course,

we don't have `months'. So we're using something a little different."

Again she held up the syringe. "This is a synthetic analog of several

hormones and enzymes that we've created through genetic

manipulation. The naturally occurring substances this is designed to

mimic are fairly subtle. This is anything but. As promised Michael,

I'll tell you the truth. This stuff is quick, dirty, and it has some

nasty side effects. It will neither wholly prevent the formation of

facial hair nor will it completely modify your voice. It will retard

the growth of your beard such that it won't be a daily chore to try

and manage it. It will also make it possible for Sketch to coach you

into something that will be a very believable, if somewhat `smoky'

female voice. It will also make you sick as a dog by tomorrow and

woozy for several days after that."

"How . . . permanent will the change be?"

"The effects will wear off in no more than three weeks, and that's

with daily boosters for the remainder of your prep phase. Long enough

for you to complete your mission, but not much more."

I tried to put the best face on things. "Oh hell . . . at least I

get tomorrow off."

Ruth nodded and winked. " I think I can manage to get you onto sick

call for at least one day."

"Fair enough. I don't suppose I can convince you to give me that in

my tush, can I?"

Sketch's voice floated up from beneath the counter. "Don't even

think about poking holes in my lovely work." We all shared a grin and

then I rolled up my left sleeve. Ruth turned out to be very adept at

administering shots. I barely felt the needle go in. I wondered if,

when I got home, she might consider becoming my `family

physician'.

**********

The airbrush turned out to be for just what I supposed it was. I

was still a crazy quilt of colors, some of them very

`unnatural'. Sketch explained that he was going to start at my toes

and eventually end at my hairline and in between he was going to make

my apparent skin "something any model would give her left arm

for."

"It isn't just paint then?"

"No, no, my love! This is a very special formulation latex we'll be

using. Like the adhesive, it's very durable and requires a solvent to

remove. You needn't concern yourself it will wash off. It will meld

the seams of all the appliances into a smooth, continuous whole and

then dry into something that feels just like a woman's flesh."

"What will it do to my sense of touch?"

"Practically nothing. It's simply not that thick. You'll hardly

notice it's there at all."

It took about two hours for the whole `painting process'. We had to

start by `masking' my borrowed vagina. As I've said, it already had

its finished color and detail work. Then Sketch and Lisa set to with a

will. The airbrush's compressor thumped, the paint flew, I turned this

way and that, lifting my arms, spreading my legs. I was so preoccupied

with complying with Sketch's commands that I never really looked in

the mirror until he finally exclaimed "Finitto!"

I stole a glance at my reflection.

Yesterday, I couldn't imagine that the crazy quilt of colors could

be made into anything even remotely believable.

Today I could.

If I squeezed my eyes almost shut, if I didn't look at myself above

the neck or linger too long on any one detail . . .

That could be a woman's body . . . a nice one! It still required

imagination to see it, but not nearly as much as yesterday.

***********

"You're kidding me, right?"

Sketch just held out the cuff. "No carrissima. I'm in

earnest. It's necessary if we're to add that oh-so-necessary

detail."

"I won't feel it, right? I mean, you're not going to shoot so much

current into me that my . . . my eyeballs explode or anything,

right?"

I heard Ruth's soft chuckle from behind me. Sketch gave me an

exasperated little sigh. "It's a static charge Michael. Unless you

inadvertently ground yourself to something other than the generator,

you won't feel a thing."

I looked dubiously at the Dr. Frankenstein contraption that Lisa

had wheeled in. Sketch sighed again, more dramatically this time. "Did

I not say yesterday that duplicating a woman's fine body hair was a

very laborious and difficult procedure? Would you rather we tried to

insert each and every hair into you with a needle?"

"No. I suppose not."

"Bono! Then put the cuffs on and let's have no more

foolishness."

I did as Sketch instructed and strapped one band around each of my

ankles. The cabling attached to each cuff extended back to Sketch's

Infernal Machine. He examined each cuff, nodded once, and threw a

switch. The contraption made a deep, ominous humming, but as promised,

I didn't feel a thing.

"Is it on?"

Now both Ruth and Lisa were chuckling. Again, I heard Ruth's voice

from behind me. "Look in the mirror."

I did. My military-short brown hair was sticking straight out from

the top of my head in a bristly globe. I joined in the

amusement. "Instant Afro."

My `female pelt' was administered by having Lisa spray a small area

of my skin (over my abdomen, front and back, and my arms) with more of

Sketch's miracle adhesive. This was quickly followed by Sketch who

waved what looked like a vacuum cleaner's upholstery wand over the

area just treated. But instead of sucking air in, this `vacuum

cleaner' blew a stream of mildly warm air against me.

And lo-and-behold, where ever it passed, very fine golden hairs,

almost a thin, soft down, seemed to sprout out of my new feminine

flesh. The static charge served to hold each 'hair' standing at

attention till its 'root' dried in my new 'flesh' (rather lying flat

against the adhesive and getting stuck that way.) Sketch was

right. That soft, thin down was a detail you missed, perhaps

subconsciously, if it wasn't there.

The illusion was starting to take shape. It was requiring less and

less imagination to believe that I was looking over the shoulder of

some nude woman as her naked form slowly revealed itself to me.

*********

After waiting for the `hair' to `dry'. Sketch announced that it was

time to begin work on the final details. There was the matter of the

color of my nipples and their surrounding areola to be attended to, as

well as some other "detail and shading" that Sketch wanted to add. And

of course, from the neck up, I was still Michael. Glancing at the

clock on the wall, and remembering Lisa's prediction that the

transformation should be accomplished by no later than five o'clock. I

realized that these details would occupy at least another four

hours.

As I was standing there, (I couldn't sit down, women apparently

have a fine layer of hair on the small of their backs, as I'd just

found out), I noticed Ruth and Sketch in a whispered conversation over

in the corner. They noticed my awareness and from the conspiratorial

smile I got from both of them, I deduced that it was pointless to ask

for an explanation.

Sketch plopped me back down in the dentist's chair. It wasn't till

later that it registered. Once he's spun me around facing the door,

and left me that way, I could no longer see the mirrors that were now

behind me.

It took Sketch a good half-hour to paint the crowning detail of my

soon to be utterly convincing breasts. Half-jokingly I'd demanded

`real eye-poppers . . . big pink ones!' Ruth overruled me. Her sudden

quiet seriousness in what had become a very light-hearted afternoon

jarred me back to earth for a moment. "Remember Michael; these aren't

meant to `light your fire'. I want them very `ordinary' for a

reason."

The remaining details went on fairly quickly. I got some subtle

gradation in skin tones and some 'permanently attached' acrylic

'fingernails' that somehow made my fingers seem much more slender and

feminine. Sketch also plied his paintbrush and created some amazingly

realistic `veins and arteries' on the insides of my wrists and the

tops of my feet.

Three and a half hours, more or less, remained in Lisa's timetable

to create my feminine head.

It required all of them.

I was expecting some high-tech blusher and rouge or

something. Instead, after a very thorough coat of depilatory, I spent

two hours as Sketch and Lisa applied a whole series of very delicate

and sometimes positively tiny appliances all over my face. They

attached them to my cheeks, my lips, the bridge of my nose, my

forehead. Pretty soon, I began to wonder if the only things that

weren't going to get a bunch of latex glued to them were my eyes.

And of course, once all the appliances were in place, I got to hold

my breath and clench my eyes tightly shut while I got a coat of

"female skin" over my face. We fired up the static generator again and

soon I had an extremely fine, almost invisible 'down' on my cheeks and

upper lip.

Sketch painted a permanent coat of `neutral shade' over my lips and

then spent several minutes applying my new `eyebrows' (my real set

being now hidden beneath the `skin' I'd just received). Before I could

think to ask what I looked like, we got down to my new `hair'.

It was Lisa who pulled it out of the last, unopened Tupperware

container.

Man, it was lovely, just exactly the kind of hair that turns me

on. Lisa held it up for my inspection inserting her hands beneath the

`cap' and spreading it out so I could see how it would `fall'. It was

light straw at the tips shading to tawny brown at the scalp. I could

see that it was long-ish, that it would probably fall well below my

shoulders. I could also see that it was set in that `wild-casual'

style that I'm sorry to say seems to be going out of fashion.

Sketch's voice was conspiratorial. "Look at the light in his

eyes. Didn't I tell you that you'd be a sexy little bitch

Michael?"

It took several minutes of tugging and straightening for the wig to

sit `correctly' on my head. There was a fake scalp beneath the whole

`bang line' across the front that also extended over the top of my

head to where my skull started to curve downwards in the back. As with

everything else, this `scalp' received an application of adhesive to

bond it to my real forehead. And again, there was a light coat of

`female skin' latex paint to cover the seam. Once it was in place,

Sketch used several dozen small, flexible, bobby pin like devices to

attach the open weave of the back and sides of the wig to my real

hair. "As with everything else Michael. We don't want this wig to

slide off at some inopportune moment." I got a firm tug on the `hair'

over the back of my head producing a yelp of pain from me. "See,

caria mia? You'll want to be very careful about removing those

pins and using the solvent before trying to take this off."

Then Sketch stepped back and Lisa took over.

"I'm going to touch up your hair now Mike and give you a light

makeup job. Don't worry about trying to follow me just yet. I'll teach

you how to do this for yourself later this week."

" `Beautician to the stars' are you?"

She was already fluffing my new hair with a brush. "As a matter of

fact . . . yes."

"Gosh Sketch. Maybe you should be nicer to her. She might do your

makeup someday."

I immediately wondered if I'd gone too far with that jibe, but

apparently I hadn't. Sketch's tone was just as light and playful as it

had been for the last hour. "Who do you think made your `Lisa' from

day before yesterday so drop dead gorgeous?"

Before I could respond, Lisa, who was just beginning to apply a

light rose-colored lipstick to my faux lips winked and almost

whispered, "See? I guessed you might be the type of guy that liked `em

`big and pink'. I'll have to remember that if you ever manage to buy

me those three expensive dinners."

It took Lisa only a few minutes to finish. She only did what I'd

later come to recognize as `day wear' makeup, the kind of minimal

subterfuge that a woman applies as a matter of course before going out

for an ordinary day's activities.

Then everyone gathered around the front of the dentist's chair and

examined the fruits of their labors.

I think that up to this point, it had been so much about getting

the job done that nobody, including me, had really viewed the work in

progress with an eye to judging it's artistry or believability. Now,

the physical transformation was complete, the masterpiece was

done.

Looking from face to face, I could tell; the deception had

apparently achieved whatever level of believability they had hoped

for.

It was Ruth who finally spoke. I knew she was practiced in

`sounding' however she thought best to produce a response in

people. But I had to believe that that was genuine awe in her voice

when she whispered, "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it

happen right before my eyes."

Sketch too had a note of wonder and quiet pride. "But for my own

designs, I think this is one of the best I've ever done."

I gave them what must have been a hopeful little grin. "That

good?"

Ruth nodded and smiled. "Turn around. Take a look in the

mirror."

I did.

I just stared for what had to be an eternity. At first, I couldn't

even find my voice.

"Oh . . . my God! . . . "

*********

10:18AM PST

I could only lie there as another greasy wave of nausea rolled

through me. It was the morning following the completion of my physical

'transformation' and Ruth's 'hormone analog' had 'kicked in' with a

vengeance. I was at the point where I had nothing left to vomit. That

was both a blessing and a curse. At least I no longer had to scramble

out of my tangled sheets and make a mad dash for the bathroom every

few minutes. On the other hand, 'dry heaves' are God's vengeance.

Ruth stroked my hot, dry forehead and offered me another sip of ice

water.

"Here hon, try and swallow a little more of this."

I managed to get some of that lovely coolness down the aching fire

in my throat and croaked "thank you." If the analog was transforming

my voice into something feminine, you couldn't tell. I didn't sound

human, much less female.

"Do you think you might be able to sleep a little more? That's

really the best thing you can do for yourself right now."

I nodded and Ruth again stroked my head, tucking one long blonde

lock behind my right ear. After a while, I think I drifted off.

