Message-ID: <7987eli$9804171618@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: Godiva Subject: {GODIVA} "The Interview" (humo va mc nc ScFi) [1/?] * Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Reply-To: Godiva@starmail.com MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: multipart/mixed; boundary="------------E88D76BD04F03C733A3DEB55" Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <35260533.27663546@starmail.com> This is a multi-part message in MIME format. --------------E88D76BD04F03C733A3DEB55 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit --------------E88D76BD04F03C733A3DEB55 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii; name="Intrvu01.txt" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Disposition: inline; filename="Intrvu01.txt" 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. --------------E88D76BD04F03C733A3DEB55-- -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |