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Subject: {GODIVA} "The Interview" (humo va mc nc ScFi) [1/?] *
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LEGAL DISCLAIMER
************************************************
What follows is a work of fiction. Any similarity between
any character living or dead, any place, institution, or
event, is completely unintentional. Any relationship
between events which occur in this fiction, and what
normally happens in real life, is unintended, unlikely, and
probably the result of a typographical error.
The author has always intended this to be a work of fantasy.
WARNING OF CONTENTS
************************************************
Sexual humour, nudity, bondage, and domination within a
mind control sci-fi fantasy setting are included, which may
be offensive to some tastes.
If you are a legal minor--under 18 years of age (21 years
in some areas)-- or live in an area where government
policy dictates literary taste through legal jurisprudence,
or if you find fictional accounts about sex personally
offensive, be advised to
AVOID READING THIS DOCUMENT.
You might enjoy reading about an authorized, and
inoffensive murder mystery, battlefield firefight, western
shootout, or a manhunt for a serial killer instead.
************************************************
The Interview
by
GODIVA
************************************************
"Ms. Dernier" the chubby-faced stranger called, as he
lugged a professional video camera across the hotel lobby.
"The name's Squab, Bob Squab. Your man got hung up,
so they gave the assignment to me. I've worked as a stringer
for the station two or three times this year. All paid up at
the union, no hassle."
"What's wrong with Harvey?"
"Who's Harvey?" Pale blue eyes stared back at her
quizzically.
"My cameraman," Jacquil snapped, distracted enough to
forget it should be 'cameraperson'.
"So that's his name, huh?" Bob Squab returned, shifting
the weight of the camera gear on his shoulder. "They didn't
tell me his name. Just told me he was hung up, and I'm to
haul ass over here."
Slipping into Concerned Expression Number Three,
Jacquil Dernier awarded the rotund cameraperson accosting
her in the lobby of the city's finest hotel a long penetrating
glance, then demanded, "What was the cause of Harvey's
hang up?"
"Lynched, you think?" Plump cheeks displayed a grin.
"You don't honestly believe they bothered telling me, do
you? You don't think I bothered to ask? I had the old
van peeling rubber before the phone connection was
broken."
On Jacquil's fine features, Concerned Three shifted to
Disbelief Number Ten, she continued to stare at the garishly
dressed stranger. She had been with the station part time
since she turned eighteen and full-time for the last two years.
Jacquil thought she knew every cameraperson and
videophile in the state. She increased Disbelief Ten a couple
notches to Disbelief Eight.
"Hey, don't take my word for it," Bob Squab added
defensively raising his hand to ward off Jacquil's glare.
"Call the station."
Back to Disbelief Ten.
"Only, I think you should know, the Jap is about to leave
at any minute. I overheard them chattering at the desk. I
was beginning to think you'd be a no-show and blow my
gig."
"Mr. Lu is leaving," honest surprise briefly flickered
across Jacquil's well-schooled features.
"Said so, didn't I? At least, that's the skinny from the
registration desk," Bob countered.
With a slight shadowing of annoyance, Jacquil Dernier
accepted the inevitable.
"Are you any good with that thing?" she questioned, with
a tilt of her head toward Bob's camera.
"You any good with this?" Bob returned, handing Jacquil
a small FM mike.
"I've had more than two `gigs' with the station this year,"
Jacquil replied quellingly and strode gracefully toward a
waiting elevator.
"Well, hoity-me-toity," the irrepressible Bob muttered, as
he lumbered heavily in her wake.
"Just don't forget, this has to be a hand job," Bob
continued, once the elevator doors closed.
"Pardon!"
"If the Jap is antsy to leave, I won't have time to rig
bugs, and we have no one to swing a boom," Bob explained.
"Turn the mike on and set the gain at seven," he continued.
Pulling a garish wad of plastic from an inside pocket, he
added, "I still have one of your station's sleeves from last
time. Just slip it on."
Jacquil accepted the greasy plastic collar and fitted it
over the microphone. Her station's call letters clashed
reassuringly, on the foam cap over the hand-held mike.
"Don't pop the mike, and try to stick it in the old geezer's
face whenever he speaks," Bob continued, with concern.
"The auto-level should clamp down on the overamp. If
necessary, I can filter out any B.G. later, but you've gotta
get me something to work with, honey."
"Mister Squab!" Jacquil Dernier raged from the
three-inch advantage in height her high-heeled shoes
provided. "You are forgetting yourself. I am a professional.
I do know what I'm doing."
"I've seen you on-air," Bob chuckled, unrepentantly,
"and Honey, the only thing I've ever seen you do was reflect
light. For all I know, you're just another pretty face."
"Something, I assure you, no one will ever suspect of
you!"
"Touche!" Bob replied. "Now, climb down out of that
huff, and get your lead questions in mind, before you meet
the Jap."
"Mr. Lu is not a Jap-panese," Jacquil stuttered. "Mr. Lu
is . . . well nobody actually knows Mr. Lu's nationality. But,
I will not tolerate any racist remarks made in my presence.
If you must refer to his race, Mr. Lu is an Oriental."
"Honey, as far as I'm concerned he can be an Accidental.
Happens in the best of families, you know," Bob Squab
agreed in a soothing voice. "I just want you to get your
feathers unruffled, Honey."
"And DON'T call me 'Honey'!"
"Yes sir, ma'am . . . er . . . Miss . . . er . . . Mzzzz!"
The elevator doors swept apart, effectively squelching
any rejoinder. In the opening stood their next hurdle. He
was extra tall, double width, ebony black, and alarmingly
menacing.
"You the man?" he questioned in a deep bass voice.
"No, you're not the man."
"Heh-heh, Squab. Squab's the name. Bob Squab. I'm
filling in for the ma . . . for Harvey! I regularly work as
stringer for. . . ." as Bob's voice thickened, he pointed to the
station logo on Jacquil's microphone. Regaining volume,
Bob continued pointing. " And this is Jac . . . Ms.
Dernier."