*********

I still couldn't believe what I saw in that mirror yesterday. I had

come to the point where I was pretty sure Sketch and Lisa could turn

me into a believable facsimile of a woman. I had the evidence of the

faux "Lisa" from two days ago. I had seen the transformation up to the

point where the final detail work had begun, to where it no longer

required that much imagination to envision the finished work. I had

begun to "believe".

But I thought I'd look like a female version of me. I didn't quite

know what that would look like, but I suppose I had some kind of

mental image even if it was ill formed. At least, I think I was

expecting someone I'd recognize, if you know what I mean. 'Oh, what a

lovely woman Michael is! How cool!'

But when I finally turned and looked . . .

The woman in the mirror was an absolute stranger.

I'm quite certain I could have walked past my own mother and she

wouldn't have recognized me. There just wasn't any trace of me

left.

Her face was curved softness where mine was sharp planes and

lines. I have somewhat thin lips. Hers were full and round. My nose is

aquiline. Her nose was quite normal looking. It was, however, just a

bit too large for her face. Not distractingly so, not abnormally so,

not really even unusually so. Just large enough to spoil what would

otherwise have been a perfect countenance. Looking at that nose, I

think I realized the subtlety of Sketch's illusion. To this day, I

believe he could have made me a stunning beauty if he'd wanted to. But

he'd resisted that temptation. As a result, the face in the mirror was

just plain enough, just ordinary enough, just far enough this side of

drop-dead gorgeous . . . so as not to be too good to be true yet still

be attractive.

Her body . . . well . . . it was simply too authentic not to be

believed. There were no hints, no flaws, no little imperfections to

spoil the illusion. Again, it wasn't so perfect as to raise

doubts. Her hips might have been just a bit too full. Her stomach had

just enough roundness that it missed being fashion model svelte. Her

breasts were . . . average. Not so big as to be implausible, not so

small that they didn't elicit a faint stirring in my groin that I knew

meant I was out the price of three rounds of drinks for two

people.

And it all fit together into a seamless, undeniable, utterly

convincing whole.

We stood for a while, just looking. I turned this way and that

still trying to spot that one flaw that would let me deny, if only for

myself, the "truth" that proclaimed itself from that mirror. But there

just wasn't one.

It was while I was looking at this beautiful stranger, that the

first of the stomach cramps hit.

The sudden twinge must have shown on my face.

Ruth murmured "Uh oh. I think it's time we got you upstairs while

you can still make it under your own power."

"The hormone analog?"

Ruth nodded. "Yeah, hon. This is going to be a rough night." I

gathered up my surgical scrubs and slipped them on. I had a little

trouble for a moment with the jersey top. I just slid it over my head

as I'd usually done. Of course, my newly over-the-shoulder tresses

were trapped beneath the shoulders and the back of the jersey and both

Lisa and Ruth had to assist me for a moment freeing it. Lisa then

showed me, quickly, how to either "toss" my head or to slide my hand

over the nape of my neck and slip the trapped hair free. Then she

surprised me with a quick little hug, the kind that one woman gives

another, leaned slightly forward from the hip so as not to press her

breasts against mine, followed by a quick little peck on the

cheek. "Sleep well Mike. I'll see you day after tomorrow."

Next, Sketch gave me a little kiss on the other cheek. For some

reason, it didn't seem at all odd or embarrassing for him to do

so. "So far so good, Michael. I too will see you day after tomorrow."

Then Ruth led me out into the hallway toward the elevators.

It was while we were waiting for the elevator to arrive that I got

my first taste of femininity. We were standing there, the cramp seemed

to have passed though I was now feeling the first twinges of the

nausea that would overwhelm me in just a few hours. An outside door

opened at the end of the corridor and a pair of soldiers, males,

walked in discussing some point. As they passed, I caught the younger

of the two trying to steal a quick, covert glance at my breasts. As

I've said, the jersey top had become baggy over my waist, but just a

bit snug over my bosom. That, coupled with my lack of a bra . . . well

. . . I suppose if the roles had been reversed, I'd have been trying

for a sly peek myself.

The moment passed so quickly that the two men were already past me

and heading down the corridor before I realized what had just

happened.

I'd just been the object of a man's sexual desire.

Again Ruth, always the astute observer of human behavior, had

caught the moment. Her smile was soft. "Get used to it kiddo. Sketch

gave you a nice set of boobs and men a built to notice such

things."

I was still wrestling with my conflicting thoughts when the

elevator deposited us outside my room.

Ruth unlocked the door for me, (she had a key too) and turned on

the lights. I sat on the edge of my bed and massaged my suddenly

uncertain stomach.

"You might as well head into the bathroom now Michael. You're going

to be in there for a while."

The rest of the night was one of the worst I've had since I was

seven and a really good case of measles finally caught up to me. I

love my Mother, I really do. I just wish Ruth had been there for me

then too.

*********

<H4>Prep Day Twelve</H4>

11:53 AM PST

Final Briefing

My butt was going to sleep; I'd been sitting here so long. I

reversed my legs, crossing my left over my right this time and tried

to surreptitiously wiggle a little life into my tush at the same

time. Without even thinking, I casually reached down and tucked my

knit skirt beneath my thighs. General Thornton had asked that I attend

the final brief "in character" but Ruth and I had hedged our bets and

I'd 'activated' my 'Cathy Demure' persona for this, the final briefing

before my departure.

*********

The day following the transformation had been a complete loss until

I woke from another fitful nap at around 6:30 in the

evening. Somewhere during that sleep, I seemed to have "turned the

corner" in my reaction to the hormone analog. Either my body had

finally surrendered to that hellish substance, or there had been an

"accommodation" between my tortured flesh and the drug. I still felt

like hell, I was still light headed, I still had a burning in my

throat, and the thought of food made my stomach crawl. But I found I

could sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed.

Ruth was nowhere in sight.

I suspected she'd been up with me all last night. Perhaps she'd

gone to get some sleep of her own.

I was horribly thirsty. It took me two tries to stand, but I

finally made it and wobbled into the bathroom on legs that seemed to

be made of rubber.

The woman in the mirror over the sink looked as bad as I felt. Her

hair was no longer "casual-wild" . . . it was just a tangled mass of

sweaty dishwater blonde. There were dark circles under her bloodshot

eyes that Sketch's miracle paint didn't seem to cover. Her face seemed

to be made of too much flesh hanging slack on bones that lurked just

beneath the surface.

I drained three glasses of water, the final one spilling down my

chin as I greedily gulped it down. The water ran down my upper chest

then flowed in one stream between a pair of disgustingly sexy

tits. The water helped. My stomach was still fragile, but it stopped

trying to turn summersaults. I was sticky and sweaty and I desperately

wanted a shower.

Well . . . what the hell? As far as I knew, the transformation was

complete. Supposedly I could now engage in any activity that a normal

woman could. (Except, of course, sex.) If I were going to harm the

disguise doing something mundane, now would be the time to do it while

Sketch was still here to repair the damage and correct the flaw. I

turned on the shower's faucets and waited a moment for the water to

heat up to pleasant warmth. Then I climbed in and let the water sluice

over me.

I was truly starting to feel better after ten minutes under the

wonderfully relaxing pounding of the hot water. I started to finally

explore my new body.

It was pleasant to run my hands over what seemed to be a woman's

soft, soapy flesh. I didn't let myself get carried away. In my current

state I didn't need another reminder of my catheter. It also helped

kill the mood a bit to have to constantly wrestle with the 'beautiful

locks' of my 'tawny mane'. At the moment my fake blonde tresses were

hanging lifelessly in a sodden, heavy mop against my shoulders and

over my eyes.

I was just climbing out of the shower and searching for a towel

when the door opened and Ruth walked in carrying, of all things, a tea

service.

By force of habit, I wrapped the towel around my waist before

walking out into the room proper.

"Well Michael, up and around I see." She set the tray bearing the

teapot, the cups and the cream and sugar down on my desk. "Feeling

better?"

"Some, yes." My voice was definitely changing. It was neither

particularly masculine nor particularly feminine at the moment. I'd

bet if I tried that falsetto I'd tried the other day when Lisa was

looking for a "sexy spread", this time it would be very convincing. By

the same token, if I intentionally lowered my voice, I think it would

drop fairly near its old masculine tenor.

Ruth glanced up from pouring the tea then tried to hide a

smile. "Uh, Michael. If you don't want to, there's no need for you to

pretend modesty with me. We both know that you aren't really a naked

woman. However, if you want to start working on your deportment, and

it's probably time that we did, please try to remember that a woman's

modesty extends to her breasts as well as her 'nether regions'."

I glanced down then hurriedly tried to rearrange my towel.

"Christ Ruth. How am I ever going to learn all this stuff in the

few days remaining? And even if I do learn it, what's to ensure that I

won't slip up every five minutes by forgetting some little

detail?"

She handed me a cup of tea and sat me down on the end of my

bed. "That's part of what the hypnosis is for. You're right that

you'll never be able to consciously absorb the thousand and one little

things that distinguish a woman's behavior from a man's. And even if

we could teach you, you'd be so preoccupied trying to remember to keep

your knees together that you'd never accomplish any of your mission

objectives. With hypnosis I can make enough 'behaviors feminine' part

of your subconscious that you won't have trouble making anyone believe

your impersonation. Occasional blunders, and there probably will be

some, will be seen as personality quirks rather than 'mistakes'."

I took a sip of the tea. It felt wonderful sliding down my still

aching throat. My stomach uncoiled another knot at the soothing

warmth. "So I'll remember to keep my knees together without having to

concentrate on it."

"Exactly." Ruth took a sip of her own tea then favored me with a

sympathetic smile. "But that can wait till tomorrow. You still look

like hell Michael. I really want you to get some sleep."

"I don't think I can sleep again for a while Ruth. I'm kind of

wound up actually."

She set her cup aside. "Okay. Shall we have a little fun then?

Would you like to start learning about the one thing that's

fundamental to every female's psyche?"

I gave her a slightly suspicious stare. "You mean . . . childbirth

and the like?"

She threw back her head and I found myself grinning at that earthy

laugh of hers. "No, Michael. Something much more

fundamental. CLOTHES!" With that she stood and flung open the doors to

my previously empty closet.

It was still pretty bare, but there were now at least a dozen

loaded hangers in there. I spotted several dresses (one of which, by

its length and by the fact that it appeared to be black velvet, had to

be an evening gown), a pair of faded jeans, a pair of charcoal colored

slacks . . . some blouses. There was even a complete "Class A" uniform

on one hook. That one caught my eye and I pulled it out first. It was

the jacket that had attracted my attention and on closer inspection I

figured out why I'd noticed it. "Typical SNAFU." I muttered.

I could hear the amusement in Ruth's voice. "It's supposed

to be a woman's uniform Michael . . . remember what kind of a body you

might be putting in it."

"It's not that." I pointed to the silver bar on the

epaulette. "This is First Lieutenant's insignia. I'm a Second

Lieutenant, one step below this. Of course, I suppose that's the least

of the 'discrepancies' that someone could discover about the person

wearing this."

Still Ruth smiled. "General Thornton wanted to tell you himself,

but I think I'll just steal a little of the old windbag's

thunder. When you get back from the mission Michael, you'll have

earned that insignia. That's already been decided. Try and act

surprised when you hear it from him though, okay?"

I don't know why, but that really pleased me. Finally, there'd be

officers who'd have to salute me! (Granted, they'd be lowly 'second

louies' . . . still . . .) "Can I try this on?"

"I think that would be very appropriate for your first

choice. Okay. Let's start with underwear though. I think I recall

somewhere that that's required by the 'Uniform of the Day

Regulations', right?"

I chuckled, still holding the hook bearing the Class A's. "I

wouldn't know Ruth. I've never read the 'Women's Section' of those

regs."

She opened the top drawer of my dresser and presented me with a

pair of panties and a bra. They weren't particularly sexy in

themselves, just plain, unadorned white cotton . . . or spandex

. . . or lycra . . . or whatever you called it. I set the uniform

aside and picked up the panties.

