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Subject: {ASSM} Reversion {Varkel} (M+m+b+g+f+F+) [17/21]
Date: Sun,  3 Nov 2002 13:10:03 -0500
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Reversion

a Novel by Varkel
Summer, 2002



Chapter 17: Growing Pains


"Gosh-a'mighty!  _Two_ pretty guys!"

The woman, on her knees searching for something under the huge
forming brake, was staring wide-eyed up at Karl and me.

Karl blushed.  I couldn't resist asking with a grin, "Is that
what you're looking for?"

"I'm a-looking for my guide piece that went and fell off just
now."  But she blushed also and returned my grin.  "'Course, I'm
always a-looking for a pretty guy.  Evening, Mr. Haines."

That last was intended for Carl Haines, the pseudonym Karl-Heinz
Studer had reluctantly chosen for himself as director of
Fernworks.  His reluctance had derived from his eye for history,
as he put it.  He had finally acquiesced when I reminded him that
the director must sign orders, contracts and bank checks.

"Hello, Maryanne," Karl responded, necessarily raising his voice
to be heard over the crash and whine of machinery.  Structural
members and paneling subassemblies were taking shape all around
us.

The woman wore a worker's attire, including the bandanna and
jeans Rosie the Riveter had made popular during WW2.  She was
attractive enough, thirtyish, bright, with lines in her face
doubtlessly reflecting motherhood in the mountains.  As we
watched she rose to her feet, the toolsteel edge guide in hand.
With a triumphant smile for us, she turned back to her machine.

But Karl caught her arm.  "One moment, Maryanne."

He beckoned for the shop foreman, who had been surreptitiously
watching us from his desk.  The man scurried around the looming
machines.  "Yes, sir, Mr. Haines!"

"Give me that guide please, Maryanne."  Karl held it up for the
foreman's scrutiny.  "If one of these falls in the wrong place,
it can damage a machine or a worker.  I want a hole drilled in
every such piece in this shop and a line attaching it to the
machine frame."

"A hole and a line," repeated the man.  "Steel cable?"

Karl shrugged.  "A piece of heavy twine will do -- and is 
probably safer.  The idea is to limit where it falls when 
vibration throws it out.  I authorize overtime for the 
machinists.  Get it done tonight, please."

"Yes, sir."

Karl returned the guide to the woman and we proceeded to the
center of the floor, where the scaffolding was under
construction.  Within its shape the forms of the two ships-to-be
were imaginable.

"American women!" said Karl, voice pitched only for my ears.

I grinned at him.  "Didn't your assemblers at Peenemunde think
you were pretty?"

He blinked then barked a laugh.  "I don't know if they did.  None
was female!"

"That surprises me!" I admitted.

He smiled.  "Women have better sense than men.  Peenemunde was
built in a swamp.  Look at that.  You can certainly appreciate
the diamond-shaped ship plan!"

"Yes, the scaffolding outlines it."

He shook his head and chuckled sheepishly.  "I doubt that anyone
in the world would believe the shape of humanity's first space
ships."

I nodded agreement.  "The circle and the ellipse dominate in
aeronautical design for the sake of streamlining.  But once you
leave the atmosphere streamlining loses its importance.  The
shape of your ship can be chosen to meet other objectives.  You
do know it's not just my arbitrariness, don't you?"

"Yes."  He sighed.  "You explained to me that all these flat,
triangular surfaces, set at acute angles with each other, reflect
the radar pulse off in useless directions instead of back at the
scanner.  And that makes sense.  Except ..."

He looked away.

"Except what?"

He took a breath.  "I'm sure it will work.  A little."

"What bothers you, Karl?"

"Even a mirror surface scatters some of the radiation."

"Very good," I agreed again.  "So I intend to absorb 99 per-cent
of the scatter before it bounces."

He blinked two or three times.  "_How_?"

"With 20,000 dicks plus that hopper load of iron splinters
waiting on the siding.  You're supposed to start straining and
filtering it next week, if you've been studying the schedules."

"_Dicks_!" he repeated scornfully, shaking his head.  "I've been
studying everything.  Do you really intend to _paint_ the ships
with that stuff?"

"Three coats each -- in the appropriate solution, of course.  I'll
use the dicks, tuned for a _magnetic_ instead of an inertial
field, to align the splinters while the paint dries.  With three
different paint layers and three different splinter sizes I
expect to get absorption over a large part of the radar spectrum.
These ships will be invisible, Karl."

His mouth worked.  Something was biting him, I could tell.  "What
is it?" I asked softly.

He blurted, "How do you _know_?"

"What?"

"How do you know these schemes will stop radar?"

"Because of the ..."  Gulf War, I did not say.

"You have no plan to test any of it.  You blithely assert these
results as if they have been operational for years!  One thing I
learned well at Peenemunde and again at White Sands: you can
never test a new machine too much."

I nodded.  "That's true.  But believe me, these stealthing
concepts have been well tested."

"Where?  When?"

I grinned.  "That's the right question, Karl.  Speaking of
'when,' the time has come to bring you fully on board."

His eyes widened slightly.  He sighed and smiled slowly.  "I
hoped you would learn to trust me a little.  Thank you, Mr.
Kimball."

"You're wel-  Ah!  Did Ros- I mean, Ann, tell you?"

"Rosalind.  No, not in so many words.  You people are not -- I've
had cause to look this word up -- not good dissimulators."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

He clasped his hands together, blinking like mad.  "It _is_ a
compliment!  I have never imagined people so brilliant as you
two."

"Well, thank you.  Do you know about Labor Day?"

"Labor --"  His eyes twinkled.  "Are you referring to the tiny
American concession to socialism?"

"I'm referring to next Monday, the seventh of September.  I want
you to announce that the plant will close Friday at six p.m. and
not reopen until Tuesday at six a.m."

He blinked.  "Three and a half days!"

"With only our three night watchmen in the building -- in
particular no director.  If he has no other plans, I'd like to
invite him to come home with me."

"'Home!'" he repeated and grinned.  "You have a home?"

"In fact I do -- along with all the current Fernworks principals."
I reached into my coat pocket, removed his air tickets and put
them into his hand.  "The flight leaves Charlotte at eight."

He opened the ticket folder.  "To Cleveland?  Your home is in
Cleveland?"

"Karl, I'll be frank.  We hope you'll soon also consider it
yours."

* * *

Alice asked sweetly in her precise German, "How much of a fascist
were you, Karl?"

"Alice!" I declared in startlement.

"I have a good reason for asking," she said, switching to
English, "not a critical one."

Karl's eyes were popping.  "You ... you asked me that in German!
_Seine Aussprache ist ausgezeichtnet!   Bitte, weiter sprechen!_"

"One of my degrees is from Heidelberg," she explained, once again
in German.