"I know who she is, fool," the black man scoffed,
dismissing Bob. "Mr. Lu is waiting in the conference
room," he advised Jacquil civil, "third door on the left."
"Thank you," Jacquil replied pleasantly, led the way to
the appointed door and knocked.
Bob scuttled along the hall, throwing anxious glances
backward, to assure himself that the bodyguard remained at
his post.
"Come in. Come in. No need to introduce yourself. Of
course I recognise you," an ageless, grey-haired oriental in a
crisp blue Brook Brothers, opened the door. "Also, you
know who I am. I am not famous, nor beautiful, but still,
here you are, come to see me. I am honoured."
Mr. Lu reached out to briefly touch hands in the western
fashion. His hand was cool, dry, and curiously callused for
someone reputed to be a businessman.
Her own hand, Jacquil had realised, was warm and
sweaty from her strangling grip on the microphone. It had
been no small feat to repress the urge to wipe it hastily
before presenting it to the soft spoken oriental.
"I need a testy," Bob blurted into the formal dignity of
the occasion.
"Excuse me, please," Jacquil begged of the inscrutable
Mr. Lu.
Turning to face Bob, Jacquil raised the mike, and with
tightly-leashed fury enunciated distinctly, "One . . . two . . .
three . . . testing. Testing . . . one . . . two . . . three.
This is Jacquil Dernier with multimillionaire businessman
Louis Lu, exclusively on . . . " she rattled off the station call
letters, and continued like an automaton in a blind fury.
Slowly, the familiar pattern of professional duties calmed,
and restored her bruised dignity.
"Okay, got it," Bob cut through Jacquil's patter. "The
best light is over by the bar, but that may be awkward.
Buddha don't allow no likker-drinking 'round here."
A startled gasp exploded from Jacquil's throat, and a
scarlet blush flooded her cheeks, to almost rival the heat of
her long, flame-coloured hair. An irresistible desire to asses
damages forced her to swivel about to gauge Mr. Lu's
reaction to Bob's unpardonable remark. Either, Mr. Lu had
not heard, or else had complete mastery of his emotions. If
so, Jacquil envied him.
"Per . . . perhaps you could explain what you wished to
divulge, Mr. Lu, then I could map out what questions I
should ask."
Mr. Lu cast a warming smile upon Jacquil, "You wish
me to act as your accomplice? Is this the usual way you
conduct interviews?"
"No," Jacquil cast a baleful eye at the oblivious Bob,
"This is not my usual conduct. Either I am briefed about the
questions I'm to ask by a press agent, or I have had time to
research the subject until I have questions of my own."
"And that did not happen today?"
"No. Our news director beeped me out at seven o'clock,
and gave me this assignment. Normally, this is my day off."
"Wednesday?"
"I work every weekend, so I will be on hand if our
weekend anchor is sick."
"This happens often?"
"No. Not once in two whole years," the disgust was
heavy in Jacquil's voice.
"And today, on your day off, they rang you up and sent
you to me. Do you know why?"
Jacquil's lips pressed together tightly. She shook her
head. Finally, in a tiny voice, she answered, "At first I was
certain they pushed the wrong button on the speed dial, but
then I realised no one would have me on a speed dial. None
of the stories I get to cover are ever urgent. I have been
stuck in soft news for the last two years."
"Soft news?"
"You know? A baby gorilla is born at the city zoo.
Another behind-the-scenes peek at the latest fifties' rock star
concert. I mean, when I was eighteen and only working
summers, that was challenging. Now, I should like to do
something . . . anything that is not so . . . so . . . so . . . "
"Cute and trivial," Bob supplied, helpfully, garnering a
flashing glare of fury.
"I mean, what can you do with a geriatric rock star
wearing leather tights?"
"Give'm talcum powder," suggested the ever-fertile Bob.
"So am I to presume I am 'soft news'?" Mr. Lu
interjected into the threatening hostilities. "I am neither cute,
nor quite geriatric. One time I sang to an electronic
accompaniment in public, and found it distasteful. At
present, only the belt, billfold, and the shoes I wear are
constructed from leather. No tights!
"That leaves but one question begging: am I trivial?"
"No! No," Jacquil hurriedly assured the old oriental.
"That is not what I mean at all. For me this is a lucky break.
My big chance. Just the idea that you would grant an
interview, is in itself, a big story!"
"And why is that?"
"Talk to anyone highly placed, in the diplomatic corps,
politics, the military, even show business, and eventually you
will hear someone speak the name of 'Mr. Lu', Jacquil
explained. "If pressed, they will admit that they have never
personally met 'Mr. Lu', nor even know anyone who has met
'Mr. Lu'.
"Eventually, one begins to imagine that 'Mr. Lu' is just an
urban myth." Absorbed in her story, Jacquil forgot most of
her nervousness. "Is 'Mr. Lu' like the 'Kilroy' who was
everywhere during World War Two, or the explosion of
controversy over UFO sightings beginning in the late fifties?
Could he be like the phenomenal rash of 'Elvis spottings' or
the rise of countless conspiracy theories?"
Enthusing she concluded, rather endearingly, to the
oriental, "The simple fact that you have appeared at all,
confirms your existence. That's news!"
"Ah," Mr. Lu breathed softly, "Had not thought of that, I
confess."
"But, there must be some reason for this interview,"
Jacquil objected. "Otherwise, it's not even 'soft news'! It
would meant that I've descended in tabloid journalism, with
my latest filmed evidence of Bigfoot.
"Why did you request an interview?" Jacquil demanded,
accusingly. "The station was not aware of your presence in
town, so they did not approach you, you approached them.
"And, why did you specifically request me? Any one of
the network heavy hitters would have made a pact with the
devil to get this interview. The station would not casually
assign their 'Who's New at the Zoo Girl' unless that was one
of the conditions they could not negotiate."
"You flatter me now."
"No. Not a bit," Jacquil replied. "Neither will I flatter
myself. If you are presenting yourself for an interview, and I
am sent, no one above me at the station could prevent it.
You requested me. Why?"
"Bright," Bob Squab commented to no one, in an audible
voice, "And I don't just mean the hair."
"All that high level gossip," Mr. Lu frowned, "did not
raise any questions?"
"Oh, that!" Jacquil returned, dismissingly. "It started
when I turned fifteen. First boys, later men--and once I
entered the profession, important men-- even powerful men
tried to impress me. What they owned, what they could
buy, what they could do, how much more 'inside' they were
than the others. After a while I noticed that the higher I
networked into different fields, the more frequent the name,
'Mr. Lu' arose.
"And 'Mr. Lu' was always the trump card in their
winning hand."
"A pissing contest is a pissing contest, is a pissing
contest," Bob breathed reverently, adding, "at any level."
"And what did that indicate to you?" Mr. Lu seemed to
be impervious to Bob's asides.
"In any single field, it might have been a
tediously-specialized species of name-dropping," Jacquil
mused. "But, why does the name of a single mystery-man
affect so many people in different ways.
"It can impress a self-involved Wall Street bore. A nasty
Euro-trash corporate raider starts dipping deep into the
scotch whenever the name 'Mr. Lu' comes up. Finally,
what's in the name 'Mr. Lu' that can drain the testosterone
out of a notorious Beverly Hills gigolo-to-the-stars? One
who, by repute, was once a fearless mercenary working out
of Cuba.
"Also, the son of a fallen starlet and former Hollywood
executive, a highly-placed aide in the Pentagon, and an MIT
post grad who is fluent in so many machine languages that
he's lost in English, have only one trait in common. When
the name 'Mr. Lu' is mentioned, their heads pop up, and
they check behind, to see if anyone is listening."
"Admittedly, an unattractive habit, but not one which
should regularly occur." Mr. Lu observed.
"You might think not," Jacquil agreed, a mischievous
smile curling on her lips, "but you would be wrong.
Frequent loud public mention of that name was the only
cure I could discover for some of the more annoying crushes
several important men have subjected me to."
"Devil, the bit!" Bob exclaimed.
"So you see, Mr. Lu," Jacquil was also becoming adept
at ignoring Bob's impertinences, "I, too, have been using
your name as a talisman, without any certainty that you even
exist."
"I am not at all certain," Mr. Lu commented,
thoughtfully, "that I can approve of my name being bandied
about as either an aphrodisiac, or a prophylactic."
"Everything is grist for someone's windmill," Bob
pontificated to his fictitious fans.
"I can assure you I never used . . . I mean, I never . . .
" Jacquil's cheeks mottled into a deep crimson.
"Lord love us, it's an innocent," Bob declared, raising the
temperature of the fiery blood scalding Jacquil's ears.
"When they held their last convention, I must have gone to
the wrong telephone booth. Next, we will be finding
unicorns."
"Some people," Jacquil declared, finally rising to Bob's
baiting, "concentrate their energies into their career, rather
than scattering it about in ribald innuendoes."
"Raising 'soft news' to greater heights," Bob scoffed,
"instead of cultivating a good crop of hard-ons."
Jacquil gasped, her face crimson, ears scarlet, rigid with
mortification and unable to utter another syllable.
"No, that's unfair," Bob relented, magnanimously. "I'm
sure you cultivated more that you share. It is in the
harvesting where you are lax."
"Children," Mr. Lu's bland voice mysteriously broke the
painful tableau, draining tension from the room. "Come to
order."
There was a moment of silence, while Jacquil was able to
gain some shreds of her composure, then Mr. Lu continued.
"You say you research your topics before an interview,"
Mr Lu objected, forever dismissing the embarrassing conflict
that had preceded.
"I did try, Mr. Lu," Jacquil assured him. "That is why I
was almost late. I spent the morning trying to tap any source
I could find. I pleaded with several co-workers, begging
favours for whatever information they had. And, I called in
every favour owed to me. But, it was of no use."
"Did you explain you reason for wanting information of
Mr. Lu?" the oriental asked quickly.
"No, I . . . " Jacquil took a deep breath, "I was afraid
they would take the story away from me, if word got
around. I made it seem like idle curiosity. Well, obsessive,
maybe, but idle, nonetheless."
"And what did you learn about me?"
"Besides the little I knew before, I learned nothing,
except your first name. That came from a sweet, old,
retired, Navy Admiral, who seems to have developed an
avuncular interest in me."
"So!" Mr. Lu inhaled. "That worried me, I confess. The
indiscretions of youth fade from memory when one gets
older. I had forgotten I once was not as circumspect as I
ought. Now, I can cease pondering whether I am
harbouring a `Deep Throat' in my small group of
employees."
"But I only learned that your first name is Louis," Jacquil
objected.
"And I thought everyone who knew that had gone to
their graves," Mr. Lu replied. "It is not the size of the leak
which concerned me, but the fact that one existed. Now I
can relax. I know the source. The blame rests with me,
when I still had much to learn. Let's hope that old man does
not babble his information to the world, before he dies."
"Please, don't make any trouble for that sweet old man.
He's perfectly harmless." Jacquil entreated. "And, despite
his obvious partiality for me, it took an excessive amount of
pleading to get him to tell me the little he knew."
"Do not fear, I shall not trouble your ancient admirer,"
Mr. Lu relented. "But, just for the record, there is nothing
'harmless' about him. Of all of your courtiers, at least the
one's I could recognise from your descriptions, he is the
most cunning seducer of the lot."
"He's a perfect gentleman," Jacquil retorted, defensively.
"Nobody's perfect," Mr. Lu countered. "If he lived to be
one hundred, I would still not trust him. Come back a week
later and disinter his grave. Five will get you ten you'll find
two bodies in his coffin."
"That's ridiculous. He never treated me badly, I assure
you."
"I said that he admires women," Mr. Lu reiterated, "and
once he was a consummate swordsman. The painful truth is
that he prefers little boys."
Jacquil looked aghast.
"Let me assure you that there are others whom you have
met who share similar propensities."
"The Greeks had a word for it," Bob injected, casually.
"But we are wasting time," Mr. Lu switched topics. "You
need answers and I am too rushed to continue this fencing
with you."
"Time is money," Bob observed, owlishly.