Ruth was quiet assurance. "Just like you men, Michael . . . we

women put our pants on, one leg at a time."

I slid the briefs up over my hips. Of course, once they were past

my upper thighs, I could no longer feel their touch against my

skin. (The 'foundation' and all the attached padding prevented that.)

But the knowledge that for the first time it was I, by my own actions

rather than as a passive . . . 'recipient' . . . who was working the

illusion . . . It felt odd. It felt . . . I don't know how to describe

how it felt.

I started to turn to that full-length mirror, but stopped before I

got a glimpse of myself. Instead, I picked up the bra and slipped the

straps over my shoulders.

"You're going to have a bit of trouble fastening the hooks at

first. I'm afraid that's something that just comes with practice."

I did wrestle for a moment, but managed without too much trouble to

get the bra fastened.

"Don't be shy Michael. Go ahead, reach right down in there and

settle those little moneymakers into the cups. They're your

breasts. In private, you can paw them all you want." I did as

instructed.

Ruth found a pair of pantyhose in the shade of 'taupe' required by

the Uniform Regulations and handed them over. "Sit down. Now, take the

hose and gather the material up into a bunch until you're down to the

toes. Good, now slip one foot in and slide it up to your ankle. Now

the other foot. Now pull it up a few inches at a time, alternating

legs. No, no! Don't try and pull it tight as you go, you'll get a run

that way . . . There you go. Okay, now, think about that old movie

"The Graduate" and smooth out the baggy stuff by sliding your hands up

from your ankles. Pull up the waistband of the panties . . . of the

pantyhose to take up the slack. See how it works?"

"Do you always put your panties on before you put on the pantyhose?

If so, what's that cotton insert for on the crotch?"

"It's a matter of choice. Sometimes you'll want to be demure and

wear a nice pair of panties over the top of your hose . . . kind of

disguise the fact that you're wearing pantyhose at all. And sometimes,

you might want to be really wicked and not wear panties at all."

"I wouldn't hold my breath waiting for that day."

I didn't catch the thoughtful note in her voice. "We'll see."

She next found what she told me was a "full slip" and handed it to

me. "No big trick here. Just over your head like a sweater. Good. Run

your hands down your sides and make sure it isn't bunched up around

your hips. Okay. Now the uniform."

I started with the blouse. "It buttons the wrong way."

"No, it buttons the right way . . . for a woman's blouse. Women's

blouses have the buttons on the left and the eyes on the right."

"Why?"

"I've heard it was because in the old days, women were dressed by

their servants. Quality women's clothing therefore had the buttons

reversed so it would be easier for the maids (who had to dress

themselves, of course) to work the fasteners in a way that was

comfortable for them. I mean, that for someone looking at you while

fastening the buttons, they'd appear to work the 'right way'. That way

of doing it just stuck I guess."

I just snorted. I was having a little trouble once I'd proceeded

below the line of my 'bosom' seeing the buttons.

"Hold it out Michael. Hold the blouse out far enough so you can see

over your breasts."

"God. It's the same yet so different, you know?"

"You're doing fine. We'll implant all this into your

subconscious. By day after tomorrow you won't even think about getting

dressed. It'll all seem very natural."

I finally managed to get all the buttons fastened and then picked

up the skirt. I was starting to step into it when Ruth stopped

me. "No. Put it on over your head. See? There's one advantage women

have. You don't have to tuck your shirt in if your skirt slides down

over it. Uh . . . women wear their zippers either on the sides or more

often in the back Mike. Come on, haven't you ever had the fun of

hugging up against that special someone while you reached around her

and worked her skirt's zipper?"

I chuckled. "I wondered why you gals did it that way." I started

threading the belt through the loops on the skirt and had almost

finished when I remembered and had to pull it back out. "Whoops. Force

of habit."

"What?"

"Ah. Well, there's one I know that you don't. Women wear uniform

belts with the buckle on the left and the . . . what-do-you-call-it

. . . the 'tongue' coming from the right. Men's are just the

opposite."

"Why?"

I snorted again. "Beats the hell out of me. It just is that way. Do

you think they used to get Privates to dress the women officers?"

Ruth chuckled. "The jacket goes on just like the boy's. Buttons the

'wrong' way of course. Maybe they did have Privates do it. Shoes are

in the closet, I think . . . Uh, hon . . . when women wearing skirts

bend over, they generally tend to keep their knees together and squat

rather then bending from the waist. You look a little . . . 'daring'

when you just bend over with your legs spread like that."

I sighed, straightened, and tried again.

"Better."

"Are these shoes my size? They feel kind of tight."

"You men think that having periods is the most uncomfortable thing

about being a woman. Let me set you straight . . . it's the

shoes."

I slipped the black pumps on and then started to walk over to

finally see myself in the mirror. I promptly 'turned' an ankle and

just about collapsed sideways onto the bed. Ruth only smiled. "That's

one you'll be practicing a lot . . . how to walk. First barefoot. Then

Lisa, Sketch and I will induct you into the ancient and mystical art

of walking, then running, in women's shoes. You'll love it. It'll make

you want to rush right out and get a sex change just to be able to

wear high heels. You'll see."

I stood there, teetering. "You're joking, right?"

"Right. Hey, don't you have to wear a hat with that uniform?"

"Oh. Not necessarily . . . at least not indoors. Shoot, my hair's

way too long. I can't have hair longer than the bottom of my collar. I

do remember that one."

"Turn around hon." I did and felt Ruth gathering my still damp hair

into what I assumed was a knot or bun on the back of my head. She did

it quickly and efficiently. "I guess that's something else I need to

learn . . . how to fix my hair."

"Yep. Lisa will teach you all that during one of the hypnosis

sessions."

"You can teach me to do technical stuff while I'm under?"

"I wouldn't call putting your hair up 'technical', but yes, I

can. Hypnosis doesn't change the things you can learn. It can

change the way you learn, retain, and employ knowledge and

skills."

"Hmm . . . "

"There's the hat, up there on the shelf."

I set it on my head. Then, without prompting from Ruth, I ran my

hands down my sides then down my skirt, smoothing everything into

place. With a deep breath, moving slowly and deliberately so as not to

overbalance on my heels, I turned and stepped into the line of sight

of the mirror.

My first glimpse of my naked form had been a surprise . . . had

overwhelmed me. My first glimpse of my new "self" dressed

. . . unremarkable . . .wholly believable . . . attractive if not

strikingly beautiful . . . competent looking in her uniform . . .

"I want a name Ruth. I want something to call this person."

Her voice was soft. "What name? What is her name Michael?"

"Should it be something I will respond to? I mean, something like

Michael?"

"It can be anything you want. I can set you to respond to any name

you choose."

"Catherine . . . her name is Catherine."

*********

The following days just blurred together.

We'd start early, sometimes at five A.M. We'd work till I was just

too tired to continue. I'd grab as much sleep as I could get away

with, then it would all start over.

Sometimes I'd spend whole sessions under Ruth's hypnosis. I have

no recollections of those times. I'd start out on Ruth's couch, it

would seem like I'd drift off into a pleasant daydream . . .

The next thing I knew, I'd be in an entirely different place,

perhaps wearing completely different clothes from when I'd started,

and whole mornings or afternoons had vanished from my conscious

memory.

I knew I was "learning" feminine behaviors. Ruth's prediction

about getting dressed came true. My second day as 'Cathy' found me

getting dressed just as if I'd been donning bra, panties and hose

every day of my adult life. I think Ruth had also planted some form of

suggestion whereby it wasn't either a "turn on" or a "turn off" to be

wearing feminine garb. However, I also guessed that the suggestion was

rather more subtle than "women's clothing isn't sexy for you anymore."

I'd spotted a very lacy black . . . I think you call it a 'teddy'

complete with attached garters and some matching sheer black stockings

with wide lacy hems at the top in my underwear drawer. Handling those

items, I confess, produced a very sexual thrill. But I was astonished

to realize that the thrill came from the anticipation I felt knowing

that I'd be able to conceal these racy items under some dress and then

revel in the secret knowledge of my 'wickedness'. Surely, that was a

female perspective, wasn't it?

There were a thousand and one details to be attended to, to

produce the more mundane items of my disguise. Sketch posed me in

front of several neutral backgrounds with me in several different

outfits and took photos of me. I later found out that these were to be

used for various items of I.D., a driver's license and a passport for

example.

I was also posed in front of several photographic backdrops with

several people I'd never met before. Sketch would say something like,

"Here's a shot of you with your Father during that trip to

Indianapolis." The strange man, (an actor, I'm sure) would put his

arms around my waist, we'd both smile for the camera. "Click."

"Portrait of Loving Parent and Child."

We spent several hours one morning while Sketch and Lisa used

their makeup tricks to 'de-age' my disguise and I got a couple of

snapshots from my high school days. "Me on my bed back home in Kansas

City, playing with my kitten Snowball". "Me in my cheerleader's

outfit." "Me with Darrel at the Senior Prom." "Me and my three best

girlfriends, clowning around at the Mall." All these "memories" went

into the snapshot section of my wallet . . . the one I'd be carrying

in my purse.

On the fifth day, just after lunch, Ruth handed me a small box

that I immediately recognized as the type that you use to hold a

ring. Sure enough, inside was a thin gold band supporting a small red

stone.

"Oh gee Ruth. I didn't know you cared. Of course I'll marry

you."

I got that "give me a break" expression that I loved to see on her

face. "Pay attention now because this little trinket may just save

your life."

I felt like kidding around. For the first time I really 'played

the role' for Ruth. I tried for a 'cheap, dumb blonde' voice and was

very pleased with the result. "Is the ruby real? I'm not gonna part

with my virginity for a fake rock."

"Michael! Pay attention. No, the ruby isn't real. It isn't

even a solid stone. Here, put it on and let me show you

something."

I slipped the ring on the third finger of my right hand. Ruth then

took my hand in hers and very carefully pressed down on one side of

the little crystal. Surprisingly, it retraced a bit into its

setting. Looking very closely I could just make out the hair thin

needle that had been revealed sticking out of the heart of the

gem.

"Ruth . . . this isn't a suicide pill is it?"

"Lord no! But you're right, it does give an injection. Have you

ever hear of the so-called 'date-rape drug'?"

I couldn't take my eyes off that little needle. "Yeah. Is that

what this is?"

"It's from the same chemical family. This is also a hypnotic, a

drug that induces a trance state in which the mind looses the ability

to distinguish between reality and fantasy. And like the date-rape

drug, this also suppresses inhibition while at the same time

stimulating the libido."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"It's pretty simple Michael. I'm about eighty percent sure that if

you follow my 'play book', you'll never have to worry about Jame'

trying to bed you. But if that twenty percent comes true, this is your

ace in the hole."

"You mean . . .?"

She nodded. "Inject him with this. It's a very fine needle, he

probably won't feel it go in, particularly if you manage to distract

him. In just a few seconds he'll enter a dream-like state in which it

will be very easy for you to . . . uh . . . 'describe' what ever kind

of sexual encounter you feel is appropriate. The more 'authentic' and

'vivid' your description, the more vivid the memories you'll

produce. If you do it right, in the morning Jame' will wake up

completely convinced he's had sex with Cathy."

Now I really couldn't take my eyes off that needle. I hoped I'd

never inadvertently stab myself with it.

Then there was the method we devised to allow communication.

I memorized several phone numbers that were "important" to

Cathy. If it ever became necessary, somebody could call my parent's

house and talk to my Mom. They wouldn't know that the number in Kansas

City was automatically intercepted and transferred here to the Base,

or that the "mother" they'd be speaking to was in reality a certain

clinical psychologist named Ruth.

It was during the creation of this item that I got my first

inkling of what kind of girl "Cathy" was. Apparently, if you called my

"Mom", you'd find out that she was very worried about her little

girl. There'd be a slight catch in her voice, as "Mrs. MacDonnagh"

would beg, "Please, could you ask Cathy to call me? Please tell her we

forgive her and just want her to come home."