"When could you possibly have attended ...  I didn't think
Heidelberg admitted women."

She grinned slyly.  "Customs are changing.  I took a degree there
in 1968."

"In ..."  He shook his head and chuckled defensively, reverting
to English.  "You wish to have a bit of fun with me, isn't it
so?"

"Only a bit.  Were you a strong fascist, Karl?"

His voice stiffened.  "Apparently not so strong.  My wife left me
because I criticized Nazi ruthlessness."

"Did she!  Karl, I apologize for my impertinence, but I do have
good reason.  How do you feel about relations with inferior
races?"

He blinked several times.  "Do you mean Negroes?  We have hired
..."

His voice trailed off as Alazar scampered across the floor and
leapt into Alice's lap.  The capuchin's short arms encircled her
neck.  His hairy cheek pressed hers.  From that vantage he stared
suspiciously at Karl, who half rose in his chair before falling
back, wide-eyed.

Alice's smile strengthened.  "Perhaps I should have said,
'inferior _species_.'"

"Ah, uh ..." Karl sputtered.  He looked at me blankly.

I turned to Clara, sitting on the couch beside me and asked
dryly, "Is this how you plan to do it?"

The older woman smiled.  "Don't you think it will be
interesting?"

We were sitting in the den.  Two other capuchins entered from the
hall and crossed the floor to stand between Karl and myself.  I
recognized Melita, my old playmate, plus a female member of the
new crop, born in Cleveland.  When I gestured to her, Melita
jumped into my lap then up to my shoulder, her preferred perch.

Clara said, "The young female in front of you, Karl, is named
Ochela.  She wants to love you."

"I, I ..."  He was blinking like mad.  Suddenly he blushed.  "I
could never refuse a female who wanted to love me.  Do I ...
extend my arms?"

Instead of what I call _scampering_, which I define as running on
the feet plus knuckles of the hands, the remaining capuchin held
herself fully erect and closed the distance to Karl with short,
dainty steps.  Directly before him she raised her arms.
Hesitantly he leaned forward, caught her furry sides and raised
her into his lap.  He released her to stroke her back but she
moved closer, leaned up and kissed him on the point of the chin.
No natural monkey would do that.  To his credit Karl did not
flinch.

On the contrary, he trembled and stroked her back with both
hands, muttering in awe, "_Mein Gott_!"  She caught one of his
hands and also kissed the palm.  Using finger and thumb he
brought one of her tiny hands up to his own lips, then turned an
oddly softened expression toward me.

"She's adorable!" he declared breathily.

Clara said, "These are capuchins, Karl, New World monkeys.
Ochela wants to love you with all her heart.  She is yours
whenever you are here.  She actually understands a few words of
English.  Try giving her simple directions when you have her
alone."

"I had no idea they were so _tame_!  These are ... pets?"

"Much more than that, Karl."

"And they have the run of the house?"

"Oh, yes."  She stood up.  "I'm sure you're full of questions,
but you've hardly arrived.  Alice will be your guide tonight and
provide you with answers."

He and Alice rose together.  He turned to me.  "Rosalind is not
here?"

Alice said, "She'll fly in tomorrow," and added with a saucy
grin, "She's giving me tonight to get to know you."

He grinned.  "Is she indeed!"  Suddenly he blushed.

"Ooo, that's pretty!" the young woman asserted, winking at me.
She took his hand possessively.  "I'll lead you upstairs, but
first look behind you."

With a blink he turned.  He and I had parked our suitcases just
inside the hall door.  Eight capuchins appeared, four to each
bag.  After pulling each flat on the floor, they hefted both by
their corners and scampered away to the stairs.  Multiple bare
feet pattered rapidly on the treads, ascending.  That display
evoked the second "_Mein Gott_!" of many to come.

When man and girl, each bearing his familiar, had departed after
an eye-roll from the former and a wink from the latter, I said
dryly to Clara, "That bit about Rosalind's motive was the exact
truth, I gather.  Where is she?"

"In Washington, running a couple of financial errands for Mr.
Upchurch.  Among other things, Alice wanted to be the one who
advises Karl about reversion.  According to Rosalind, neither you
nor she has yet spilled those beans."

"No, Rosalind doesn't know the math."

"The math!"  She smiled.  "Will you have time this weekend to
disclose it all?"

"If you women don't keep him to yourselves!"

"Now, Timmy, would we do that?"  She grinned at me askance.
"I'll show him the birds and the bugs tomorrow at breakfast, and
activate his computer.  But in the meantime Alice wants to find
out something very specific about our new man."

"What's that?"

"Can he enjoy women while in contact with another man?"

I started.  "In _contact_?  What do you mean?"

Her eyes never wavered.  "Perhaps I mean while his skin is
touching that of another man as well as a woman or two."

"Or three," I added.  "My god, Clara!"

She nodded.  "I said as much.  The real question is whether _you_
can tolerate it!"

I took another swig of the traveler's restorative that had
awaited us on the sideboard.  She watched me with a steady,
quizzical expression.

"You women like this idea, I take it."

She shrugged.  "The young ones do, certainly.  They could only
indulge two or three times at Chicago because, they tell me, it's
very hard to find willing men.  They're both atwitter over the
possibility now."

"Christ, Clara!  How do _you_ feel about it?"

"I think it has potential."  She sighed.  "Tim, consider it.
_You_ certainly have no inferiority to exhibit to your friend, no
cause to feel competition in any sphere.  Are men so different
from women?  Could not the performance of another man and the
greater responsiveness of the women stimulate _you_ to greater
heights?"

I stared at her and licked my lips.  "It might.  But it might
also cause irreparable harm."

She laughed with a touch of derision.  "Is this my godlike first
reverter who suddenly wishes to minimize risk?"

"Risk to my women."

"Look again, Tim.  In this you don't worry for your women."

"Whatever."  I shook my head.  "I need to think about it, Clara,
probably for some time."

She studied me, eyes flicking back and forth over my face before
her interest faded.  "Your women will be disappointed."

"I haven't said, 'No!'"

"Haven't you?"

The trouble was that I had an instant picture of Karl's and my
dicks plunging together into the same vagina.  Whose didn't
matter.  That picture was anything but stimulating!  I wanted to
chuckle ruefully at my previously undetected Victorianism.

The only times I had ever seen Karl's equipment were in views of
two or three encounters with Rosalind, recommended because of
some presumably inadvertent revelation about his nature or
history.  His was smaller than my current size.  Most are.
Considering it any kind of threat was ridiculous.  A line from
one of the Greek savants came to me:  "Extreme attraction and
extreme revulsion are weaknesses of a common root."  Yuck!