"No similarity at all, I assure you," Mr. Lu disagreed, for
once, deigning to speak to Bob directly. "Despite its
prominence, money is an illusion. It is quite as infinite in
supply as the labour it represents, provided you know where
to invest your labours. Time, on the other hand, is severely
limited, and once your supply runs out, no mere illusion
--like money--can buy you an extra second."
"Organ transplants and bypass surgery are free?" Bob
questioned. "I'm glad to know that."
"Those are medical achievements, not the result of
money," Mr. Lu objected. "Gifted people have always been
able to learn of new ways to prolong life. That they needed
the carrot of money to lure them into the quest only proves
that they are as deluded as their patients."
Mr. Lu lifted his hand, and for a wonder, whatever Bob
was about to reply died in his throat.
"It seems I have put you into an awkward position," Mr.
Lu apologised to Jacquil. "My only defence is that I was so
focused on my own goal that I became blind to the needs of
others. It is a failing which I should really try to remedy,
except that it has served me so well in the past."
"Mr. Lu, you do not owe me anything."
"A pleasant fiction, my dear," Mr. Lu returned. "But
quite erroneous. Your accusation that I am responsible for
your being here is completely accurate.
I don't wish to insult a guest, but every attempt to
engage you for an exclusive interview was met with the
stiffest opposition. Not that your work is considered
contemptible, it merely reflects on a consequence of my
elusiveness, and the extreme competitive nature of your
own profession."
"Oh, how I love a nicely worded insult," Bob breathed,
respectfully.
"The truth is, you are here as a result of much concerted
effort by my staff."
"I am?" Jacquil shivered, "What statement did you wish
to make known to the public?"
"I have no real desire to tell the public anything."
"But, you said . . . I don't understand."
"My real purpose was to see you."
"See me!" Jacquil squeaked.
"Actually, to put my hand upon you."
Jacquil backed uncertainly toward the door, which was
blocked by Bob Squab displaying equal surprise..
"I must confess," Mr. Lu continued, eyelids heavy, not
following the retreating Jacquil Dernier, "to an undeniable
obsession for one particular commodity."
"What," Jacquil gasped, "commodity?"
"Titan hair?"
"Hair?"
"Titan hair."
"A sawbuck to her hairdresser," Bob jeered, "and you
could have had 'titan hair' of your own."
"I do not dye my hair," Jacquil snapped, rising to a
familiar enemy.
"She is telling the truth," Mr. Lu declared to Bob, "I have
never accepted a wooden nickel, nor bought a gold brick in
my life. What makes you think I would start at this late
stage."
"You know how it is, trot out a shapely young chick in
front of an old geezer and sometimes . . . " Bob twirled a
finger around his ear, expressively, ". . . dicked in the knob.
And then, there's always senility."
"I am not, 'dicked in the knob', as you so colourfully
portray it," Mr. Lu responded in icy tones. "Neither am I
aware of displaying any signs of senility."
"No, of course not," Bob returned, placating. "You
couldn't be expected to know?"
"Mr. Squab," Jacquil commanded, aghast, "Enough!"
"Somebody should tell him," Bob insisted, unabashed.
"I wish you would be frank with me," Jacquil pleaded.
"Exactly what is it that you want? I don't understand."
"Frank? You just said his name was Louis," Bob
rambled in the background. "No wonder everyone's
confused."
"Is it so hard to understand?" Mr. Lu insinuated, as he
approached with a disarming stealth and mesmerising voice.
"Merely, to put . . . my hand . . . upon you . . . to touch
your hair."
The old man reached out and lifted a strand of Jacquil's
hair, combing it lightly through his fingers. Watching as the
fiery strands fell over Jacquil's breast, he reached forward
lightly caressing the top of the awestruck woman's head.
Combing through gentle fingers, Mr Lu drew a larger
handful of fine long strands forward to join the first.
"Hey, be careful, there," Bob advised. "You're covering
up one of her best parts."
"Silence!"
A lump grew in Jacquil's throat, as the old oriental ran
both hands upward through her fiery locks. A curiously
luxurious and novel melting sensation spread outward from
the muscles along her spine. As both hands curled softly
about Jacquil's scalp, she could not help seeing the old man's
face in a strangely unguarded expression.
Something of pleasure mixed with a bitter tinge of pain
showed clearly on the old man's usually inscrutable features.
More curious, Jacquil's body began to respond to these
bizarre blandishments. She became aware of her breasts
becoming thick and heavy, while her nipples hardened into
sharp points of painful delight. The muscles in her groin--
usually so remote--tightened, becoming clamorous.
With sudden insight, Jacquil realised that whatever had
attracted this odd man to her, her hair, the clothes she wore,
her body, or her voice, his first action was to grasp her true
self. Captive between the two hands, fingers raking her hair,
callused palms resting against her temples, was that part
which controlled all the rest. Between his hands lay the
home of the 'I' she called herself. And his first act was to
clutch that. A fission of fear lanced an icy path down her
spine, to strike a fireball explosion of burning weakness in
her loins.
"That is right," Mr. Lu agreed, for a moment seeming to
be a mind reader. "I had you brought here so I might touch
your titan hair. I know this is a great concession, because
you dislike being touched. And I believe you dislike my
touch more than most. So I am even more in your debt."
Mr. Lu drew his hands slowly through Jacquil's long
burnished tresses, then stepped back, with a sigh.
"So, now I must do something for you, that I dislike, give
up information that I posses," Mr. Lu stated in dismay.
"And you do not know enough to ask the right questions, so
I must choose something disagreeable to make public, to
balance our mutual indebtedness.
"I shall tell you about my latest creation."
Mr. Lu crossed to a door, opened it and questioned
someone on the other side, "Has the transducer been sent
down? Then, unpack it again."
"If we're going to get this sucker after all," Bob nudged
Jacquil into action, "you better use this."
Jacquil cast a single disgusted glance at the greasy comb
Bob had wrenched from his back pocket, and dug into the
bag hanging from her shoulder. With a collapsible hairbrush
and the mirror in her compact, she had soon repaired the
worst ravages.