And then seven days had passed, and I found myself in Ruth's

office at 9:00 AM for the last of the hypnotic sessions. This would be

the one where Cathy's 'personality' would be created.

I "went under" with my usual ease. From my point of view I spent a

few minutes daydreaming . . .

"Michael . . . wake up. We're done."

I sat up and swung my legs off the couch then sat with my ankles

crossed and my hands folded over the light cotton skirt I was wearing

today. A glance at the clock on the wall told me that the better part

of a day was gone again. It was a little after two in the

afternoon.

Ruth closed a thick file folder in front of her, took of her

reading glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose. She looked worn

out.

"Tough session?"

I got a tired smile. "Not especially. You took the suggestions as

well as you always have. There was a lot of material to implant, and I

had to go pretty deep to get some of it to stick."

I peered a little more closely at this person who had so rapidly

become one of my closest friends. "But that's not all that's bothering

you, is it Ruth?"

She sighed and leaned her cheek against her hand. "I'm getting

pretty transparent to you if you can see that Michael. That's

considered 'not a good thing' in a therapist/patient

relationship."

"What do you consider it when it's between two friends?"

She sighed and closed her eyes.

"Ruth, when I first walked in that door . . . God, it seems like

years . . . has it really been only two weeks? When you and I met, you

asked for my trust. Does it help you now to know that I do trust you?

As much as I think I've ever trusted anyone."

She nodded, her eyes still closed, some secret pain still evident

on her face. "No. It makes it worse." Then she opened her eyes and

gazed directly into mine. "I want you to know, Michael . . . my dear

friend . . . that being a doctor is very important to me. I'm

proud of my ability to cure injury, to make what's broken whole

again. It's so fundamental to who I am. For as long as I can remember,

it's all I've ever wanted to do with my life. It goes against

everything I believe to do what I've done to you today. To reach into

your mind and create there something that will cause you pain. Please

remember this conversation. When the mission is over, try to find a

way to forgive yourself for some of the things you're going to

do. Please find a way to forgive me for making it possible for you to

do them. Please come back to me. Please, let me cure the injury and

help ease the pain. Will you promise me that?"

"You're scaring me Ruth, but I'll promise."

We looked into each other's eyes for a moment, then Ruth slipped

behind her professional mask again.

"What I've done is to create three 'templates' for you. These

aren't so much different personae as they are 'possible aspects' of a

core personality. Now don't worry. It's not like you're suddenly going

to have a bunch of strangers in your head. These templates only

provide you with subconscious behaviors and . . . let's call it

appropriate attitudes. 'Cathy Demure' blushing furiously on that rare

occasion when she forgets to hold her knees together for example. You

can access each of them by repeating, aloud to yourself, an activation

phrase. They only activate when you hear the words spoken in your own

voice. I've made the phrases pretty descriptive so you'll know what

you're 'turning on'."

"What are the phrases?"

Even her professional mask couldn't hide the pain in her eyes.

"They are; 'Cathy Demure', 'Cathy Slut' and the one you'll be

using the most . . .

. . . 'Cathy Victim'."

*********

<H3>"Mission"</H3>

<H4>Mission Day Three</H4>

Casino Monte Negro

Barranquilla, Venezuela

10:18PM Local Time

The blonde was back tonight.

Jame' toyed idly with the stack of gambling chips at his right hand

and watched her "work". In the ten years since his father had first

allowed him to come to the Casino, he'd become something of a

connoisseur of the prostitutes who were its habitue'. Not that he gave

many of them his custom. Most of them were too hungry, had too much of

a frantic gleam in their eye for his taste.

Oh, to be sure, some of the "ladies" had shared his bed. There was

Jeanette of the fiery red mane and matching passion. Simone' was no

stranger, nor was Kiko. But these women were much sought after. They

could pick and choose their paramour of the evening. They could demand

whatever price they wished. If you balked at what they demanded, they

would only curl their lip, laugh at you, and dismiss you in favor of

all the others that eagerly sought them, that could afford and

appreciate their talents. The anxious, fearful need was not in

them. Their haughty poise and dignity were very real, and therefore

very attractive.

Jame' could always afford what they asked . . . and more.

But the slender blonde at the bar . . . the need was very much in

her.

You could tell that she was new to this. She tried too hard. She

looked into too many of the passing faces . . . searching for one who

might take her home for the night, be gentle enough not to demand too

much from her, yet be willing to pay well.

Of course, there were no such faces. Jame's life had granted him

enough wisdom concerning his fellow man to understand this. He also

knew it was early in a young man's life to already be as world-weary

as his understanding made him.

She had become aware of his scrutiny. She turned on the barstool

and met his gaze. Her soft, open features were lost under the garish,

overdone makeup of a new prostitute. Why did women think that men

found so much paint and artifice attractive? Perhaps it was that the

type of man whose attention they were trying to attract was

drawn to such contrivance. But he was not.

She stood and walked a bit closer. Her stride was exaggerated,

each foot placed directly before the other so her hips swayed

provocatively, the skirt of her too short black dress clinging to her

sheer black hose.

Did she mistake the great sadness for the tawdriness of it all she

apparently read in his eyes as a sign that here might be someone to

take her home and treat her as she so greatly desired? Did she see

gentleness and compassion? It wasn't there. He was his father's

son. There was no gentleness or compassion in him.

Jame' quickly gathered up his night's winnings and departed for

the cashier's window. He sensed the looming bulk of his two bodyguards

Carlo and Fillipe' as they fell in behind him. The evening had lost

its savor. Time for bed.

Alone tonight.

He glanced back once, over his shoulder. The blonde was standing

there, one hand resting on the baccarat table he'd just vacated. Her

pose was casual, negligent. Her posture told the entire world "Ah

well, his loss, not mine."

But the hurt and loneliness . . . the sorrow . . .

The pleading need of a lost child . . .

Her posture couldn't disguise what her eyes held so clearly.

*********

<H4>Mission Day Five</H4>

Casino Monte Negro

Barranquilla, Venezuela

1:29AM Local Time

He might never have heard the quiet sobs if the valet hadn't

had trouble finding his Mercedes.

The three of them, Jame' and his hulking body guards, had been

forced to stand for several minutes while the boy had searched for the

car mistakenly parked in a slot other than the one matching Jame's

claim check. As a result, they'd been forced to stand aside from the

entranceway of the Casino. To stand a bit closer to the dark maw of

the alley that separated the glitter of haute society from the squalor

of the mean tenements that surrounded it, a glittering island of light

and laughter in a cold, dark sea of misery.

At first, Jame' didn't know what or where the soft mewling was

coming from. It was Fillipe who finally pointed down the dark,

littered alley. "There, senor. It comes from there." Jame' had

started down the alley, but both bodyguards had interposed themselves

before him. It was Carlo, the older of the two who made it clear to

him. "No, senor. I will go see." The pistol seemed to just

appear in his hand. Carlo and Fillipe were the finest at their work

that money could buy. His father had seen to that. Not out of

solicitous concern for his son. Though he was seldom included in any

of his father's business dealings or privy to his father's plans,

still Jame' had more information in his head than the elder Cardoza

thought prudent to just leave lying around. Neither the bodyguards nor

Jame' were under any illusions. All knew that Carlo and Fillipe were

there to protect Hector Cardoza, not Jame'.

Carlo quickly disappeared into the darkness while Fillipe moved

closer, a pistol of his own held negligently in the hand that hung

beside his right leg.

"It is all right Senor. Come. See."

By the time Jame' had moved the short distance, Carlo had already

moved back several steps and was dividing his attention between

scanning the surrounding rooftops . . .

. . . And the small, huddled form curled up beside the overflowing

trash container.

The slender blonde . . . legs curled beneath her, her hair hanging

over her face, one hand gentling the abrasion on her knee, the other

trying to hold her ruined dress against her breasts in a vain attempt

at modesty long outraged and fled.

Before he realized he was doing it, Jame' was kneeling before

her. Fillipe made an abortive attempt to intercede, to prevent his

foolish young charge from getting too near an as yet unknown and

unquantified threat. A look from Carlo stopped him from actually

manhandling Jame' out of potential harm's way.

Jame' tried to see through the veil of hair that hid her

face. "Senorita, esta bien? Que' passo aqui?"

Her voice was a small, frightened thing. "I don't understand. I

don't speak . . ."

"You are American?"

A quick nod of her head.

He reached out and gently lifted her chin, raising her face to the

light. At first she flinched away, resisting his attempt. Then her

will failed and she allowed him to move her head as he wished.

Her right eye was already all but swollen shut, the white of it an

angry, purple suffusion of blood from one or more ruptured

vessels. The swelling on her cheek hinted at a massive bruise in the

making. Her lip was badly split and a small thread of blood ran down

it, dripping from her chin, staining his own fingertips as he gently

held it up to the light.

"Who did this to you?"

She could only whimper and try to shake her head "no".

"Senorita, who has done this to you? Carlo. Llama la

policia."

Her voice rose to a tortured wail. "No! No police! Please

don't . . . I can't go to them." Her chin slipped out of his grasp

as her head dropped onto her chest, her hair again a veil for her

shame. "Don't look at me . . . Go away! Please go away!" Then

the last of her resolve deserted her, her voice breaking into

anguished hiccuping sobs.

Jame' straightened and gazed down at her. Huddled, shivering,

hugging her arms to herself in the warm night air.

Again, it was Carlo who took the lead. "What should we do senor?

It might be best to just do as she asks."

"Fillipe, see if those idiots have finally found the car."

"Si' Senor." He holstered his pistol and strode back toward the

light and noise.

Carlo began to move away as well. "It is for the best

Senor. There is nothing to be gained by . . ."

"Help me lift her to her feet. Help me get her to the car."

"Senor?!"

"Do as I tell you!"

Carlo was old enough and wise enough to know that argument was

futile at this point. He just shrugged, holstered his weapon and bent

toward the now cowering woman.

He was also old enough and wise enough to know that no possible

good could come of his master's misplaced chivalry. But it was not his

place to say so.

*********

<H4>Mission Day Five</H4>

Estate of Hector Cardoza

3:48AM Local Time

"I have given her something to help her sleep. It is my opinion

that the emotional trauma she is suffering this evening far exceeds

the physical."

Jame' nodded and even managed to find a small smile for the little

man's sing-song accent. "Thank you Doctor Singh, both for your

assistance and for coming out at this unholy hour."

The Pakistani nodded, still glancing at the closed door to the

guestroom where they'd brought her. "It is my pleasure to be of

service. If I may inquire . . . solely for my own curiosity . . . who

is doing this to her?"

Jame' shrugged. "We do not know. We found her in this state in the

alley behind the Casino. She would not tell us what had happened, nor

would she allow us to call the police."

"Ah, well . . . it is well that you are finding her then and

bringing her here. She will need rest. I would not be pressing too

hard for answers for at least a day." The small man then shook his

head, a note of anger creeping into his voice. "A pretty woman

. . . any woman should not be used so. What man would do this?"

Jame's voice was tired and sad. "No man. Sadly, there are things in

this world that look like a man, act like a man . . . but have not the

soul of a man."

He didn't add, "I am one's son."

*********

I sat on the bed, trying to will the sobs and the shivers to cease,

but they wouldn't. I was afraid to switch back to myself . . . my

"Michael-self." I was afraid that even then they wouldn't stop.

I felt so dirty . . . so used . . .

Oddly, of all my injuries, it was my knee that caused me the most

pain. The ache of my bruised cheek seemed to come in waves . . . pain

. . . release . . . pain . . . release . . . throbbing. I felt nothing

from the injury to my eye except for an odd "grittiness" as though

some fine dust was lodged in the corner resisting all attempts at

removal. But the abrasion adorning my left knee produced a constant,

sharp burning.

The Novocaine had long since worn off.

A particularly fierce twinge from my abused knee elicited a soft,

feminine sob in Cathy's voice.

I tried for a more masculine tenor as I hissed "Stop that!" to

myself. But I wasn't listening because my brusque command ended in a

whimper.