"I haven't said, 'No,'" I repeated.  Shifting Melita to my arm, I
stood up.  "It's been a long day and I need some refreshment."

Clara stood too.  With an understanding smile she tugged her
ruffled blouse over her head.  Out popped the full breasts de
rigueur since Rosalind and Alice had set the style.

"Exactly right," I declared.  Cupping one in my hand, I turned
her away toward the stairs.

* * *

Karl and Alice joined us for breakfast, all four people in robes
and slippers.  He paused in the kitchen doorway, allowed Alice to
precede him to the table and bowed to the three of us, declaring
solemnly, "_Goetter von der Zukunft, guten Morgen!_"

"Karl!" Alice rebuked him.  "Clara doesn't speak German."  She
grinned slyly.  "The 'gods' part is correct, of course."

His brow knitted while he stared at Clara.  He asked in English,
"Did no German speaker survive the Calamity?"

Clara shook her head.  "A few thousand survived in the oneills."

He blinked.  "Oneills?"

"Artificial space habitats, named for Jerry O'Neill, the American
who first designed one" -- she grinned -- "about 12 years from now.
But Karl, I fear that in my universe, outside a few such
enclaves, all languages but English are dying.  The Tower of
Babel is reversed."

He blinked several times.  Suddenly he took a deep breath,
wrinkled his nose appreciatively and licked his lips.  Both
females smiled fondly.  Shortly he was seated between them to
attack a large American breakfast.

When his appetite was obviously blunted, I asked with a grin,
"What has happened to convince you of our divinity?"

"Your powers would convince anyone."  He took a breath and
blushed but continued doggedly, "This young lady told me in
advance what I might do with her help, then showed me it was all
true.  Only _eine Goettin_ -- does English have the feminine of
_god_?  Ah.  Only a goddess might give a man such a night as my
last!"

Alice grinned smugly.  "You are almost the poet, Karl."

I chuckled.  "So religious conversion takes a new form?"

Clara giggled.  Karl caught Alice's hand and raised it to his
lips.  "This divine form!"

Alice is often inventive in matters sexual.  I resolved to review
her performance for novelty.

Clara asked Karl, "Will you have some more coffee?"

"No, thank you," he answered, wiping his chin with a napkin then
rubbing his belly in contentment.

"Then we should clear the decks," she continued, "for the next
step."

As she spoke perhaps a dozen monkeys scurried into the kitchen,
removed our soiled utensils from the table and ran water into the
sink behind us.  Karl pushed back to give them room but took the
incursion with good grace.  Monkey maids were only a practical
elaboration of what he had seen last night.  But when the huge
cloud of wasps swarmed into the room and descended upon us, his
face paled, his eyes grew large as saucers and with a muffled cry
he half rose from his chair.  I imagine he behaved very much as I
had done upon my own introduction to them.

Again he recovered well.  Noting our amused faces, he settled
slowly back into his chair.  He trembled when a few score insects
settled upon his hand lying on the table, apparently for its
trace of spilled maple syrup, but managed not to snatch the hand
away.

Biting his lips with an expression of anguish, he asked me,
raising his voice above the multifarious whine and clatter that
filled the kitchen, "Are they not harmful?"

I glared at Alice.  "You might've warned him!"

"And miss his shock?"  She laughed aloud.  "I'm not his mother."

"Tell him, Clara," I directed gruffly.

Our eldest issued her spiel about the wasps.  As she spoke they
and the monkeys finished the cleanup chore.  A monkey approached,
ducking under the table.  Karl's expression, until then intent
upon Clara's explanation, suddenly grew vacant.  His mouth fell
open.

Alice cocked her head past the edge of the table and grinned at
him.  "Did you spill something in your lap, sweetie?"

"Ah, ah ..."  He blushed furiously.  "It's licking ...  I can't
believe ..."

"That's Ochela," Alice corrected, "who would not be pleased to
understand you calling her an 'it.'"

"I ... I'm sorry."

The monkey's head appeared first in his lap, from which she
bounced up to perch on the edge of the table long enough to bend
down and close his robe.  Her next move was to spin and huddle in
the crook of his arm, where she sat licking her lips in evident
satisfaction.

Karl visibly took control of himself.  To Clara he said, "You
were saying you manage your, ah, helpers by wireless?"

As she explained about the special organs in her head, the wasps
and monkeys departed, aside from Ochela.  The kitchen was again
spotless.

Karl protested, "I cannot believe you grew tiny wireless devices
in -- what did you say? -- 50,000 wasps!"

"But I did," she countered, smiling at his vehemence.  "Alice has
told you of DNA, the cellular code discovered in the Nineteenth
Century and finally understood in the productive Twentieth.  Once
a valid change has been imposed upon it, it replicates true in
successive generations.  My capuchins and _Vespidae_, descendants
of the originals, require no further interference with their
codes."

He looked at me.  "Can you ... and Alice exercise such control of
them?"

"And Rosalind," I answered, "though not directly as Clara does.
We must use our computers."  This led to a discussion of Clara's
built-in communication devices and the reasons we "children" had
declined them, including the abominable internal searches at
future airports.  Karl would not believe suicide could become so
popular.  He shook his head.  "_Religion_ has to be at the root
of that!"

But he soon returned to the key point.  "You speak of a
_computer_.  Both Alice and Rosalind have mentioned this device.
What is it?"

Clara smiled at him encouragingly.  "How well can you cross your
fingers, Karl?"

* * *

For the rest of the day we allowed Karl solitude to play with his
new toy and to practice at his keyless keyboard.  That night he
entertained both Alice and Clara while I slept alone, assisted by
Melita's delicate touch upon shoulders, neck and hairline -- very
possibly the finest soporific ever discovered.  He seemed a bit
drawn at breakfast despite the loving attention of both women.

Rosalind arrived early Sunday afternoon.  After she had satisfied
herself with the success of Karl's "integration into the family,"
we held our first board meeting with five participants.  Clara,
though chairman by right and custom, having supplied all the
money, declined my offer to preside, so I took up the symbolic
gavel.

We sat in robes around the dining room table, each with his
liquid refreshment before him and familiar capuchin on arm or
shoulder.  "The meeting will come to order," I declared, "on
Sunday, September 6, 1953.  And yes, Karl, Clara is recording the
proceedings.

"First I want to welcome our new member to the Fernworks board,
Mr. Karl-Heinz Studer, Managing Director of Plant One, and call
on him to report the status of it."

His eyebrows rose.  "'Plant One.'  Is there a second?"

"Yes, in a manner of speaking.  Rosalind will report on that."