"How do I look?" Jacquil asked unthinkingly, to her
immediate regret.
"Mmwahh!" Bob kissed his finders toward her. "You
give great reflection."
"And you give great impudence," Jacquil snapped back.
"Glad you appreciate it."
"I don't," Jacquil hissed. "And I will see that you never
work for the station again."
"I can always go back to doing weddings," Bob replied,
irrepressibly. "In any case I shall dine out for years on the
story of the old geezer rubbing his hands around your head.
What do you keep in there, he looked like he was in pain?
You too, for that matter."
"Oh! Shut up!" Jacquil commanded. "No one would
believe anything like that happened, and I shall certainly
deny it."
"Lucky I had the camera running, then," Bob volleyed,
"isn't it?"
Jacquil only had time to gasp, and try to regain control of
herself, as the door opened and Mr. Lu returned.
"We are just about ready," Mr. Lu proclaimed, with a
faintly uneasy expression, "to demonstrate a totally new
technology." He frowned heavily, "It's still in its infancy, not
ready for public display, really. But I'm sure that what I am
about to demonstrate will create a sensation with your
public. More than you may have expected.
"I call it a transducer," the old man said with distaste. "I
had meant to call it a cyberneuron, but my market people tell
me this would confuse consumers because the part of that
word has been overused in other connections."
"What does it do?" Jacquil inquired, politely.
"It's to become a electronic mediator at a sub-vocal
level." The old man beamed into their puzzled faces, then
realised they were not comprehending.
"All right, we shall go slower," the old man promised.
"Let us say your agent is negotiating your contract with the
station management. He wants to get you as much as he
can, but not price you so high that you are in jeopardy of
losing your contract. Alternately, station management
wishes to pay as little as possible, but not so little that you
start shopping around for another position.
Complicating that is what the station desires of you as an
employee, and your personal desires about developing your
talents. The negotiation demands a lot of offers and counter
offers, and as a result one party or another often suffers.
"Your desire to break out of 'soft news' is an example.
Would you, for example, be willing to forgo you next
scheduled raise, if you were given at least one hard-news
story each week? Perhaps, even take a cut in pay?"
"The transducer will streamline and improve the
mediation process."
"You don't mean," Jacquil inquired, "like mental
telepathy?"
"That's it, exactly!" the old man enthused. "Only not by
mental prowess, but through cyberneuronic assistance."
"But that's fantastic!" Jacquil exclaimed. "Why did you
not want to announce this invention."
"Well, actually," the old man confessed, "because it
doesn't work quite right."
Bob snorted derisively, but kept his lips sealed.
"We have the hardware," the old man stated, "but not the
software. Selectivity is the problem. We can not limit the
degree of exchange. We have not yet been able to devise . .
. for want of a better term . . . a firewall."
"And that's a problem?" Jacquil was puzzled.
"Let's go back to our example, and see," Mr Lu
temporized. "Your agent and the station's executives sit
down. They transduce the settlement, and your agent walks
out knowing everything . . . or at least anything . . . the
station's personnel executive knows, and vice versa.
What happens?"
As Jacquil puzzled over the question, Bob's chuckle
echoed in the room.
"P-pistols at dawn," Bob gasped through his mirth.
"Exactly," Mr. Lu agreed.
"But I don't understand," Jacquil cried.
"They'd each know what an asshole the other thinks he
is," Bob chortled, "and about all the dirty tricks and back
stabbing business deals they have put over on each other."
"You see," Mr. Lu explained, "truth can have a very
disruptive influence on weak-minded people. You should
not search for the faults in others, unless you can handle
having your own faults displayed before you. Most people
require a little lock box where they can hide and forget all
their guilty secrets."
"Yeah, and some need to hire a friggin' warehouse," Bob
agreed.
"You said it was the software that was at fault," Jacquil
continued, tenaciously. "How do you know the hardware
works?"
"The device works, the problem is selectivity. In effect,
it works too well." Mr. Lu avowed. "We have rigged a
demonstration program that runs only one person at a time.
It works as a kind of lie detector."
"A lie detector that reads minds," Jacquil inferred. "I
should think the police force would be interested in that."
"We could not release it," Mr Lu replied, regretfully,
"because it does not precisely work."
"Just as I thought," Bob snorted, "more vapourware!"
"No, it exists, and it works," the old man returned
defensively, "if you understand the nature of truth."
"I'm afraid you're losing me, Mr. Lu," Jacquil interjected,
scowling darkly at Bob.
"Right. So, let's try a little demonstration," Mr. Lu
suggested. "When was the last time you weighed yourself?"
"About a week ago."
"Does your weight vary much?"
"Not really. A little up at Christmas, a little down if I
catch a cold."
"What did the scale say you weighed?"
"One hundred and eight."
"So, if I asked you, how much you weighed, your answer
would be?"
"One hundred and eight pounds."
"And if I produced a scale that said you were one
hundred and thirteen pounds, should I say you were lying?"
"Maybe your scale is wrong," Jacquil replied, "or the one
at the gym. I don't think I could gain five pounds without
noticing it."
"Maybe you were starkers in the gym," Bob suggested.
"If you climbed out of those clothes, maybe you would be
back to a hundred and eight."
"In any case," Mr. Lu continued, "this demonstration
program is not going to find the truth. If you know you
have gained five pounds and lied, it will catch you. If you
were mistaken, it will confirm that your error was honest."
"That's quite a bit," Jacquil protested. "At least it would
catch those who were guilty, and knew it."
"Isn't there some silly law on the books about the accused
having the right not to testify against himself?" Bob
muttered. "Yeah, I guess we're going to have to scrap that
one."
"At least an innocent person could request it, and prove
their innocence," Jacquil contended, gamely.
"Unfortunately, as any traffic cop will tell you," Mr. Lu
dissented, "there are people who are convinced that they
never passed fifty-five, while both the radar gun and the
cop's judgement put them at seventy-three. Those people
are not liars, but neither are they telling the truth.