Enough! I was a soldier on a mission. The Doctor's sleeping potion

would soon take effect and I had things to do before it did. (Doctor

Singh . . .that kind, gentle little man . . . trying to hide his

outrage at my abused form, trying to be light and sympathetic

. . . trying to ease the pain . . . so wholly deceived by my evil

performance into believing I really was a helpless, battered

. . . Enough!) I stood on wobbly legs and removed the tattered

remnant of my dress, then slid off the black pantyhose, biting my lip

to stifle the wretched moan as the material pulled away from my raw

knee. My bedroom had an attached private bath, and it was there that I

went.

I examined myself in the mirror over the sink. My right eye looked

horrific and my cheek was swollen to almost twice its normal size. I

ran some warm water then with still trembling hands I soaked a

washcloth and very gently rubbed off the water-soluble concealer that

Sketch had applied earlier this afternoon over much of the right side

of my face. The ugly purple bruise that Sketch had labored so long to

perfect using his more permanent latex-based cosmetics revealed

itself. More water and more gentle rubbing revealed other angry

splotches on my wrists where Jorge', my pimp, had grabbed me as he

violated me in the alley behind the Casino.

That little scene had caused quite a stir. Should anyone in

Cardoza's household be curious enough to check, several of the Casino

employees could provide a sketchy description of the whimpering young

Americana and the dark, Latino male they had observed

struggling in the alley. No, they hadn't looked all that closely at

either face. No, they hadn't intervened. They'd quickly returned to

minding their own business. In this place, it was better not to notice

such things.

I had to admit . . . Marco made a very convincing "Jorge, the

pimp." He was a talented actor.

Another twinge from my knee reminded me that he was also talented

at producing specific injury to the human body.

When they had met with me this afternoon, Marco and Sketch (today a

small, wizened compessino in worn cotton jersey and trousers

who spoke with an almost impenetrably thick accent) had informed me of

the nature of my entree' into Cardoza's household. They (wisely

perhaps) hadn't given me a chance to really consider the

implications. Sketch had produced a hypodermic needle and set to with

a will deadening the right side of my face and my left knee. I was to

be the victim of a beating, and there was simply no makeup that could

convincingly portray the necessary swelling or bleeding under the

scrutiny to which I would be subjected.

Only real damage would do.

Once the Novocaine took effect . . . Marco proceeded to pound on

me. It was a very strange experience, Sketch describing the next item

of damage, Marco telling me to turn my head this way or that, feeling

the blows land, but not feeling the pain.

Until now.

To add insult to my injuries, I then had to endure the application

of "bruises" produced by Sketch's artistry. These, he could

convincingly portray.

He had to. Marco's blows had certainly caused real bruising and

abrasion . . . to the genuine flesh invisible under my coat of

"woman-skin paint". So as to allow for a believable span of time for

the bruises to appear, Sketch then covered his latest art with a layer

of water based concealer that I could remove when the time was right

for the whole extent of my injuries to manifest itself.

I had become layer upon layer of lie and deception.

Finished, I looked in the mirror. I couldn't bear what I saw there

and I shut off the light, both in the bathroom and in my bedroom. I

crawled beneath the covers of my bed and huddled into a small

ball.

I was tired, both in body and in spirit.

I wanted to sleep now. I wanted to be Michael and sleep.

It was here the final blow landed. I realized; I didn't know how to

"shut off" my Cathy persona. I had the three code phrases I could use

to switch between the three different templates, but Ruth had never

given me a phrase to deactivate them. I had never thought to ask for

one.

Was this just an oversight?

I hugged my arms tighter against my counterfeit breast as the

shivering returned.

No. No oversight. For whatever reason, my commanders had decided

that I would only play the part they had created for me. From the

instant I had activated "Cathy Demure" on the day of my final brief, I

had been trapped "in character." I could only select from one of the

three templates.

I closed my eyes as more tears came.

"Did you know Ruth? Did you lie to me or simply omit the truth? Can

I walk away now, no questions asked?"

The darkness had no answer for me.

*********

<H4>Mission Day Five</H4>

Estate of Hector Cardoza

11:17AM Local Time

Jame' tapped softly on the door, waited a long moment, then

looked a question at Fillipe who had been stationed here since they

brought the blonde in last night. He could only shrug. "Per your

father's instructions, she hasn't been out of the room, senor. She's

in there." The maid balancing the tray containing the meal tried

to shift its weight into a more comfortable balance.

Jame' knocked again, a bit more forcefully this time.

"Senorita? Are you awake?"

This time, a sleepy "What?" answered his knock.

"It is I, Senorita. Jame'. From last night."

There was a moment's silence, then a more awake-sounding "Come in."

drifted through the closed door.

She was sitting up in bed, the bedclothes hugged tightly against

her chest. Just as with last night, her chin rested on her chest, her

hair covering her face. Jame' stepped just inside the door and then

with a preemptory flick of his hand he indicated that the maid should

set the tray down on the vanity.

"I thought perhaps you would be hungry. Our cook makes a really

excellent bouillabaisse."

She just sat there, hugging the sheets against herself, her face

hidden behind her golden tresses.

"Senorita, please. You must eat something, yes?"

She finally looked up just as the maid finished setting out the

meal and the silverware. One look at her ravaged face and the old

woman gasped raising one hand to her mouth. "Ah! Pobrecita!"

Jame' snarled "Cayate' Vieja!" over his shoulder, but the

damage was already done. The blonde had again dropped her chin, again

retreated behind the veil of her hair. But the moment had been long

enough. Jame' too had seen the huge purple bruise that marred the

entire right side of her face.

"Old woman, make yourself useful and find some ice."

"At once senor!" The old woman scuttled away, but paused

at the door and gazed at the huddled form on the bed. She shook her

head sadly and then went to find the ice to ease the poor woman's

pain. Men could be such monsters.

When she was gone, Jame' motioned again to the bowl of soup, its

savory steam fogging the mirror. "Now, you must eat. As your host, I

insist."

But the blonde just sat there.

"I will think you find my hospitality lacking if you don't get

up. Come now . . ." He stopped and then tried a winning smile. "I just

realized. I do not know your name. Please. As I have said, I am

Jame'. You are . . . ?"

A small voice replied "Cathy".

"Well Cathy. Please, eat something. For me, yes?"

"I'm sorry Senor, I . . . I have nothing to wear."

Jame' gave himself an exasperated little sigh. "What am I thinking?

Of course. My hospitality is indeed lacking. Please, wait here. I'll

find you something."

He arrived back at the guestroom at almost the same instant as the

old maid carrying ice wrapped in a towel. He handed the terry cloth

robe he'd taken from his own closet to her. "Here. Take this in to

her. Help her get dressed. Then attend to what ever else she

needs. And see that she eats something. She's too skinny."

The old woman dipped her head in a small bow. "Si'

Senor."

The old woman opened the door and peered inside. The blonde was

sitting just as she'd left her, the bedclothes still pulled up to her

chin, her face still invisible behind the veil of her hair. The maid

stepped in and Fillipe promptly shut the door behind her.

"Aqui, senorita. I have for you . . . somethings to use."

She offered both the ice and the robe.

The Americana finally looked up at her. Again, it was all

the old woman could do not to turn away at the sight of her ravaged

face. "Ah . . . pobre . . . I to help, si' ?"

The blonde nodded then slowly, reluctantly she pushed aside the

blankets and climbed out of bed.

She was too skinny but with a little fattening up she would be a

very attractive woman. The maid held the robe open for her and the

blonde slipped her arms into it then pulled it tightly closed,

knotting the tie around her waist.

"Aqui' . . ." The maid indicated the bed while holding up

the ice bag. After a moment, the blonde understood and sat on the edge

of the bed. The maid pressed the towel-wrapped ice against the huge

bruise as gently as she could, but not gently enough that the poor

girl didn't hiss with pain and try to flinch away.

"Ai! No tienes miedo, chica . . . todo estaba bein."

The pain in her eyes was so great. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I

don't. . . I don't understand."

This could be her own eldest daughter sitting here. The old woman

gently stroked the uninjured cheek. The girl allowed it for a moment

then turned away. Ah, to be ashamed to even accept a gentle

caress. What had this poor little one suffered?

"Eat? Por favor."

The blonde attempted a smile. It was timid and fragile but it

brightened her face.

"Thank you. You're very kind. You've all been so very kind."

The old woman could only shrug. "Lo siento Senorita. No

entiendo."

In the end they had to let their smiles speak for them.

The blonde was just finishing the bowl of soup when Jame' again

knocked on the door, which Fillipe then opened without

invitation.

"Ah! Up and about? Good. And the soup? To your liking?"

"Yes Senor. It was very good. Thank you."

"You must call me Jame'. I'm glad you liked the soup." He gestured

to the maid and she gathered up the plates and carried them out,

shutting the door behind herself. The blonde seemed to be trying to

retreat back into herself. She drew the lapels of the bathrobe tighter

against her throat, her arms pressing against her bosom.

"Thank you Senor . . . Jame'. I . . . I shouldn't impose

anymore. Do you think one of your servants might have some clothes I

could borrow? I don't want to ask anything more but I have to leave

and . . . " Then she could only bite her lip and try not to let him

see it quiver.

"Nonsense Cathy. You will stay here as my guest. You have had a

very bad experience and I will not hear of you leaving until you are

recovered. I will send someone to your home and obtain for you what

ever clothing and necessities you think you might need."

"Oh please, I can't let you to do that. I . . . I can't stay

here. I have to get home. I have to get back to . . . "

His tone darkened. "To who ever it was that did this to you? Cathy,

treat me as the adult I am. I know what you are. I can guess who did

this to you and why. I will not let you go back to him."

And then she was sobbing again, hugging the robe to herself. "No

one else . . . I have no one else . . . to go to . . . "

He couldn't help himself. He took the three steps necessary to

stand behind her. His hands seemed to feel so right on her

shoulders. She didn't resist, she seemed beyond resistance now. She

just sobbed . . . quietly . . . so forlorn.

"That is not true Cathy. You have me now."

*********

It was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life . . . to let him

stand there and caress my shoulders and try to comfort me.

Not because I found his touch objectionable. I don't know why it's

so universally understood that men don't like physical contact,

physical intimacy. His somewhat fumbling attempts to ease my

"suffering" might have even been nice, soothing . . .

If the very genuine anguish he was trying to assuage wasn't the

product of the horrible self-loathing that was twisting my stomach

. . . producing the very real sobs that I just couldn't control

anymore, perhaps because I was trapped in my female persona

. . . perhaps not.

Look at me Ruth. Look at the soldier.

It was only by effort of will that I didn't turn to Jame' and

confess everything . . . didn't rip off my wig though it might take my

entire scalp with it. Even if to do so would cost me my life for the

deception I was perpetrating so masterfully upon him.

And that, in the end, was what gave me the strength to endure the

several minutes of Jame's attempt at compassion. I was afraid of what

would happen to me if I did reveal everything.

Add coward to the list.

*********

It took them a little over two hours to get somebody into town,

find the dismal little hovel I called home, and discover the "damage"

that "Jorge" in his "rage" at my failure to return to him had

perpetrated.

Of course, he'd destroyed all of my meager possessions. My

carefully prepared "memories" had been torn up and scattered around

the room. (But not so severely mutilated that they couldn't be pieced

back together and thus communicate their lies to the curious.) More

importantly, all my clothing had been shredded beyond salvage. Even my

pitifully small collection of shoes was damaged beyond repair.

"It's actually a very 'primitive urge' Michael."

"Maybe for you women, Ruth. But I don't think I've ever felt the

instinctive need to shop for clothing."

She chuckled. "No. But I'll bet it would touch something more

primal than you expect if you were to take an attractive female out

and 'provide' for her. 'Food, clothing and shelter' and the male need

to be the provider. Those will be the next 'buttons' we'll push."

*********

<H4>Mission Day Six</H4>

Commercial District

Barranquilla, Venezuela

11:06AM Local Time

She was so timid, yet like any woman she was drawn to the

beautiful clothing. This shop had a very small and select

clientele. There were few people in Barranquilla who could afford its

wares. Only the elite traded here and therefore only the finest was

displayed for purchase.