"Oh."  He blinked.  "Very well."  He smiled around at the others.
"Thank you all for your confidence."

All three women clapped for him.  I joined in, of course, though
they seemed to be more enthusiastic than a formal welcome
required.  Ah, the advantage of fresh meat!

"But I can't give you much detail," he continued apologetically.
"Tim -- I mean, Mr. Kimball -- this is formal, isn't it so? --
didn't warn me and I didn't bring my notes."  He smiled proudly
and put forefinger to temple.  "Next time I'll have them in
here."

I waved a hand.  "I can supply details, if anyone asks.  Just
speak generally."

"Then I'm pleased to report we're about two weeks ahead of
schedule.  The ship subassemblies are over half completed.  In
particular the steam propulsion units are ready for both ships.
We'll test them next week.

"The scaffolding is complete in both construction bays.  We
expect to jig up the main stringer" -- he grinned at me -- "I
prefer to call it the _keel_ -- for Ship One when we resume on
Tuesday.

"These are good workers," he added, staring at me.  "Women and
men, they're conscientious as any I've ever seen.  First stage
cuts and bends have required very little refinement.  Our high
productivity is due entirely to their carefulness.  My quality
inspectors have little to do."

"I told you so," I acknowledged with a grin.  For the benefit of
the others I added, "That was another reason to locate in
Appalachia.  The pride those people take in their work survives
from an English yeoman background, along with their language."

"Along with their standard of living," appended Alice with a
sniff.

"The salaries we pay should help that," I retorted.  "How about
problems, Karl?"

He grinned.  "Only one, really.  The engineers who've seen the
drawings like to remind me that they could be so much more
helpful if they knew the true purpose of these strange shapes."
His grin became a chuckle.  "The ships are stealthy in more than
one sense.  No one would believe they're space ships.  The
engineers have guessed they're meant to be military tanks, except
where are the treads, where are the huge diesel engines?  One
bright fellow suggested they might be cargo aircraft, taking
advantage of flat panels for easier construction, until another
pointed out the complete lack of wings and control surfaces.
'Giant fern pots' is the women's suggestion."

He paused.  I could see him hesitate, then decide to plunge
ahead.  "What will you build in Baylor when the ships are
finished?"

"More of the same."

He stared at me.  "Who'll crew them?"

I chuckled.  "Karl, I like a man who looks far ahead.  When I
have a sheaf of photographs and a few minutes of a movie showing
you prancing around in a sixth of a G, I don't think I'll have
much trouble with recruits."

His eyes lit.  "I agree.  Those sharp lunar peaks will convince
anyone who understands."

"Uh-oh.  I've got bad news for you, Karl.  Lunar peaks are
anything but sharp."

His face fell.  "You've been there?"

"_You've_ been there -- or your head has.  Check under _Lunar
Views_."

While he stared toward the window I sighed toward Alice.  "That
could be a problem.  I forgot everyone currently believes the
lack of weather would leave lunar mountains rugged."

"Maybe not," she answered.  "The reason they're smooth is pretty
obvious when you think about it."

"_Mein Gott_, that's obvious!" we soon heard Karl mutter.  "Such
extreme temperature changes would crack anything in a few million
years."

"You see?" she said with a smug chuckle.

 I cleared my throat ostentatiously.  "Karl, you voiced a concern
to me on the flight up.  Care to repeat it?"

His eyes came into focus.  "Yes.  The _dicks_!"  He giggled,
regarding the women with embarrassment, but immediately sat up
straight, face solemn.  "We need ten thousand per ship, plus
spares.  I know they're supposed to be installed as the next to
last assembly step, just before the stealth painting, in 15
months according to the schedule.  Ah ... may I inquire as to
their current status?"

I nodded.  "That's your cue, Alice."

She leered.  "I do so love to talk about dicks!"

I shook my head sorrowfully.  "30 years of bumping against you in
the lab and I never realized it.  What a waste!"

"I think you're catching up, Tim."  She cleared her throat.
"_Anyway_ ... let's discuss space dicks."  She regarded Karl
thoughtfully.  "We can almost supply enough for one ship now."

I asked, "How many do you have fully tested?"

"9,945, as of this morning.  We'll pass ten thousand next week."

"Each ship requires 500 spares, along with 500 sockets, before it
lifts," I reminded her.

She tossed her head.  "That's arbitrary, Tim."  She grinned.  "My
dicks don't fail, do they, Karl?"

He blushed but declared with some asperity, "Not when they're
reinforced by APHRODY."

"Not even the VID dicks," she declared stoutly.  Her eyes swung
on me.  "I doubt your Appalachian yeomen are more careful and
painstaking than my capuchins."

I had seen her capuchins in operation, unpacking and checking the
blanks with micrometers, weighing the wound bobbins, metering the
charge current.  "They're very precise," I admitted, adding
toward Karl, "and their testers reject about every other one.
They've done well to produce ten thousand by now.  But we must
have those spares, Alice.  I only hope 500 is enough."

"Why do we need them?" she asked, staring at me.

"The clue is the need for as many sockets.  Have you noticed
where these dicks sit?  They're arrayed against the skin of the
ship in order to detach the maximum volume.  They and their
sockets constitute our meteor bumper."

Her eyes widened.  "Our _what_?"

"More precisely, our _micro_meteor bumper.  Anything out there
much larger than a grain of sand will go right through the ship.
Fortunately as 400 years of spacefaring have demonstrated, larger
things are vanishingly rare.  But sand grains are relatively
common.  A volume the size of a ship should expect about one hit
a day on average.  A dick or its socket will stop one -- at the
cost of the dick."

I cleared my throat.  "The question remains: can you produce
another ten thousand in 15 months?"

She raised her chin as if I had challenged her.  "My capuchins
have got the hang of it.  We'll do it in half that time."

I sighed, chuckled and winked at Karl.  "Women!  They do hate to
simply say _yes_!"

"Yes!" she snarled, "you male chauvinist pig!"

"Huh?"  Rosalind's eyebrows rose.

Karl blinked several times.  "'Chauvinist?'  Doesn't that mean
_patriot_?"

"Not after about 1970," I retorted.  "Alice, I'm glad to hear
your confidence.  You never know: we may have to accelerate the
schedule.  Clara, how's the money holding out?"

The woman's eyes twinkled.  "In my universe the Lunar Development
Corporation didn't show a profit for 30 years.  We're following
their venerable-to-be tactic of raising our funds from outside
the main business.  I just liquidated my Airguidance holdings.
We're flush for some time to come.  Meanwhile a couple more
flashes in the pan are due to occur this year and next.  Don't
worry about money, Tim.  Buy what you need."