"They were not paying attention, they never meant to do
it, and suddenly they are charged with something they are
not aware that they did. Of course, they did not speed. The
cop's a liar, the radar gun is broken, it is all a racket to get
extra money for the traffic patrol. It's a rip-off! Of course it
is.
"You will find that most of the world is filled with people
who fervently believe things for which they have no proof.
And, not only are many of the things people believe untrue,
but also too many are lamentable. My invention can only
prove whether the person's belief is a matter of mere
ignorance, or a calculated design."
"Then what is the story?" Jacquil inquired.
"They have invented a cure for which there is no
disease," Bob commented, sarcastically.
"Oh, there is disease," Mr. Lu assured them. "Although
as it exists now, the cure might prove worse. All I can give
you is a `new technology' demonstration. Merely a
proto-type."
"Coming soon," Bob interjected, "to a theatre near you."
Two men carried in a large trunk. One snaked a coil of
industrial-looking electrical cord from the trunk to a wall
receptacle. The other lifted a lid that exposed a keyboard,
monitor, and a helmet that barely covered the crown of a
person's head. But, in some vague way, it looked like a
tackily-built virtual-reality headpiece.
Mr. Lu accepted the helmet his employee handed to him
with a curt nod. Deftly, the old oriental prodded a power
bar and several curiously marked toggles.
"Here," he handed Jacquil the helmet, "put this on."
"M-me!"
"And you," the old man rounded on the dumbfounded-
looking Bob, "are you here to tape this, or just provide
colourful asides?"
Jacquil set the helmet gingerly upon her head, as Bob
lined up the Video Cam lens and rolled tape.
"No, the headpiece must be set squarely upon your
head," Mr. Lu reached up to correct the helmet's position
and push it down firmly. "The receptor-inductors must not
be masked by your hair."
The old businessman returned to peer into the
brightening monitor. He tapped a few keys.
"It's never a perfect fit," he informed them. "But it's
close enough that I can adjust the angle, pitch and depth of
the probes magnetically."
A surreal moment passed, as Mr. Lu tapped a crescendo
on the keyboard while gazing raptly into the monitor.
Meanwhile, Jacquil could see that Bob was zooming in for a
tight close up of her face. She tried to look unconcerned.
She had certainly had enough experience smiling into the
lens while one of the zoo's newborn specimens slithered
through her hands, or piddled onto her new dress. Her only
coherent thought was why didn't Bob shoot the controls in
the trunk? They could always get shots of her.
"I want you to answer the following questions as honestly
as you can." Mr. Lu commanded. "What is your name?"
"Jacquil Denier."
"Please," Mr. Lu sighed, "I requested truthful answers."
"Jackie Daubner, but my professional name is Jacquil
Denier."
"Your sex?"
"Female."
"Some gizmo!" Bob muttered almost under his breath.
"Tell me, which of the following statements are true: two
and two IS five; or, two and two ARE five."
"Two and two Are . . . er . . . neither statement is
correct."
"Give several answers to the following question, of
which only one should be truthful," Mr Lu continued.
"How many of your siblings are still alive?"
"Three. Five, two brothers and three sisters. I have no
siblings. One sibling, if you count a half-sister."
"You have no sibling," Mr. Lu concluded. "Now,
truthfully or untruthfully answer the following questions with
a "Yes" or "No".
"Yes, Mr. Lu."
"You are nineteen years old."
"Yes."
"You are twenty."
"No, I am not."
"You are twenty-seven."
"You guessed it! Yes."
"You are twenty-four."
"No, sir, I am not."
"That's all. You are a twenty-four-year-old, female, only
child, named Jackie Daubner. Mr. Lu announced.
"Do you have any living relations?"
"Yes."
"Any close friends, male or female?"
"Of course I have friends."
"I am about to give you a direct command," Mr Lu
advised. He tapped a few keys and continued. "Do not
attempt to remove the headpiece. Will you comply."
"Yes."
"Speak to your controller."
"Yes, Mr Lu."
"The truth, are you a virgin."
"NO! No, I am not, Mr. Lu."
"I see. You have had many partners."
"Ye-yes."
"Do you enjoy sex?"
"Well . . . of course I do, Mr. Lu."
"How often have you been sexually intimate?"
"I . . . I . . . ."
"The truth now, Miss Dauber."
"Once! Almost twice."
"Almost twice, Miss Daubner?"
"I did not want to, but he did."
"I see. That only happened once?"
"No, but in this case, he wouldn't take "No" for an
answer."
"Then, don't you mean twice. Not almost twice?"
"I convinced him to take "No" for an answer."
"What the heck did you use to convince him," interjected
Bob, "a two-by-four?"
"No, I used the spiked heel of my shoe stamped into the
arch of his foot, and the hardest kick to the groin I could
manage in a tight skirt."
"Whew!" Bob ejaculated. "You want to make sure that
gizmo's working before we get started, boss. I have strong
convictions against body piercing. Especially when it's my
body."
"The transponder is working perfectly," Mr. Lu snapped
at Bob. "Get to work, we haven't got all day."
Bob set the Video Cam down lightly on the case,
checking briefly to assure himself that Jacquil was still well
framed in the shot. As the tape ground on, Mr. Lu stepped
from the room while Bob drew near.
Gently, he slipped the microphone from Jacquil's fingers,
looped the cord over his neck so that it was draped on his
chest.
"Don't fight me," Bob advised, as he deftly unbuttoned
her jacket and lowered her arms so it could be slipped over
her shoulders and off. Next, he began working at the
buttons of her blouse.
"From what I know of that gimmick," Bob informed
Jacquil, "your head feels like chewing gum. Unless I suggest
you do something, no thoughts of taking action will ever
cross your mind.
"Having no worries is great, but as soon as the gimmick
is switched off everything rushes at you, kerpow! Gave me
such a headache, I thought I'd squirt oatmeal out my ears. It
goes easier if you are directed to think about each question
that's bothering you, and dismiss it."
"Your first thought will be about where you work. They
will miss you, and they know where you were going, right?
Wrong. You never talked to your employer. You talked to
me.
The boss has this neat gizmo that replicates voices. I
talked to your assignment editor two weeks ago about doing
some work for him. Got nothing out of it but his voice
kayatta-kayttatting on for over half an hour. The off-air
audio from two of your reports got me all the samples I
needed of your voice.
"I called early, when you were still groggy, just to be
sure you didn't smell a rat. Then, told you to meet your
usual video operator at the hotel, so you wouldn't be
tempted to drop by the station. Finally, I audited you home
and cell phones to be sure you didn't try to call in. If you
had, you would have gotten a series of busy signals, wrong
numbers, or heavy static. Once you were on your way, I
could always knock out your cell phone.
"At the same time, I called the news director with your
voice replicator and had you inform him that you were
quitting. He called you a bunch of names you'd rather not
hear, and ended by saying you'd never work in the business
again.
"You'll be glad to know that you remained a lady
throughout that distressing scene. You informed him that it
was immaterial to you what he said about you. You were
not only leaving the business, but also the country, to be
with the man you loved, and--since he insisted--you were
giving up your career.
"If you cherish any deep professional ambitions, I'm
sorry about that, but in a way it is the truth."
Thoughout the monologue, Bob Squab had been
efficiently divesting Jacquil of her clothes. He had lifted
each foot, removed the shoe, and pushed the puddle of her
skirt aside. He and tossed the skirt onto a nearby leather
chair.
"Now, I want to be perfectly straight with you," Bob
insisted. "I thought you were quite a cupcake on television,
but ever since our meeting in the lobby, I've known I was
going to enjoy this next part."
Bob put his burly arms about Jacquil and grasped her
bra's back strap. Breathing heavily, his thick fingers curled
under the elastic, searching along its length.
"Damnit! Where are the friggin' hooks on this
contraption?"
"The hooks are in the front, between the two cups, Mr.
Squab," Jacquil pronounced, as yet, untroubled.
"Call me Bob, Honey."
"I will, Bob Honey."
"Are you doing that on purpose?" Bob demanded,
suspiciously squinting into Jacquil's eyes.
Jacquil's mouth moved, but she could form no coherent
answer to Bob's question.
"I mean, are you making fun of me on purpose."
"No, Bob Honey," Jacquil replied, still unable to
articulate any coherent response.
"Answer "Yes" or "No". Do you mean you are not
making fun of me; or, do you mean that you are making fun
of me, but not on purpose?"
"No, Bob Honey."
"Hey man, give it up. Even with her intellect screwed
down to zero she can outwit you."
"Jamaal, what the hell are you doing here?"
"Boss sent me to see what was taking you so long. He
figured you musta got your head stuck up your ass, or
somebody's." The large, black bodyguard turned a smile on
Jacquil and inquired. "The truth now, Baby, wouldn't you
like to have old Bob's head up your ass?"
"No, I would not."
"Now, see," the bodyguard exclaimed, "didn't I tell you
that you were wasting your time." He reached forward,
releasing the bra clasp. The bra snapped open, unleashing
Jacquil's large, firm breasts to plop quivering into his
outstretched hands.
"Damn! I wanted to do that," Bob complained.
"As my Granny used to say," Jamaal quoted, pausing for
a moment to gently knead each meaty handful, before
continuing to strip the bra over Jacquil's shoulders and toss it
unceremoniously onto the heap of discards, "You take
shoulda, coulda, and woulda, add a dollar, and maybe you
can get a half-decent cup of coffee."
"Look I'll make a deal with you," Bob implored, sweat
rolling across his balding head, "We can take turns stripping
her. I'll even let you go first. Deal?"
"Yeah, man," the bodyguard laughed, "you've got
yourself a deal."
"Great!" Bob exploded, rubbing his hands together.
"You can get the pantyhose, but I promised myself I'd be the
one to rip off her panties!"
Jamaal slipped his fingers under the elastic top of
Jacquil's pantyhose, pushing the material downward, his
hands cupping the cheeks of her well-rounded bottom, slid
around her hips and across her abdomen to come together at
the furry apex of the long columns of her Jacquil's legs.
Slowly, the hands pushed down along the inside of Jacquil's
thighs, until the garments dropped to form a double donut
about her ankles.
"You sonovabitch!" Bob exploded, when he realized
what Jamaal had done. "I said we'd take turns!"
"Be cool man," Jamaal advised patiently. One at a time
he lifted Jacquil's feet out of her wadded-up pantyhose and
panties. "For one thing, Mr. Lu would cut up something
awful if you ripped this lovely lady's panties off. He wants
her to be gently extracted from them.
"So, I did you a favour. You don't want to get the boss
sore at you, do you? Besides, I left you the last piece."
"What's left!" Bob exclaimed, trying to regain his
composure.
"Well, look. On her left arm. No, her other left! Don't
you see it? She's wearing a wrist watch."
"As God is my witness," Bob intoned, as he slipped the
gold watch from Jacquil's wrist, "one of these day's I'm
going to tear off your arm, and beat you to death with the
wet end."
"Maybe," Jamaal replied, unimpressed, as he rose to his
feet, "or maybe I'll just slap that Star Wars beanie on your
head, and tell you to go fuck yourself."
"Are you two just about finished?" Mr. Lu inquired. The
elderly oriental businessman had disappeared. Entering the
room in his place, Mr. Lu appeared to be a swarthy Latino
wearing a chauffeur's uniform.
"All stripped for the trip, boss," Bob responded.
The chauffeur--Mr. Lu-- walked to a spot before Jacquil.
He respectfully slipped off his cap, and tucked it under his
arm.
"At some point in the future you will be permitted to
regain control of your thoughts. When you do you will be
able to think of me. What you think of me shall be most
unpleasant. In fact, it will be quite a while before you will
be capable of contemplating Mr. Lu with mere servility.
"Someday, and I assure you that day will arrive sooner than
you imagine, that opinion will change. Someday, thoughts
of me will cause you to flame with passion.
"I need to assure you now, that although you were
trapped, I never lied to you. I spoke the truth about this
machine. It can determine what a person truly believes, but
its inductors are also transmitters. This machine can also
determine what you will believe.