She lingered before a mannequin that bore a striking resemblance to

her, right down to the hair that lay in very carefully arranged

'tousled neglect' upon its shoulders. "Oh Jame', look. Isn't this

dress beautiful?" One frock was like another to him. It certainly

didn't make the mannequin more desirable in his eyes.

"Enchanting. It would look even better on you."

She offered him a shy smile and hugged her arms beneath her

bosom. She looked so beautiful and vulnerable in the ill-fitting

borrowed dress that was one of the serving girls' prized

possessions. Again she gazed longingly at the dress adorning the

mannequin that stared off into space, its face carved in an expression

of blank haughtiness.

"You must try it on."

Her eyes went wide. That ugly purple discoloration of the white of

her right eye was already all but vanished. She'd done well with the

concealer too. You'd never guess at the massive bruise that still

lurked beneath the makeup. "Oh no! Oh Jame' it looks so expensive! I

just want something simple. You won't buy anything more than that. And

I'll pay you back as soon as I can. We agreed."

"Of course Cathy. Still, it can't hurt to try it on, can it?

Please. For me. I want to see you in it."

She reached out a tentative hand and gently stroked the cream

colored fabric. "It's so pretty. Do you think they'd mind?"

"Not if they want to keep my trade."

She turned to him and for the first time there was a twinkle in her

eye to match the shy smile. "All right." She scampered off to find a

saleswoman. Soon she had departed for a dressing room, clothing box in

hand.

As soon as Cathy had disappeared behind the curtains, Jame'

motioned for the manager, a 'handsome' looking woman of indeterminate

middle age.

"Yes Senor? What can I offer you today?"

"The blonde that just went into the dressing room, do you know her

size now?"

"Yes senor."

"Fine. We'll be purchasing a full wardrobe for her today including

underwear and shoes. I'll trust you to make all the necessary

selections. You know the degree of quality I expect."

She might be used to dealing with the crème d le

crème but even her studied snobbery failed her at the

prospect of this sale. "Oh! . . . Oh! . . . Of course Senor! Rely

on me!" She clapped her hands and scuttled off after one of her

subordinate saleswomen. "Juanita, come here immediately . . . and

bring Giesele. Hurry, hurry!"

The whisk of the curtains opening drew Jame's attention from

the suddenly flurry of activity he'd precipitated.

She stood there, in the archway. Arms slightly out from her body,

the cream dress flowing over her curves and falling like a wave on her

knees. The elegance of the dress, the simple beauty of her unadorned

legs, the fetching, winsome vulnerability of her dainty bare feet

. . .

Jame's breath caught in his throat.

Her eyes were huge and glistening. Her voice was an awed

whisper. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever worn. And it has a

designer's label! It's . . . oh Jame' . . . I'm afraid to move. I'm

afraid I might rip something."

He finally found his voice. "Well, what if you do? It's your

dress. We'll just have it mended . . . no . . . if you rip it we'll

simply have who ever sewed it sew you another."

He was astonished to see her face fall and her eyes begin to fill

with tears. "Jame' . . . no. You promised. It's just for fun. I can't

afford this . . . I'll never be able to afford something like this. I

won't take any more of your charity. You've been too kind already. I

can't . . ."

"It isn't charity. Charity is a scrap you give anonymously to a

stranger. You will not be a stranger to me Cathy. This dress is a gift

I offer to a newfound friend."

A single tear coursed down her cheek and she seemed to huddle

deeper within herself. Then she nodded and something changed within

her though Jame' could not understand what. Her posture became a bit

looser, more negligent. "Of course Jame'. Shall we pay for this and go

home now?"

He was baffled but he smiled anyway. "No. I enjoyed seeing you in

that dress so much, I want to see you in others. And there's the

matter of shoes and . . . other things. No. I thought we'd spend the

afternoon here. Once you were sufficiently supplied for the days and

nights to come, we'd find that one perfect gown and then go to the

Casino and let everyone see what a truly beautiful and elegant woman

looks like."

"Of course Jame'. What ever you want." Why was her smile suddenly

so cold?

They brought him a chair and some champagne and Cathy performed a

one-woman fashion show for him. Sometimes one of the items she was

modeling touched her fancy and he caught a glimpse of that child-like

wonder he'd seen when her hand touched the fabric of the cream

dress. But more often she seemed aloof . . . detached. He couldn't

discover what was causing the change in her.

If he had been more experienced in women's moods, he would have

noticed that even the small delight abandoned her when she modeled the

sleepwear he himself had selected.

*********

They arrived back at the mansion a little after one

AM.

Carlo handled the security check with his usual efficiency. The

guards glanced once into the back of Jame's Mercedes then waved them

through.

Cathy was a vision ascending the steps to the grand

entranceway. Her black velvet gown seemed to be a piece of the night

come to life. The shapely leg that shimmered from the slit of the

gown, the luminous bare shoulders and cloud of tawny mane that floated

above the ebony of the dress were like moonlight embodied.

She mounted the steps with lithe grace, the sway of her rounded

hips achingly feminine.

With no prompting from him, she passed the door to the guestroom

she occupied and without a glance in either direction, moved as in a

dream to the door of his bedroom. Jame' turned to Carlo and Fillipe

who exchanged a glance between themselves and then proceeded no

farther after their charge.

But when he finally caught up to her, her eyes held no life

. . . no light. She merely stared off into space as he opened the door

and allowed her to precede him into his most private space. He closed

the door and locked it behind himself. When he turned to face her, she

was standing in the exact center of the room. Those same flat eyes

regarded him for a moment then she set her small clutch bag on his

desk. A toss of her head and the bulk of her wheat-colored tresses

were upon her right shoulder. Without hesitation, she reached beneath

her left arm and unzipped the gown, which promptly fell away from her

slender form. She stepped out of the clothing that lay heaped about

her ankles and stood regarding him, arms at her sides, face completely

neutral . . . lifeless.

But for the slender band of black silk and lace that encircled her

waist and caressed her womanhood, her body was displayed to him

. . . every curve . . . every feature.

He shed his tuxedo coat and them moved to take her in his arms. She

did not resist. She did not respond. She simply permitted him to

stroke her, fondle her, bury his face in the fragrance of her

hair.

It was when he kissed her that he felt the tremble in her lips. He

opened his eyes and watched the single tear slide down her cheek,

leaving a small thread of purple where it carried away the makeup she

had used to hide her injury.

"Oh Cathy . . . what have I done?"

The hand she raised to stroke his cheek was shaking too badly to

make any but the briefest contact with his face. "It's all right

Jame'. I understand. You said it yourself. You know what I am. I

expect nothing else."

"Forgive me. Oh Cathy, forgive me. That is not what you shall be to

me."

Then something snapped inside her and she buried the sobs in his

shoulder as he held her in his arms.

*********

<H4>Mission Day Seven</H4>

Estate of Hector Cardoza

9:48AM Local Time

"MacDonnah residence."

"Mom? It's me. It's Cathy."

"Cathy? Oh baby, where are you? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine Mom. I . . . I'm fine."

"Oh honey. What's happened? Please tell me where you are."

"I can't. Please don't ask me. I . . . I just needed to hear your

voice."

There was a pause as the static of the poor long distance

connection hissed in the earpiece.

"Cathy. I don't care about what . . . if you . . . I don't

care. Please. Please come home. Everyone misses you. I miss you."

"I can't right now Mom. Maybe . . . in a while."

Another pause.

"Are you all right? Has anything happened?"

"Mom . . . I don't want to talk about it. I just want . . . I don't

know. I'm all right."

"I've been so worried. Don't you think I have the right to know

something as simple as where . . ."

"Why do you have to do that? Why can you never understand?! You

always have to push and push . . . "

Another pause.

"Mom, please let's don't fight. Let's just talk. I just want to

hear your voice, okay?"

"Oh baby . . . I'm sorry. Of course. I won't pressure. Do you need

anything? Do you need money? I can send a little bit. I mean . . . I

can wire it to anywhere you say, just . . ."

"No. It's okay. . . I'm okay."

"Cathy . . . I'm sorry . . . about the things I did, the pain I put

you through. I didn't mean any of it. If I could take it back, change

it so it never happened . . . please believe me. I was just so scared

that you were making a mistake, were throwing your life away on that

silly acting thing. You could have gone to college. You still can. We,

your father and I, we would find a way to pay for . . ."

"Mom, I have to go now."

"No! Oh baby, no. Please . . . please stay a little longer. I can't

help it Cathy. It's the way mothers are. I just . . . I'm sorry. Will

you call again? Just to talk? I promise I won't fight. I won't

pressure. Cathy, please, just to tell me you're all right? Can you do

that?"

"Yes Mom. I will. I promise."

Pause.

"Your father's off on another of his sales trips. He'll be back the

day after tomorrow. Could you call back then?"

There was the code. The meeting between Carodza and the Buyers

had been set for the day after tomorrow. Could I complete my mission

by then?

"Yes Mom. I can do that."

A final pause.

"Cathy . . . I love you. Please . . . be careful . . . be

safe. Come home to me when you can."

"I will. I promise . . . I love you too . . . Mom."

*********

"And you think it's just that simple? That you can simply bring

what ever whore you want to live in my house and I'll just accept

it?"

Jame' clenched his fist a little tighter and tried to keep the

reasonable, subservient tone that he'd long ago learned was the only

way to even attempt conversation with his father.

"Wasn't it you who told me I should take a greater interest in

women?"

"Bah! I said `women', I didn't say whores."

"Cathy is not a whore!"

The glint in his eye and the slight curl to his lip told Jame' that

once again he'd failed to outmaneuver his father. He'd only given the

old snake something else to prod and tease him with.

"Not a whore? Oh. I must be misinformed. This one living in my

guest room isn't the bit of trash you found beaten by a pimp and left

discarded in the gutter behind the Casino?"

Take a deep breath. Don't rise to the bait. Just keep

wheedling. It's how you get anything you want from him.

"Father. I don't deny that Cathy's past is less than sterling. But

I believe that she is much more a victim of circumstance than she is a

wicked woman."

His father actually laughed and that was much more unpleasant than

his sly sneers and innuendo. " `Victim of circumstance'?! I can't

believe you actually said that."

"It can happen father. Good people can do bad things out of

necessity. Just as bad people can sometimes do good, though perhaps

they don't intend to."

The smile was gone from his father's face. "Be careful you little

bastard. Be very careful. Don't forget where all the money and

privilege comes from, that you use to sneer and belittle. When I was

your age, I was living in the same gutter where you found that slut. I

can see to it that you live there too."

"Of course. Forgive me father."

"Humph. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt you to live there for a bit. To

learn that people are basically worthless scum. You get things in this

world by taking them, Jame'. No one gives you something without

expectation of return. You would not be the first wealthy young man to

be seized upon by a scheming bitch who can shed a few tears and

whimper a pathetic tale in your ear as she wrestles you down to the

mattress."

"If you don't want her living here, simply say so father. It is

your house. I will have her removed."

"Ah! So you can procure a more intimate little nest for yourselves

somewhere in town? I think not. I think I shall keep her right here

where I can watch her. And you."

"As you wish father."

"Insolent pup. You think you've won that round, do you? You

haven't. I'll allow you your whore if for no other reason than to

teach you a lesson by and by. But you mark this. You know I have a

project that is coming to fruition in the near future. I can't spare

the manpower to have her constantly watched. Therefore you will be

responsible to see that slut does not intrude. I don't trust her. It

shall be on your head to ensure that she minds her manners and does

not meddle or get too curious. If you fail, her blood is on your

hands. Remember that."

"Of course father."

**********

It required a very delicate touch . . . great patience. Move too

quickly and you would be discovered.

Jame's hand crept forward another few millimeters, the stem of

saltgrass almost on the skin at the back of her neck . . . almost

. . . almost . . . there . . . touching . . . tickling . . .

She didn't notice. Press a bit harder.