I winked at Karl.  "Clara is Fernworks' doting mother."

He stared at her in awe.  "Knowing the future is the ultimate
advantage."

"Now you know it too," I reminded him.  "So long as we don't
perturb it too much."

"I've been thinking about that," mused Alice.  "Why must there be
an infinity of universes?  Why couldn't we reverters merely be
present in our own original universe?"

I straightened up.  "Have you forgot the paperclips?"

"Paperclips?" asked Karl.

"My original universe used helical wires, Alice's used W-shaped
clamps.  And how about childhood with a father who didn't die on
Okinawa?"

"Oh.  I forgot."  At Karl's stare she reminded him, "I told you
about that."

Having nipped the digression in the bud, I said, "Rosalind, how's
the facilities effort?"

She smiled.  "Facilitous.  Hmm.  Is that a word?"

"You're the linguist."

"It ought to be!"  She paused, fingers tapping the tabletop.
"Ferndep is almost complete.  The hinge problem is fixed and the
roof opened smoothly last week.  I expect to sign off on the
inspections by the fifteenth.  We'll begin stocking it on the
first of October."

"Good."  I had to grin.  "How about telling our new board member
just what Ferndep is?"

"Okay.  Close your mouth, Karlie.  _Fernworks Depot One_ is Tim's
stuffy name for it.  What it is, is a quarter-million square-foot
warehouse with a hinged roof just outside Neldon, Virginia, about
20 miles west of Radford, also in the Appalachians.  It could be
used to build more space ships if necessary, but initially it's a
backup for Baylor and a resupply point for the space ships.
We'll also do some ancillary manufacturing there, such as panels
and girders for space construction.  The public name for it is
Tyler Manufacturing Company.  Mr. Tyler, the sole owner, enjoyed
your company with Alice just last night, so I'm told."

Karl blinked.  "_Mr._ Tyler?"

"How do you do," intoned Clara gravely.  "And I did very much
enjoy your company, Mr. Haines."  She smiled.

"I see," he muttered.  "Is this what you call an in-joke?"

Alice sniffed.  "And have you ever been _in_!"

He flushed bright red.  Alice giggled.  "Isn't he pretty?"

Rosalind chuckled.  "Have you noticed?  On a good zing the red
goes down to his navel."

"I'll take that as a challenge," Alice responded, studying him
speculatively.  His blush actually deepened.

"That's all very interesting," I interjected in my best killjoy
tone.  "I want your dick production to continue, Alice, with all
your output transshipped via Ferndep.  Make a note, will you?"

"Aye, aye, sir!" she declared ironically.  Abruptly her grin
disappeared.  "Why?"

"To obfuscate the trail back to Cleveland."

She stared at me.  "Do you know something we don't?"

"No, but a lot can go wrong in 15 months.

* * *

Upper crustiness has its obligations, like _noblesse oblige_.
One February morning I found Lacey, who was file clerk, telephone
interface and general gofor for both Karl and myself, nervous and
tearful.  Thinking it must be that time of month, I dismissed my
concern until I overheard her demand from the telephone, "They've
_arrested_ him?"  Her shoulders hunched, beginning to shake.
"Oh, my god!"

When she hung up, her hands retrieved a gob of tissues from her
purse but her back continued to tremble.  I hate to see a lady in
distress, which is especially true of my gofor.  So I got to my
feet, ambled out to her office and sat on the corner of her
little secretarial desk.  She peeked at me from one reddened eye
around the wad of Kleenex.

"Anybody I know?"

"Jerome."  She pronounced the name with a muffled sob.  It
sounded familiar.

"I hope you're not referring to Jerome Kelliam, our shop
foreman."

She wailed something.

"Would you repeat that?" I asked.

"He -- he's my fiance!"

I sighed.  "_Are_ we talking about Jerome Kelliam?"

"Mr. Haines told me to ... to call his home and ask why he hadn't
showed up.  His mother said the sheriff's men raided his
Christmas still last night and took him away."

"His _Christmas_ still?"

"You know," she answered straightforwardly despite the tears,
"applejack for Christmas gifts."

I'd heard several of my workers extol the quality and flavor of
Smokey Mountain applejack, an untaxed form of apple brandy.
"Illegal manufacture?" I inquired sympathetically.

She lowered the ball of tissue.  Her lip was curled in derision.
"That raid wa'n't because it was illegal.  It was because
Jerome's sister jilted Moss Flayer for a flatlander."

"Who?"

"He's a deputy sheriff."

"I see."  I took out my handkerchief and wiped her tear-streaked
cheeks.  "Where are they holding him, do you know?"

"In the Asheville jail, where else?  Th-thank you, Mr. Maple."

I took down my overcoat from the rack beside her entry door.  She
watched me, eyes widening.  "Are ...  Are you going to help him,
Mr. Maple?"

"Can't let our shop foreman rot in jail, can we?"

She sprang to her feet, rushed to me and threw arms about my
neck, pinning me into the half-donned coat.  "Oh, Mr. Maple!
I'll do _anything_ if you can get him out.  Flayer will have the
feds on him in no time."

I answered with a chuckle, "Can't do much until you let me go."

She stepped back, panting.  "Excuse me, sir!  But I mean it."

I patted her cheek.  "They won't hold him long.  Get back on your
telephone.  When Birmingham calls, tell Horner I agree to his
terms and will call him back this afternoon."

"Yes, sir.  Birmingham.  Oh, thank you, sir!  Thank you."

* * *

Because of its 2000-foot altitude, Asheville's winters had more
of a northern flavor than southern, but so did its snow removal
facilities.  I made the 20 miles from Baylor to the courthouse in
about 45 minutes and even found a parking place only two blocks
away at 11:00 a.m., will wonders never cease!  I've yet to see a
courthouse with parking for more than half the people who have
business within it.

A middle-aged man in a brown shirt with a star pinned to his
chest sat behind the counter in the sheriff's suite of offices.
The placard said he was _Deputy Paul Rollid_.

He looked up, studied my overcoat, necktie and age-forty blond
mustache.  "Can I help you, sir?"

"I understand you're holding Jerome Kelliam."

He didn't need to consult a ledger.  "What if we are?"

"I need him."

"Who're you?"

"John Maple.  I'm with Fernworks' Baylor installation."

He had heard of Fernworks.  "Excuse me a moment," he intoned,
getting up and vanishing into an adjacent office whose frosted
glass was inscribed simply, _Sheriff_.  The first time I came
there the absence of the sheriff's name had struck me as odd,
even if it _was_ an elective office.

A moment later Rollid reappeared and held open the gate in the
counter.  "Sheriff Pate would like to see you, Mr. Maple, if
you'll just step this way."

