VIRTUAL SEARCH by C. Lakewood AS ALICE WOULD HAVE OBSERVED, "THIS IS CURIOUSER AND CURIOUSER." Part 4 "You see two numbers in front of you; one is red, the other blue," Jeo said. "Yes! As I said, they're about three inches away from the tip of my nose," Ashley snapped. "Get a grip, Counselor. What happened to that famous 'steely magisterial control'?" Jeo hissed. "By virtue of my...well, let's just say that I can manipulate SOME aspects of the game to assist you...IF you follow my directions. Now, you're going to have to get even closer to those numbers. If you lick the red one, you'll shrink enough to slip those cuffs off; then if lick the blue numeral, and you'll go back to normal...." His last words were broken and fading. Ashley realized that her battery was low. "LICK? But I couldn't do that...." Silence. She discovered then that she actually COULD do that. Glancing left and right, she saw that she was unobserved and decided that, under the circumstances, she could sacrifice a bit of dignity for a continued chance to win this damn game. After licking the big red 1, she felt no effect, so she licked it again, more vigorously. Several minutes passed, and Ashley was beginning to make up new words with which to curse Jeo, while she suddenly felt dizzy...and then her clothes seemed to be looser -- MUCH looser. Sure enough, she was able to slip the cuffs over her now-smaller hands. "I wonder if I'm going to meet the Mad Hatter next?" she wondered, as she avidly licked the blue 2 in order to return to normal size. Nothing happened. Nervous that "Agent Hal" (whoever or whatever he was) would return, Ashley impatiently licked the blue numeral again "to make sure" (or so she told herself), gave each of the naked bottoms a stinging slap and scrambled from the van. Her shoes were much too big for her still-shrunken feet, so she kicked them off. With her heels in one hand and her purse in the other, she darted across the street. She couldn't save her panties, however, which slithered over her narrowed hips and down her legs, eluding her clumsy grasp. They were left behind, in the middle of the roadway, as she hailed a passing cab. She exhaled and settled with relief into the cab's back seat. "Where to, miss?" The driver's accent was crisp, almost posh. And it was vaguely familiar. She looked at photo on the hack license attached to the back of the front seat. "Winston? Oh...my...god!" she thought. Aloud, she gasped, "I-I know you.... You used to drive a limo for a pineapple company." "Oh, no, miss. That was my younger brother, Cedric. He's a chauffeur in the tropics; I'm a cabbie in Chicago. But there IS a strong family resemblance, I'm told. My name's Basil." "Ah...um...okay...." Ashley wondered to which game faction this character belonged. He SEEMED nice, but she couldn't afford to be naive.... Then she felt a momentary vertigo, and -- presto! -- she regained her normal size. So, all in all, things could have been worse. Maybe she could trust Jeo, at least to a point.... Damn! The soles of her nylons were absolutely shredded. She'd have to take them off and wear her shoes on her bare feet. Fortunately, the process was easier than it might have been; she was wearing a garter-belt and stockings rather than pantyhose. (It was obviously a MAN who'd programmed this set-up.) "And where was it you wanted to go, miss?" "Oh, just drive around for a while...." They were passing the "Art Frahm Gallery," and, despite herself, she reflected that someone seemed to have an apt sense of humor. Then she glanced at the electronic clock on a bank building and discovered it was going haywire: 8:38...3:10...6:22...12:04.... "Oh, shit!" "I beg your pardon." "No, no! It's not you...." "If you've got a problem, miss, perhaps you should consult my older brother, Albert. He's headmaster at a school near here, a very learned, very wise man. Right?" Ashley was preoccupied with her discovery that something -- or someone -- was blatantly cheating by screwing with the time, and so she barely heard the cab driver. She gestured, vaguely. "Jolly good!" the driver said, cheerfully. But Ashley had always had an ability to multi-task, to engage in a primary activity but still have one or more thought processes running in the background. (Winston...headmaster...Holy Crap!) "No! Take me to...um...Clark and Addison," she interjected. (Though the gates might not open for hours, she imagined that reproducing and stage-managing Wrigley Field should distract the machine enough to give her a breather.) "No game today, miss, I'm afraid. Besides, given the shocking state of the streets, it would be bloody difficult to get there from here." (Sure enough, with a few flickers, there suddenly seemed to be a lot of street repair going on.) "But look, over there in Grant Park: the Summer Festival's in full swing. I'm sure you'd find the Young Woman's Professional Association booth...ah, compelling." The cab had slowed to a halt, due to the torn-up streets, and Ashley took the opportunity to toss some money onto the seat (along with her garter-belt and ruined stockings), hop out of the cab, and scurry off in a random direction, despite Basil's protests. She saw a YWCA advertising swimming lessons and, next door, a video store. Pretty obvious snares, she thought. Perhaps the computer had reached the limit of its ingenuity. As she passed a public phone, it started ringing, and she answered it instinctively. Jeo's voice