"At the moment, you are locked into a stasis, with
nothing but your autonomous bodily functions permitted.
You could be very easily programmed to experience sensual
arousal from the unique patterns in the vibrations of my
voice. Arousal could be tuned to produce carnal desire
merely by encountering my unique phemerals. Each sense
might be coded to stimulate a sexual reaction. In
combination they would combine geometrically, until any
physical confrontation with me would be akin to being
caught in an orgasmic whirlpool.
"At the moment, you are in the envious position of
entertaining no fears. That situation can not be maintained
for long. When you are eventually back in control of your
senses, I want you to remember this. What I have told you
is what the equipment can do. You have my word,
however, that I shall never use it on you.
In fact, there are few people whose personality I would
allow to be interfered with in such a manner. It would be
more ethical to kill the physical being, than to pervert that
individual's personality.
"I promise that you shall not suffer such a fate. I have
promised myself that by the eventually, you will be as much
my slave as if I had used the traducer. The only difference
shall be the means. The traducer uses electro-encephalitic
induction. I shall use physical instruction.
"At the moment, I know, you visualise yourself as an
image. Aside from being redundant, that statement exposes
your illness. You do not feel yourself. You are unable to
taste yourself. You can hear yourself, but rarely ever listen.
And if you ever encounter your own scent, you rush out to
purchase a remedy."
"Boss, you gonna stand there and talk to her all day?"
Bob queried. "I thought we were in a hurry."
"I hate to agree with the sack of guts," Jamaal added,
"but in this case, Mr. Lu, he's right."
"Right," Mr. Lu agreed, he checked his wristwatch. "We
have thirty-one hours and fifteen minutes for transport.
Come children, we have things to see to, people to do, with
miles to go before we sleep."
Swiftly slipping on his chauffeur's cap, Mr. Lu beat a
rapid tattoo on the keyboard. At the end of each sequence
he would first check the monitor, then cast a knowledgeable
eye over Jacquil's naked figure.
After a final rattle of keys, Mr. Lu exclaimed, "Done.
She's safe for thirty-one hours, but I do not wish to cut it too
fine. Target is eighteen hours."
"Jamaal, you are to travel close, and with the transducer
in tow. I shall join you after the first transfer. I do not
envision any problems, but it pays to anticipate. If anyone
gets hung up and cannot make the deadline, we will be
well-placed to reanimate and ad lib from there."
"Baby, are you going to have one swell headache," Bob
assured Jacquil as he reached to remove the traducer
headpiece.
"Sorry Bob, but we've got that wrinkle worked out,"
Mr. Lu contradicted.
"No headache?"
"The headache came from the data overload, as the brain
tried to assimilate and repackage the accumulated
information. There were two possible remedies. We can
dump the accumulation, leaving a blackout, or we can
initiate a dream-state, and allow the information to slowly be
absorbed."
"You mean I got that stinking headache for nothing,"
Bob demanded.
"No learning experience is a total loss," Mr. Lu
countered.
What are you bitching about," Jamaal chimed in, "It's not
like you ever found a use for the thing. Now, if it had been
your stomach, you would have good reason to complain."
"Children!" Mr. Lu warned, as the two continued
bantering as they stowed away the gear. "An interesting
side-light is the sequence of events. In the induced
dream-state the information is assimilated in order of impact
rather than chronological order."
"So she could be experiencing what," Jamaal inquired,
"that she's being abducted, or she's been stripped. . . ."
"Probably the most important thing to her," Bob injected,
"is that she's not going to get that once-in-a-lifetime
interview."
"Jamaal, go get the transportation case," Mr. Lu
commanded, "Bob get some help packing up the traducer."
"I'll fetch Huey and Dewey," Bob agreed.
"And dump this Video Cam somewhere while you. . . . "
Mr. Lu froze, then snarled out in a demanding voice, "Is this
camera recording."
"Yeah, Boss," Bob gulped, "I thought you would like a
recording. You know, the "Catching the Wild Pussy" safari
pictures."
"Man, are you nuts!" Jamaal demanded in disgust.
"Hey, I had to rent a real rig. We couldn't fool her with a
mock-up. So I thought while we had it, why not use it?"
"She-it, Man! Who the fuck were you in your former
life? Nixon!"
Mr. Lu stopped the camera and ejected the tape. He
carefully slipped the video tape into his jacket pocket and
snapped the camera's tape hatch shut. Carefully, he lifted the
Video Cam and held it out towards Bob.
"Take this thing, carefully wipe all the prints off of it, and
return it to the place where you rented it."
"Sure thing, Boss."
"Oh, and Bob," Mr. Lu ground out haltingly, "If you
ever pull a harebrained stunt like this again,
I swear I . . . I . . ."
". . . will slap that Star Wars beanie on his head and tell
him to go fuck himself," Jamaal suggested.
"Exactly!" Mr. Lu agreed.
The three men left the room on different errands,
muttering differing imprecations under their breath. Bob
carried the Video Cam, Mr. Lu carried the handful of
clothing stripped from Jacquil, while Jamaal slammed out
the main entrance in search of the still unseen transportation
case.
Only two unusual items remained in the room. One was
a large rectangular box with a heavy electrical cord
connecting it to a wall outlet. At its other end, a lid was
raised and the curious headpiece lay beside, still awaiting
careful stowing.
Beside this container stood Jacquil. She was completely
naked, her feet slightly apart, hands lowered to her sides.
Without her clothing, it could be seen--had anyone bothered
to look--that her body had relaxed. Her shoulders were
lowered, her breathing slow and deep, eyelids drooping,
while a faint smile turned up the corners of her mouth.
Below, a single crystal drop slowly lowered towards the
carpet, trailing a slender thread of viscose fluid from the
juncture of her long shapely legs. Amid the russet fur at
their apex, a tiny fragment or pink flesh pulsated in a slow
emphatic syncopation with her engorged and throbbing
nipples.
Alone and naked in an empty room, Jacquil's first
sensuous awakening quickened her body in a dreamlike
jangling of ecstasy. It was her first truly erotic experience,
but no more than the memory of a dream.
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