So I stepped that way.  He held the sheriff's door.  As I passed
he said, "Sheriff Pate, this is John Maple from Fernworks."

"We've met," said the sheriff.  He stood up behind his desk, a
short, heavy man in a brown uniform under a large gold star with
a Patton-style pearl-handled .38 Special holstered on his hip.
He leaned across the desk and extended his hand.  "How's it
going, John?  Good to see you!"

I shook his hand and expressed my similar pleasure in seeing him
again.

"Pull up a chair," he commanded.  As I did so, I heard Rollid's
exit and the door close behind me.

Pate's lips stretched in a grin that never made it to his eyes.
"How's everything on that hill you fellows bought?"

"On schedule.  These people make good workers."

"Glad to hear it."  His grin widened.  "I've got a story for
you."

"A story?"

"One I think you'll appreciate.  I called Guthrie the other day
about you."  He paused, watching me.

Guthrie.  My hand went into my pocket.  Ah, yes!  Despite my
sinking feeling I responded, "Representative Harold Guthrie, I
presume:  good, solid Democrat.  He always supports our
appropriation."

"That figures."

Oh?  I asked, "What did he have to say?"

"It figures because he's always in favor of spending somebody
else's money.  What he had to say was he never heard of
Fernworks.  I told him of course he hadn't but when he did, he
ought to put in a good word for his district, since that's where
it was doing business."  Pate laughed.  "He called me back and
said to leave you guys alone, you were more secret than Oak
Ridge."

I nodded sagely.  "That's true."

"_Fernworks_," he said as if tasting the word.  "Pretty good code
word, I guess.  Shore don't believe you're growing flowers!"

"As a matter of fact," I responded, "my secretary has a couple
fern pots beside her desk.  She waters them every day or so."

"Fernworks!" he barked with a laugh, then lost his smile.
"Kelliam didn't say he worked for you."

"He's our shop foreman.  What's he charged with?"

"Shop foreman?  We talking about the same Jerome Kelliam?"

"Brown-haired guy, medium build, about five-nine, missing his
left pinkie.  He's very good at removing kinks in a process."

"That finger sounds like him.  So he's come up in the world!"

"He's a solid producer.  We need him today.  I'd like to bail him
out."

He picked up the phone, jiggled the button and said, "Put Harvey
on."  A moment later he added, "Tell Moss he made a mistake.  I
want Jerome Kelliam up here in ten minutes and his charges
wiped."

He listened a moment longer then hung up the telephone with a
smile.  "There you go."

"I appreciate that, Sheriff Pate."

"Thank you, John.  You might let the other directors know how
friendly Buncombe is to federal projects."

"I'll certainly pass that along," I said gravely.  "It works both
ways, you know.  How can Fernworks return this favor?"

He chuckled and shook his head.  "This has been a stingy county
ever since the Vanderbilt girl married that Cecil fellow.  How
about letting me deputize your security guards?"

"What?  Can you deputize federal employees?"

His lip curled.  "Guess not.  Guthrie wouldn't like it, would
he?"

"I think Biltmore will turn around, sheriff.  Is Guthrie from
Asheville?"  I already knew he was.  Pate launched into a
spirited exposition of the man's antecedents and early history
that lasted nicely until Rollid knocked on the door and announced
Kelliam's release.

My man had a torn coat sleeve and sported a black eye.  On the
sidewalk outside the courthouse I asked, "Was resisting arrest
one of your charges?"

He grinned.  "I reckon.  Flayer looks worse'n me, the son of a
bitch.  How much was my bail?"

"No bail.  Pate released you to me and expunged the charges."

"No shit!"  Jerome peered at me through his swollen eyelids.
"_Pate_ did that?"

I grinned.  "Your sister didn't jilt him too, did she?"

He blinked.  "Who told you about Sis?  But no, Pate and I never
got along after I whupped his little brother's ass in grade
school."

"Long memories here in the mountains!  Well, you're free of him
for the moment.  Let's get to work."

"Uh, excuse me, Mr. Maple.  Some of my brothers are eating dinner
in Arleigh's Cafe.  Would you let them run me home long enough to
clean up?  I'll get in to work by two."

_Dinner_ being Southern for _lunch_.  "I hope they weren't
planning a jail break!  All right.  And you'd do well to change
coats."

"I will.  Thank you very much, Mr. Maple."

He stuck out his hand.  I shook it briefly.  He spun around and
hurried down the sidewalk nearly at a run.  I watched him with a
chuckle.  So Pate had good cause to release Jerome if he could
find a defensible reason.  Come to think of it, a Christmas still
would hardly be operating in February.

People were streaming past me: lunch seekers from the courthouse
offices.  My wristwatch agreed with my belly.  I ambled along the
walk, looking for a decent lunchroom.  The cleaner ones were full
or filling up.  With a shrug I lengthened my stride, favorably
recalling the Fernworks snack bar, run by a blind woman who
seemed to enjoy my "flirtatious remarks," as she called them.  I
looked forward to one of her thick sandwiches.

Perhaps I made the stride too long.  Rounding the building on the
last corner before my car, I bumped squarely into perfumed
softness -- a woman's body.

"Whoosh!" she cried in a breathy soprano.  We both recoiled,
staggering.  Her handbag and a paper shopping bag fell to the
sidewalk.

"My god, madam, I'm sorry!" I declared, recovering purse and
shopping bag and extending them to her.

"Me too!" she responded, taking possession of her property.
"Guess I cut the corner too close."

This was no southern voice.  I peered at her, realizing I knew
her from somewhere.  She seemed in her early forties, plump, 
broad-bottomed, wearing a heavy wool coat and a matching hat in 
the mannish style still popular.  But that face was familiar.

She was studying me as sharply.  Womanlike, she made the
connection first.  "I know you.  Or your son."  She laughed.
"Harrison said you grew up suddenly, but this is ridiculous."

The mention of Cleaver did it.  "Tilly!" I cried.  "My god, is it
you?"

"Which means you have to be Timmy.  But what in hell happened to
you?  Three years ago you were fifteen.  Now you look forty.
How'd that happen?  You gonna be eighty next year?"

"I doubt it.  What in the hell, as you say, are you doing in
Asheville?"

"Visiting my sister, of course.  She landed a soldier from here
and went home with him."  Her eyes lit.  "Hey, this is great!
Let me take you to lunch."

I decided I'd better agree.  If I failed to interfere she was
sure to tell Cleaver of this encounter, if she was still
attending his parties.  And I did want lunch.

I smiled at her.  "You were heading that way, were you?"