rasped, "Danger! ANOTHER hacker is making his presence felt. I can't find out much about him, except that he seems clever and very detail-oriented. Get off the street! NOW!" She dropped the phone and gazed around. Up the street, blue vans were disgorging a horde of automated police officers -- aka "robo-cops." The computer was mobilizing all its resources. She started to duck into an innocuous-looking crafts shop, hoping that the "human" cops at least might be reluctant to risk potpourri asphyxiation by entering there. But then she noticed the myriad rickety shelves filled with ceramic figurines, a cataclysmic accident waiting to happen if she came anywhere close. She backed carefully out of the shop's entrance. But where to go? The nearby choices were not promising: Edwardian office building...adult bookstore...laundromat...pizzeria...tattoo shop...parking lot...bar...storefront clinic (advertising flu shots!)...newsstand...and, at the end of the block, a seedy theatre. This last seemed her best option, though certainly not a very good one. But a glance over her shoulder told her that the phalanx of police, reinforced by an angry mob of citizenry, had started to move in her direction, although it appeared that they'd not yet actually spotted her. Perhaps the fact that this was a decayed side street, physically near but socio-economically distant from Michigan Avenue, might somehow work in her favor. She made a dash for the theatre, as a strong Chicago wind gusted under her miniskirt, between her sweaty thighs and over her moist, pantyless crotch. Was this part of what Jeo had meant by "detail-oriented"? Just inside the theatre entrance was a glassed-in booth containing a bored-looking young blonde doing her nails. She looked up at Ashley and said, in a nasal voice, "Too early for the show. You here for the auditions?" Ashley had no time to consider. "Um...y-yes," she answered, dubiously. "Straight on inside, turn left, through the door marked 'Private,' and follow the corridor." She nodded and went back to her nails. It was dim inside the lobby, but Ashley found the designated door, pushed on through it, and followed a narrow hallway toward backstage. At the end, she found herself in a large room that smelled of sweat and sex. It held almost a dozen 20-somethings and was presided over by a stout white woman in her 50s with obviously dyed red hair. She was apparently being assisted by an even bigger black woman with a glint in her eye. "Auditioning?" the boss woman asked. Ashley nodded. "Name?" "Marsh-a...Marsha." It wasn't very ingenious, but it should do, in case the computer was monitoring conversations. It struck Ashley that things were getting weirder and weirder. When the game had begun, it had been clear that the action took place only in her vicinity. Now, however, it was almost as though these characters' lives were unfolding whether she was around or not. When had she first noticed this phenomenon? She couldn't remember, but maybe one of the hackers had introduced a bug into the system, inducing it to spin off to who-knows-where. Or maybe merely being hacked (or was the term "cracked" now?) caused the system to ripple, with unforeseen consequences.... She shook her head and put such speculation behind her. "Okay," Big Red said. "We got one unbreakable rule here -- amateurs or pros it don't make no difference -- pubic hair ain't allowed. If you got any, get rid of it." That rang a tiny bell somewhere in the depths of Ashley's memory, but then her concentration was interrupted, and she lost the thought. The big black woman had pulled up Ashley's skirt and, seemingly unsurprised by Ashley's lack of panties, clucked at the neatly trimmed (but forbidden) curls and handed Ashley an electric clipper. "Ah hopes y'all doan 'speck me t'do dat," she drawled. Ashley shook off the impulse to flee; she was tired and needed to re-group. And this place, oddly, seemed to offer some sanctuary. She did remind herself, however, that she was still in jeopardy, still on the run. She sighed. Grimly, she attacked her pubic hair with the clipper. She might have gotten away with a once-over-lightly, but she was too stiff-necked to do anything less than a proper job of it (and, besides, she found the clipper's vibrations...soothing). When she was satisfied, she put down the clipper and patiently waited her turn. A strange calm had settled over her; it was as if she had nothing to worry about...for the time being. As a result, she could pause in her frantic scurryings hither and thither for some introspection. Why had she chosen this particular game? First, it had seemed a good arena in which to exercise her strong, competitive nature. Second, it offered the chance to right some sexist wrongs, and it WOULD have been satisfying to see a gaggle of smug, self-satisfied slobs led off in handcuffs when she beat the game. (It was not so much a case of "sticking it to the Man," but of "sticking it to Men.") And third, well, there was that other reason, the thing that she was often reluctant to admit to herself -- the secret excitement at the possible consequences if she LOST this game. A disturbing thought flittered across her mind -- and was gone before she could really grasp it. The feeling of urgency she'd originally had was draining away. It was almost as if this latest hacker had the power not only to shape the environment, but also to control her thoughts and feelings. No. That's