Her left hand stirred at her side as she lay face-down on the beach

towel. Then it casually flicked at the stem he had already

withdrawn. She sighed drowsily and returned her hand to her side.

Again . . . slowly . . . gently . . .

Another flick of her hand. This time he wasn't quick enough to get

the stem of grass out of the way and her hand brushed against

it. Immediately she opened her eyes and turned her head to gaze up at

him. Her lips curled into a mischievous grin. "You shit!" She turned

on her side, rising up onto one elbow and aimed a playful swat at his

thigh. He accepted the gentle blow. Taking advantage of her newly

displayed cleavage, he attempted to insert the stem of grass into the

cleft of her breasts so temptingly displayed by her simple, sky blue,

one-piece swim suit.

She shrieked with laughter and tried to cover her exposed bosom

with one hand and bat at him again with the other. This left her

nothing with which to support herself and she collapsed backward onto

the soft sand, giggling, one hand still on her breast.

She was so beautiful, her hair exactly matching the color of the

golden sand of the mansion's private beach. Her gray eyes were a

mirror for the warm waves that broke almost at their feet. Before he

could even think, he was bending forward from the waist, one hand

beside her head . . . his lips pressing against hers.

For a moment, he felt his warmth, his passion returned. Then, with

a soft whimper, she turned her head away, her hand pressing against

his chest.

"Jame' . . . no. I'm sorry. I can't. Not yet."

"It is I who am sorry Cathy."

He gazed down at her, gazing up at him. Her eyes shimmered. A

slender hand reached up to brush a stray lock of his ebony hair out of

his eyes. Then it caressed his cheek. "Oh Jame'. I'm so sorry. I wish

. . . "

He laid two fingers against her soft, full lips. "Shh . . . It's

all right. There is time. All the time in the world. The rest of our

lives . . ."

She closed her eyes. "Yes. The rest of my life."

**********

<H4>Final Mission Day</H4>

Estate of Hector Cardoza

01:21AM Local Time

"Senorita Cathy . . . momentito, por favor. Adonde

vas?"

She turned and smiled at Carlo standing in the doorway to the

study. "Hello Carlo. I was going to meet Jame'. He invited me for a

midnight swim." She pointed down the corridor that lead to the west

door and ultimately to the beach.

The same corridor that passed Senor Hector's private library.

"Senorita?"

"Uh . . . Senor Jame'?" She raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Si?"

"Um . . . swim?" One hand, the one not holding the folded

towel, invited inspection of the blue swim suit that flaunted every

one of her curves, that allowed him to glimpse the top of her breasts

. . . her long slender legs . . .

"Perro, Senorita . . . hace noche. No puedes nadar para

noche. Esta peligroso, no?"

She frowned in concentration. " 'Nadar' . . . is that

'swim'? I know `noche' is night. Oh, `you shouldn't swim at

night'? No, it's all right. Jame' will be there to watch out for

me. And it's romantic at night. Do you understand `romantic'?"

The hulking bodyguard just shrugged and shook his head.

"It's . . . uh . . . what's the word for romantic? Uh . . ." She

closed her eyes, hugged her arms against her self and offered him a

sleepy, languorous smile. The deep purring in her throat completed the

image for him. " `Romantic', get it?"

He finally nodded and smiled. "Ah, si'."

"Please Carlo. Tonight I want . . . I want to . . . Wow, I

don't know how to say it in English much less Spanish."

Again he just smiled and shook his head. Then he nodded his chin

toward the door at the far end of the corridor, the one that led

eventually to the path down to the beach. But instead of turning to

go, she suddenly moved to him and lightly brushed his cheek with her

lips.

"Thank you Carlo. Thank you for everything. If it means anything at

all, I'm sorry. I know you don't understand the words."

He could only smile and again nod at the door. Then he turned and

went back into the study, shutting the door behind himself. She stood

for a moment, listening to the small sounds of the now sleeping

household. Then she softly padded off toward the door leading to the

beach.

She had no intention of going that far however.

She paused again as she passed the door to the darkened library. A

quick glance in both directions revealed that there was no one

watching. Quicker than a thought, she turned, opened the door to

Hector Cardoza's sanctum and slipped inside.

Behind the door to the study she had so recently passed, Carlo

ejected the magazine from his pistol and made sure it was fully

loaded.

Such a shame that his master had been correct about her.

Such a pity to have to kill one so young and pretty. It was just a

matter of time now till his employer called for him.

**********

It wasn't pitch black in the darkened

library. Carodza's estate was well illuminated by landscape

lighting. Not only did the lights serve to show off the classic

Mediterranean lines of the mansion, it also made it very difficult to

cross the broad lawns or scale the walls without being seen by the

ever-vigilant guards.

It was still dark enough that I paused for several heartbeats to

allow my eyes to adjust to the deep gloom. I didn't want to make any

noise by tripping over some unseen item of furniture or knocking over

some vase or lamp.

That kind of disturbance of the night's silence would be worth my

life.

Finally, my eyes began to adjust to the darkness and vague shapes

resolved into couches and end tables. I could begin to make out the

individual volumes that lined all the walls, floor to ceiling. I

wondered if Cardoza ever actually read any of the thousand or so

books?

It was time to go to work. Every moment I was in this forbidden

place was 'borrowed time'. I took the first cautious steps into the

room, heading for the massive desk that backed on the high, arched

windows overlooking the south lawn. The computer was on a credenza

beneath those windows. Cardoza must have been working on it when he

was last in the room. The high-backed and very opulent swivel chair

was turned, still facing the machine.

I had made it to the center of the room when there was a soft,

metallic 'click' from that chair . . .

. . . which promptly turned toward me.

The pistol in Cardoza's hand was huge and chromed . . . as

dangerous and evil looking as the man that held it pointing at my

heart. It glowed in the darkness with the same pale radiance that

shown from his eyes.

We just stayed like that for a moment, staring at each other. I was

paralyzed. There was no where to run, no way to escape, no stratagem

to employ. I knew; I was drawing my last few breaths.

Finally, he calmly and slowly reached over and flicked on the

green-glass hooded desk lamp, neither the pistol nor his eyes ever

wavering from me. "Drop the towel, then, still facing me, back up and

sit down in the chair directly behind you. If I ever loose sight of

either of your hands, you are dead. Do you understand?"

I nodded and did as he instructed.

Once I was seated, he reached over, still never taking his eyes off

me, and punched the intercom on his desk. "Carlo, ahora. Vey

aqui." It took less then a minute before the bodyguard was coming

through the door, his own pistol in hand. As he passed it, he flicked

the switch turning on the room's main lights. Both Cardoza and I

blinked owlishly in the sudden glare. For the briefest instant I

considered throwing myself across the desk at Cardoza and trying to

wrestle the gun from his hand while he was temporarily blinded. But

then I remembered Carlo was not suffering from the sudden change in

lighting having just come from a well-lighted corridor. I sat, hands

folded in my lap.

Cardoza spoke in English, apparently for my benefit.

"Search her, carefully, thoroughly."

And of course Carlo answered . . . also in English.

"Yes senor." He holstered his weapon then turned to me. "Stand up,

keep your hands out from your sides. Make no other movements."

I did as instructed. I knew that any attempt to overpower Carlo was

doomed from the start. It was an even bet that he possessed some form

of unarmed combat skill. Even if he didn't, his sheer bulk and

strength would allow him to delay me long enough for Cardoza to fill

me full of holes before I could accomplish anything. The 'pat-down'

search was very thorough. He even carefully examined my hair . . . to

the point that I wondered if he suspected that it was a wig. The

search was also very professional and very intimate. No part of my

body was spared from his probing touch. Finally he nodded and motioned

for me to sit back down. "She has no weapons or other items concealed

about her person, senor."

Cardoza nodded. "Very well. Leave us, but stay close by."

The hulking brute nodded once and left, shutting the door behind

him.

Again Cardoza and I just stared at each other. It was he who

finally broke the silence.

"So. Do you wish a chance to stammer out some kind of plausible

excuse for being in here at this hour? I won't believe it of course,

but it might be amusing to watch you try."

I was strangely calm.

"No. I have no plausible excuse. We both know that. We both know

why I'm here."

He nodded and I thought I detected a note of approval in his

voice. "Good. At least you're a professional. Histrionics would be a

bit tedious at this point. So. Are you C.I.A.? Mossad? I don't think

you're British. For some reason they rarely use prostitutes as

cover. Always so stuffy, the British."

"Does it really matter?"

"Only for my curiosity. You seem to be the last attempt that's

going to be made to stop me. I wondered which of my enemies

commissioned you. That's all. I'll find out eventually. I thought you

might be professional enough to realize that . . . that I'll find out

that is . . . and you'd save both of us the need for further

unpleasantness."

I actually smiled. "You and I both know that you're not really

interested in avoiding 'unpleasantness'."

"No."

I nodded. "It's not important. I'm working for the C.I.A."

"Really? Are you an agent or a . . . what's the polite term . . . a

'subcontractor'?"

I leaned back a bit in the chair. "What do you think? What do you

see, 'Cathy Agent' or 'Cathy Slut'?"

"I see a whore. I don't really care what job description appears on

your resume. You'll be dead soon and this whole discussion is really

academic I suppose."

She sank even further back into the chair. To his surprise, her

small, sad smile was becoming sultry. "If it's all academic, I guess

there's no need to play the role anymore. Talk about 'tedious

histrionics.' Do you have any idea how boring the 'weepy, abused

virgin' routine becomes after a while?"

He sneered. "I should thank you for one thing, do you know that? I

should thank you for the object lesson you're about to provide for my

son."

She just shrugged and smiled that teasing smile. "If I'm going to

be dead soon, why not give each other something else to be thankful

for."

He actually laughed. "Oh come now. That's a little too James Bond,

don't you think? Do you really expect me to set my gun down and ravish

you on the desk . . . give you a chance to use your poisoned lipstick

or get me in a compromising position and then judo chop me into

unconsciousness? I think I'll pass on that offer thank you."

She shook her head. "No. I know that kind of thing doesn't work in

real life. I know that there's no where to run even if I could

overpower you. Even if I could get out of the Mansion somehow, I know

who controls this town . . . this country. I'd never make it to the

safety of the Embassy or what ever other bolt-hole I have

prepared. There's no escape for me." A languorous hand brushed back

the fall of her hair. "I suppose I just want 'one for the road' and I

have to admit, I do find you attractive . . . in a dark, twisted

way."

His expression went thoughtful and after a moment he set the gun

down. "You are a professional. I admit to you that I find you

attractive as well. Both for your calm acceptance of what must be and

for your beauty."

After a moment she stood and very casually slipped the straps of

her swimsuit off her shoulders. She slowly slid her hands down her

sides causing the suit to reveal more and more of her slender beauty

till finally it dropped away of its own accord leaving her naked and

unashamed before him.

He stood and came out from behind the desk. With the back of the

first two fingers on his right hand he gently stroked the side of her

left breast, its lower curve, its nipple. Eyes closed, her head slowly

rotated sideways and backward on her neck. Her left hand rose to rest

palm to palm within his. She guided it such that the back of his

rough, workman's paw again grazed her nipple.

His voice was taking on a guttural quality. "You like that?"

She nodded. "Mmmmm."

His left hand rose and began to explore her right breast. After a

moment he had its nipple between thumb and forefinger, gently

squeezing. "And this . . . do you like this?"

A sudden pinch, a viscous twist.

She almost screamed. But the note in her voice wasn't agony

. . . it was more like ecstasy.

The eyes that looked into his were now animal . . . predatory. She

leaned forward and gently brushed her lips across the tip of his nose

. . . his cheek . . . his lips. A small, moist tongue explored his

face. Her hands had risen to caress his shoulders, the back of his

neck. Finally, she allowed a firmer contact of lip to lip. His own

lips parted at the invitation. Gently, softly, she nibbled on his

vulnerable lower lip. His eyes had just shut in anticipation when her

teeth fastened hard enough to draw blood.

He shoved her away then backhanded her across the cheek with all

his strength. She staggered backward. Her grunt of pain was quickly

followed by a taunting giggle.