"In fact I was.  Been shopping at the white sale and worked up an
appetite.  Come on, Timmy."  She giggled.  "I mean Timothy.
That's your name, isn't it?"  She leered at me askance.  "My, my,
how little Timmy has grown up!"  Her eyes sparkled.  "In _all_
directions?"

"Yes, I've changed, but you look the same, what I can see."

She giggled again.  Though her voice was a mellow contralto
appropriate to her age, she was one of those super-feminine women
whose giggle stays a high soprano all her life.  I love that
sound.  It raises the hair on my neck.  And elsewhere.

She lowered her voice.  "The last time you saw me I was naked as
a baby."

"I recall it well!" I said with enthusiasm.

She winked.  "You'll have to tell me what's different.  Will you
come?"

"To lunch?"  I gestured.  "Lead on, my dear."

I fell in beside her as we retraced my recent path.  "What do you
see of Harrison Cleaver these days?"

She answered me in the womanly way, beginning with the history of
her world.  "Lu -- that's my sister -- Lu's hubby never got over
his war wound.  He left her a little business here.  I've been
keeping her company in the winter, since Asheville is so much
milder than Chicago.  I go home in the spring.  That's when I see
Harrison.  I'm a regular of his these days.  Life at Gerrymand is
so exciting I have to come here to rest up."

"As I recall, you're married.  Does your husband visit Gerrymand
too?"

She turned her face away and muttered, "He found out."

Assuming the usual consequence of that, I opened my mouth to say
something sympathetic but managed to stammer a substitution
instead.  "Ah, did you have any luck with conception?"

"With what?"

"I understood you attended Cleaver's parties in order to get
pregnant."

She laughed.  "Yeah.  That was the reason.  Here we are.  Come on
in."

We stood at the door of _Slim's Grill / Hotdogs, Hamburgers,
Chops and Pies_ with a red neon sign in the window advertising
_Beer_.  I had passed by it earlier.  It was full of people and
their voices plus the noise of crockery and meaty odors floating
on warm, moist air.  A single aisle separated bar and booths.
She wove us along it to a booth in the back containing a
_Reserved_ sign on the tabletop.

She handed me her coat, swept the sign to the opposite seat,
gestured to someone elsewhere in the room and slipped into the
booth, leaving plenty of room for me.  "Sit," she invited with a
smile.  "Lu will get here in a minute."

I hung our coats on the hook between booths and sat beside her.
She skidded toward me until our thighs made firm contact.  "You
were always shy," she explained with a grin.

"Was I?"  Reaching far under the table, I found the hem of her
skirt and pulled it up above her lap.  My hand darted under it.
Thankful that panty hose were not yet invented, I found the edge
of her panties, pulled it aside and worked two fingers into wet
warmth between her labia.

She grunted.  "Got over that too, I see.  Are you right handed?"

"Yes."

"Uh-oh.  Lu likes to shake hands with a man."  She took a
shuddery breath.  "Oh, Timmy, that feels good.  You're the first
man who's touched me in ages."

"Ages?"

"I mean since October."

"You have no, ah, close acquaintances here?"

"Are you kidding?"  She chuckled wryly.  "Casual sex here is for
family members only.  If you let a stranger have it, he wants to
marry you."

"And keep it in the family, eh?"

"I'm not kidding.  Lu's a hot number like her sister.  When the
hubby died, she fancied one of the regulars in here.  He offered
to leave his wife and marry Lu.  She laughed at him, of course.
The next day the guy's wife showed up and pulled out half Lu's
hair."  Her hand fell into my crotch, whose occupant was already
stirring.  "Maybe you can help her out.  She's dying for a little
of this."

Oh, no!  My half-formed plan depended on getting Tilly alone in
private.  Hmm.  _Two_ women shouldn't be such a problem, unless
...  "I believe in helping ladies in need," I intoned piously.
"How many dying ones do you know?"

"Huh?"  She laughed at me.  "Greedy, are you?  Just Lu and me."
She thrust her hip against mine.  "Don't you think we can handle
it, big boy?"

"It's developed a bit since that party."

"Yeah, I'm starting to find out.  Suck in your gut."

I felt her hand slip under my coattail, dive between my belt and
the side of my belly, part the front of my shirt, pass under the
waistband of my shorts and come to rest in my groin, grasping its
objective unerringly.

"Good god!" she said in awe.  "Is it at full stand?"

"Not quite.  I must congratulate you.  I don't recall anyone ever
getting in there so directly."

She said smugly, "Comes from practice on Harrison's college boys.
This is such a nice one, Tim!  It must be twice as big as at the
party."

"Just about."  I had to chuckle.  "How is it, Tilly, that you
remember me so well from what was hardly more than a few minutes,
ah, contact -- and not so intimate, at that?"

"How could I forget you?  If Pauline hadn't beat me to it, I'd've
proved young stuff is the best."  She stared at me speculatively.
"It _can't_ be more than four years older!"

"Still trying to get pregnant?"

"Yeah.  Still try--  Better pull out.  Here comes Lu."

The sister was younger and slimmer but otherwise very like her
sibling.  She wore a waitress's full frontal apron in red checks
and long brown hair caught up in a net.  When she reached our
booth, her eyebrows rose.  "_Who_ is this, Tilly?"

"Timothy Kimball, this is my pretty sister, Lula Taft.  Tim's
from Chicago."

"I didn't think he was a hillbilly!"  She grinned at me and
extended her hand.

"Excuse me for not standing," I said, taking her hand, leaning
forward and kissing the back of it.

Her eyes widened.  She pulled the hand back and covered it with
the palm of the other.

"I'm pleased to meet you."  But as I muttered the formula, my
brain whirled in realization that Tilly knew my full name, which
was more than I knew of her because we'd never exchanged names in
Chicago.  Obviously she'd heard Cleaver discuss me -- which meant
I had to keep her away from telephones until NEPENTHE had done
its stuff.

"We just bumped into each other on the street," Tilly declared,
adding, "Tim and I first met at a party."

"I get you," said the sister.  "_Close_ friends!"  Her eyes
twinkled.

"What's good for lunch?" asked Tilly.

We settled on sandwiches and beer.  Lu went away, shouting
orders, to disappear beyond the bar.

"What do you think?" my companion asked.  "Would you like to try
us both?"

"As a matter of fact I would: the sooner the better."

She leered.  "What's the matter, Timmy?  Don't the southern girls
like you?  I can't believe that."

"They all seem to have prior commitments."

She blinked.  "I just realized I didn't ask what _you're_ doing
here!"

What the hell, she was due to forget this whole meeting anyway.
I said, "Building space ships."

She laughed aloud.  "I know what you mean.  Going to the moon?"

"Sure."