silly.... ****************************** After an indeterminate while, her name was called. She roused herself from a particularly juicy daydream, straightened up, and slowly walked out onto the stage. The music started immediately -- "The Entertainer" -- and echoed eerily through the almost empty theatre. As she started to dance, it was as if she were back in the "Pussy Galore Club" on that pineapple island. The footlights' glare dazzled her at first, but the house lights were still half-way up, and her eyes adjusted. Still, she had slipped off her heels (playfully punting them off the stage) and had thrown away her jacket before the audience began to be anything more than a vague blur. There really weren't many out there -- but more than she'd expected. Front and center was a craggy bulk that bore a striking resemblance to her bête-noire, Henry Hawthorn. Seated next to him was a much younger man who looked a lot like Tim, her downtrodden administrative assistant. She had her blouse off now and was playing with it like a bullfighter's cape. Oh, god! The next figure...Dave, the mailroom man? (She wondered if would ever be able to look any of them in the eye again.) The music was "Bolero" now...sensuous and implacable. Farther along, there was Basil Winston, flanked by men who looked very similar -- his brothers, no doubt, Albert and Cedric. (She suddenly had a nasty taste in her mouth.) And sitting just beside Cedric was...Juan Macias! (Her asshole clenched convulsively when she remembered HIM....) Everything was out of joint; it was almost as if she were going through some sort of dissociative phase. Her body, in heat, was dancing, teasing, expressing her need. At the same time, her emotions were being overwhelmed with the realization that she was strutting shamelessly in front of people she knew and worked with...and fantasized about. And, all the while, her mind was reminding her, "This is just a game...and those men are merely phantoms plucked from your libido...." (This last point was less than comforting.) Driven by the beat of the music, she tossed the blouse into the pit and began toying with her bra. In the next row, there were people whom she'd never met, yet somehow recognized: scowling "Tanner" Thomson, leering Carlos Honcho, and even blandly smiling Dr. Nathaniel Craig. And, behind them, dimly, a row filled with Sheriff after Sheriff after Sheriff...and their yokel deputies. She had an urge to run, but knew that would be both dishonorable and futile. She dropped her bra and cupped her quivering breasts -- though strippers, even amateur ones, probably had "tits" or "boobs" (or, she thought ruefully, in her case "titties" or "boobies.") Well, whatever, they may have been small, but they were also choice -- natural, firm, and sweet. Wiggling and jiggling, she told herself, "These men are here to see you perform...so go ahead a give them a show they'll never forget." She hadn't danced on stage either before or after that long, long night in the "Pussy Galore Club," but tonight she seemed to be moving more gracefully -- even more professionally, despite her shame...and her excitement. She squatted down and began to rotate her hips...slowly...giving her audience tantalizing glimpses of what lurked beneath her skirt. Then she bounced to her feet and flaunted her titties, jerking and grinding to the music. She was begging -- but not for money, that would have been bad enough. She was begging for applause, cheers, whistles...any sort of feedback from the impassive onlookers, some indication that she was provoking a lust in them that was as powerful as her own. But they remained silent. And the lovely, educated, and articulate lawyer in desperation became even more meretricious...and needy. She could smell her arousal. Wiggling her hips coquettishly, she reached for the waistband of her and smiled as she tugged down the zipper. She popped the waist-button, and the skirt slid down a few inches. She turned and let it drop the rest of the way, showing them her trim ass. "Juan should be pleased to see it again," she thought, as the music segued into the frenetic "Sabre Dance." Then she spun around, still shielding her crotch with the skirt. She felt sweat trickling down her thighs (at least she HOPED it was sweat). She twitched the skirt back and forth, almost (but not quite) unveiling herself, spinning and twirling and flirting and teasing.... No cheers, no jeers.... Nothing. "But there must be only a few seconds left," she wailed to herself. "And my time up here on stage will be over...." She had just about run out of tricks to play with the skirt, and she realized that it was about time, as HE might say, "to show them your hot, wet, little honey pot." It had ceased to be a game or even a competition. It was therapy. She triumphantly flung the skirt aside.... And the audience reacted, at last. ****************************** The grandmotherly clerk quietly unlocked the door and looked in on Ashley. The game was over, and Ashley was sleeping like the dead...but with a beatific smile on her face. "Poor thing must have been really tired. Over-work, probably. Well, I'll just let her rest a while longer...." The old woman didn't bother to put on her glasses and check the printout from the pulse, respiration, and arousal monitors. If she had, she might have been amazed that the fuses were still intact and then hurried off to phone for the paramedics...or Jerry Springer.