The shock from his injured lip had completely masked the minor

prick of the needle going in the back of his neck. His anger would

distract him from the slight burning till it was too late . . .till

the date rape drug was already overwhelming him.

"You filthy puta. You'll pay for that." He ran his

tongue over his lip and tasted the salt of blood. "Oh yes . . . You

like pain? I have much to offer you. A whole lifetime's to offer

you."

She slid her hands down her sides and shimmed for him, her breasts

bobbing saucily. "You're not man enough to give me what I really

want."

He was on her in two strides. The hands that grabbed her hair and

jerked her head backward were like iron claws now. The lips that took

the next kiss were cold and hard. Again she tried to bite, but this

time the backhanded slap arrived before she could do damage.

She spit in his face. His hand slapped from the other direction

this time.

But it didn't land with as much force as the first blows.

He shook his head.

Again she laughed at him, that same mocking laugh.

"What did you do? I can't . . . " His suddenly rebellious legs

buckled and he was kneeling before her. Her hands rested on the back

of his head, burying his face in her womanhood.

Her voice was a gentle, sensual purr. "Not poisoned lipstick

. . . poisoned ring. Too bad Hector. I guess I'm gonna try to escape

after all. Sorry about the 'you're not man enough' jab. Turns out I'm

not woman enough either, but I really didn't want you to find that out

for yourself."

He managed to free himself from her embrace but his balance was

gone and he sprawled on his side. His desk . . . the gun . . . the

intercom . . .

He'd only managed to crawl a few inches before her knee was in the

small of his back and her fingers were twined in his hair, pulling his

head up and backwards. "Hey Hector. It's considered ungentlemanly to

just get up and leave, even if you do finish before the girl."

His neck was there . . . exposed . . . vulnerable. He was helpless

. . . his strength was gone.

The letter opener lying on his desk . . . shaped like a medieval

dagger . . . it rested within easy reach.

It gleamed in her hand.

"Thank you Michael. Don't be ashamed that you can't. It just

proves that you're really a kind, gentle person, just like The Doctor

said . . ."

"That's the common misconception about hypnotism Michael; you can

never make a person do something they don' really want to do

. . ."

I opened my fingers and the knife dropped soundlessly to the

carpet.

*********

It was an odd impulse, but I paused long enough to put my swimsuit

back on.

Hector simply lay on the floor where I'd left him, the occasional

moan or small, weak movements of his arms or legs the only sign that

he was still alive.

I kicked him, not all that hard, in the small of his back as I

passed and cooed "Ooo baby. Is it good for you? Havin' fun with the

fantasy? Got me all hot and wet? Got yourself in yet?" I suddenly

realized what it was I was doing and recoiled.

"Cathy Demure."

I didn't feel any change. I glanced down at Hector and felt only

revulsion now . . . both for his actions and for mine.

Seating myself in his chair, I turned on his computer and waited a

moment for it to 'boot'. It took me a moment to figure out which icon

accessed his Internet browser. All the labels were in Spanish. I

finally spotted a recognizable little graphic and clicked on it.

I was rewarded by the appearance of a familiar log-on screen. I

clicked on the "<proceed>" button, and waited another moment

while the computer's internal speaker first produced a dial tone, then

the musical notes of a touch-tone phone dialing numbers and finally by

that strange multi-tone hiss that indicated my modem had reached

another modem and electronic communion was occurring.

For a brief, panicky moment I couldn't remember the URL code that

I'd so carefully memorized, but after a second's concentration, the

numbers returned to me. I typed them in to the "navigation target"

space and hit return. The reply was almost immediate, a very

nondescript dialogue box that read "Enter Password"

I promptly typed "CathySketch" and pressed the enter key.

The dialogue box vanished. Nothing else seemed to be happening till

I realized that there was fitful activity within the computer's hard

drive. Evidently, the supercomputer at Langley, Virginia was

attempting to circumvent whatever security was in place on Cardoza's

desktop system.

I couldn't resist another jibe. Over my shoulder I cooed "Oooo

yeeeessss! Looks like I'm not the only one getting a virtual screwing

around here."

Suddenly the browser's window disappeared and I was into some kind

of database system. Fortunately for me, everything was labeled in

English. Apparently that was the most convenient shared language

between the late Doctor Velnikov and Cardoza and his minions. The

Langley supercomputer also inserted a small dialogue box in the upper

right that read "Begin Upload? Yes/No?" I clicked on the "Yes" button

and Cardoza's computer's hard drive immediately began

'spinning'. While the Langely computers raped Cardoza's system for all

its stored knowledge, I skimmed the files. Now was the time for me to

perform the function for which I'd been selected.

It took only a few seconds to find the data I was looking for.

I accessed the crucial information and sat for a long moment

reading it. I checked the figures, then checked them again. While I

was reading them for the third time, a new dialogue box

appeared. "Upload Complete. Press any key to continue." I hit

"Enter". The dialogue box vanished and a new, innocuous little request

appeared. "Commence Sanction? Yes/No." I took a deep breath, made my

decision and clicked on the appropriate response. One last

"information box" appeared. "Thank you Cathy. Connection

terminated. Proceed with egress."

I shut the computer down and stood to leave. Cardoza's pistol

caught my eye and I grabbed it in passing. He moaned once from the

floor, but this time I didn't even spare him a sidelong glance.

Time to go.

I was already stepping through the door when I remembered

Carlo.

He was standing only a few feet down the corridor, talking to one

of Cardoza's guards.

He looked up at the sound of the door opening.

Our eyes met.

The pistol in his hand started to swing up.

Before I even realized I had done it . . . I'd shot him twice in

the chest and the guard once in the neck.

Both collapsed, the guard writhing and gurgling, his fingers

clawing at the wound that spewed crimson . . . Carlo silent and

still.

All the training . . . all the subtlety . . . all the cold,

calculating competence that you see from every action hero in the

movies . . . all abandoned me and I simply turned on my heel and ran

for the door as if the hounds of Hell were at my heels. The burst of

automatic weapon fire that tore up the grass I'd just traversed before

diving headlong into the brush at the edge of the lawn indicated that

indeed they were.

*********

<H4>Embassy Row</H4>

Baranquillia, Venezuela

07:03 AM Local Time

Jame' sat in the idling Mercedes, watching the passing faces as

the pedestrians walked by on their way to the US Embassy.

She would come here. That was certain. The airport, the roads, the

harbors . . . all were watched . . . sealed . . . denied her. Jame'

had never seen his father as cold, as calm, as dangerous as when he'd

finally recovered from the drug she'd injected into him. He'd used

every one of his own men and then employed more from the ranks of

easily available killers for hire. By sunrise, a small army was in

place looking for one blonde woman.

They wouldn't find her though. Not before he did. She would come

here, to him. He didn't know how he knew, he just did.

He felt the weight of the submachine gun that rested on his

thighs.

It was ordained that he would be the one to find her. It was

ordained that her death would make him the father's son that he had

always been meant to be.

So be it. He found he no longer wanted to struggle against the

inevitable.

A couple passed the car, walking arm in arm toward the Embassy

gate. Jame' quickly studied the dowdy, overweight, brunette's

face. Not Cathy. She was too short, only about five foot six and the

nondescript pudgy roundness of her face was entirely different from

Cathy's soft but well defined features. Jame' looked away but some

nagging doubt caused him to look one last time as the man and woman

were admitted by the Marine guard.

The woman was not Cathy. There was no doubt of that.

But her male companion . . .

Just before he disappeared into the Embassy, as Jame' caught the

last sight of this man he would ever have, the man must have felt

Jame's eyes on him for he looked up . . . looked at the Mercedes

. . . looked right into Jame's eyes . . .

No. He was a stranger. Jame' had never seen this man before. There

was nothing familiar, nothing feminine, nothing of Cathy in his sharp,

angular features . . . nothing at all . . .

Except . . .

Cool, gray eyes . . .

So touched with an indefinable sadness . . .

*********

<H3>"Debrief"</H3>

"Wake up Michael."

I opened my eyes and by force of habit, glanced up at the clock on

Ruth's wall. Only a little over an hour gone. Was that all it

took?

I turned my head and tried to see into the heart of the woman

seated behind her desk, chin on her folded hands, her expression

neutral, inscrutable.

"That's it?"

"That's it. It's always easier to undo suggestion than it is to

implant. Think of it as hitting the "Reset" button."

"Passion's Sea."

I looked down at my right hand, but it just lay there at my side

. . . no frantic counting of fingers . . . no reaction.

I closed my eyes again and just lay there. Was it really over?

"What are you thinking, Michael?"

"Did they tell you what I found in Cardoza's computer?"

"No. I'm not in that 'loop'. 'Need to know' you know. I only know

you didn't order 'the Sanction' and that Command ultimately agreed

with your decision."

I nodded, eyes still closed. "It was all for nothing. Velnikov's

formulae were worthless. They were a classic description of a process

that mimics a fusion reaction for a while but isn't ultimately

sustainable. The cutting edge researchers have known about it for a

couple of years now. It's something we've started calling 'Fool's

Cold'. We're still trying to figure out if Velnikov was running a scam

on Cardoza and Cardoza killed him before he found out, or if Cardoza

knew about it all along . . . if he intended to sell his Buyers a

lemon and had Velnikov killed to keep him quiet."

There was a long silence.

"I killed two people . . . hell, you might as well say 'three'."

(The look on Jame's face outside the Embassy . . . cold . . . hard

. . . lifeless . . .) "For nothing . . . "

"We had to know Michael. It was worth the . . . the price."

"Was it?"

Another silence.

Her voice, that practiced instrument of her trade, was soft and

sad. "Will you be walking away now Michael? There really won't be any

questions asked, there won't be any more 'strings'."

"You did lie to me Ruth. You lied to me twice at least. You never

told me about being trapped in character, nor did you tell me that

'Cathy Slut' was designed to interact with Cardoza, not Jame'."

"Yes."

"Is it really all gone from my mind? All the lies and deceptions?

How will I ever know?"

"You won't ever 'know' Michael. Basic scientific method; you can't

prove a negative. Perhaps . . . someday . . . you might remember a

little of the trust we once had and you'll be able to believe that I

. . . that I couldn't leave any of that . . ."

I swung my legs off the couch and stood to go. Ruth closed her eyes

and just sat, chin in her hands.

Please . . . remember this conversation Michael . . . please try

to find a way to forgive yourself for the thing you'll do. Please try

to find a way to forgive me for making it possible for you to do

them.

Come back to me . . . let me try to ease the pain . . . heal the

hurt . . .

I love you Cathy.

Her voice was her instrument. Yet the tear that ran down her

cheek when I gently laid my hand against it . . .

If that was sham . . .pretence . . . professional deception

. . . then there is no real faith or hope in the world and life is

empty and pointless.

I love you too . . . Mom.

I choose trust. There is no other choice.

*********

Lisa threw her arms around my neck and planted a rather rough and

very enthusiastic kiss on my lips. "Welcome home Mike!"

I wrapped my arms around her waist and gave her a hug. "Gee Lisa,

you own a dress? Wow! I guess tonight's going to be special after

all."

She nodded, the smile making her face more soft and feminine than

I'd yet seen it. "Hell Mike, play your cards right and I might even

count tonight as two of those 'expensive' dinners."

I cocked my head and grinned back at her. "Well, we'll see, won't

we? Where's Ruth and Sketch? I want to get going. We're 'burning

moonlight'."

"They'll be right down. Hey, I gotta ask you something. Remember

when you and I were talking about Sketch that first day? I told you he

often copies people that he admires, that he cares about a lot? You

need to remember that when . . . "

The door opened cutting off her thought.

Ruth . . .

. . . and a slender, beautiful blonde . . .

. . . about five foot six . . .

. . . with a just-slightly-too-large nose . . .

. . . long, tawny, hair . . .

</DIR> </DIR>

. . . cool gray eyes . . .

Ruth smiled. "Michael, may I introduce . . . "

"Hello Cathy."

*********

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