She shrugged.  "If you don't want to tell me it's all right.
It's just so _strange_, bumping into you on the street."  She
smiled.  "Of course you have to bump into somebody, don't you?
If Harrison hadn't dwelt on you growing up in a couple months, I
wouldn't believe it was you."  Her eyes narrowed.  "If it really
is."  She cocked her head in inquisition.  "What were Pauline and
I looking at when you met us at the party?"

"An anal three-way."

Her eyes widened.  She breathed, "It really _is_ you!"

When Lu delivered our food, she set a third place, removed her
waitress's apron and slid into the booth across the table from
us.  "Inez can handle the stragglers," she explained and grinned
brightly at me.  "Well, Tilly, tell us all about your boyfriend."

"He's being mysterious," my companion said.  "Won't tell me why
he's in Asheville."

"Does that matter?  He wouldn't be running from the law in a suit
that fits _that_ good."

"I like you too," I told her.

"See?" said Tilly.  "We've already settled the important point.
But Tim's kind of impatient.  I thought we'd show him right after
lunch."

Lu grinned widely.  "Sounds like the boss should take the
afternoon off."

"That's you, is it?" I asked.

"Ever since Slim's aneurysm five years ago."

"You've kept it going?  That's commendable."

"Thank you.  It's in a good location.  I even manage to save a
little money.  Not that it does me much good."

"Maybe you need to take a vacation."

"I've been thinking of a cruise to France, but that's a lot of
trouble just to get laid."

Tilly grinned.  "Maybe Tim will take you to the moon."

"Huh!  I want him to _send_ me to the moon!"

By this time we were all three eating.  I complimented her on the
quality of the food.  She thanked me.  We spoke of life in
Asheville.  I kept my comments uninformative.

Lu studied me thoughtfully.  "Did Tilly ever tell you how crazy
she is about babies?"

"I told him," Tilly muttered.

"But did she tell you _all_ of it?  She only wants _little_
babies!"

"Lu ..." Tilly said louder.

"She's had six, you know, and all of them are living with me."

"Damn it, Lu!"

The sister tossed her head, brown waves rippling under the hair
net, and grinned derisively.  "Not that I'm complaining, you
understand.  I love them."

"You love the money too."

"Oh, yes.  But let me ask you, Tim: did you ever hear of a mother
who only wants her kids until they're weaned?"

Tilly slapped the tabletop.  "_God_ damn it, Lu, are you drunk?"

I held up a hand.  "Easy, ladies.  I swear there'll be enough to
go around."

"You sure?" asked Lu, studying my face.

"You'll see," I responded confidently.  "How soon can we get
started?"

* * *

Lu had space in the adjacent building as well, despite its
adornment with lawyer's shingles.  Tilly led me far down a long
hall and up a flight of stairs.  She produced a key that admitted
us past the heavy door at the top into a living room decorated
with furniture and prints blended in surprisingly good taste.  We
paused at the coat closet.

The jingle of coat hangers accentuated the silence otherwise.  I
asked, "Where are the kids?"

"The little ones are above the grill with their nanny.  At this
hour the rest are in school.  Now tell me why you care about
that."

"You're right," I agreed, following her into a hall that led past
a bathroom, probably to a kitchen.  "It's none of my business."

"In here."  We entered a large bedroom whose dresser was loaded
with bottles and sprays.

"Lu's?" I asked, gesturing around me.

"Mine.  It's her guest room.  You like kids?"

"You've really had six?  That's three more than I recall from the
party."

She was already removing her clothing.  I followed her example.

Her eyes narrowed.  "What did you think of me then, Tim?"

"You were a striking woman, well-fleshed, Rubenesque."

She grinned.  "I remember you standing behind me, your hard
little cock poking my butt, squeezing my boobs and rubbing my
belly like a doctor."

"Good muscle tone."

"Having babies doesn't hurt a woman, Tim, if she's healthy.  Even
the pain of it can feel good, though I wouldn't expect a man to
understand or believe that.  I've always had very good health.
You'll see in a minute.  And so will I."

I wondered if she were concerned about venereal disease.  "I'm in
good health too."

"I meant I'll get to see that same cock.  I think it's twice as
big, Tim."

"Just about."

"That was four years ago.  I can believe you've grown up in that
much time."  She laughed.  "Somehow you made Harrison think you
did it in a couple months!  But I'm curious about one thing: how
is it that a 19-year-old looks forty?"

"When you're running a business, Tilly, it helps to look older."

"You mean you're faking it?"

"Wrinkles are easy to do."

"Ha!  Easier than _un_doing them, I bet!"

She took less care with her clothes, throwing them into the
corner, while I hung mine on the back of a chair.  Thus she stood
nude first.

I paused to admire her.  "You haven't changed a bit, Tilly!"

"Thank you, but yes, I have.  More stretch marks in belly and
boobs."

"Badges of honor."

She chuckled while I passed my T-shirt over my head.  When I
straightened up from the chair, my arm brushed the big tits.  Her
hand enclosed my half-hard dick.  She dropped to a squat and
sucked it into her mouth.  Her tongue worked the glans.

I mused jocularly, "Changed your mind about the best way, have
you?"

"Huh-uh," she averred nasally, head bobbing.

"Pauline beat you to it before.  I've often wondered if she got
hurt when that bed collapsed."

Tilly sniffed sarcastically and released me.  "She was on top."
She leaned back to stare at her accomplishment.  "God, Tim, this
is a treasure!  I'll bet you have lots of fun with it."

She rose and sidled against me.  Her hand stroked my chest and
washboard belly.  "This surely isn't boyish either!  It's hard to
believe you would become such a big, strong man in four years.
God, you're hard!" -- a consequence of the diamondoid shield.  She
grinned.  "Did they put you on the rockpile?"

She spun around and in one powerful heave threw the cover off the
bed onto the floor.  Holding my arm, she tugged me into the bed
behind her.  Her legs clasped my hips.

"Now, Tim!  I want that young stuff."

This woman was a powerful lubricator.  Despite the size of my
organ I slid into her with ease.  Her sphincters gripped me as I
pistonned her.  With one hand appropriately on her hip, I keyed
the NEPENTHE program to readiness, having already set it up.  We
had yet to kiss, so I diverted the nanobiots to seminal fluid
instead of saliva.  According to the instructions, they were
effective in any body fluid.  Fine print described the results
according to method of delivery, but all methods guaranteed
temporary amnesia, which was my only objective.  Oral insertion
would produce immediate results, but any orifice would do.  In
fact it would better serve my purpose if her loss of memory
occurred _after_ my departure.

She gripped me tighter, pulling my torso down upon hers.  Grunts
soon became groans.  I was peripherally aware of Lu's entrance
and removal of clothing.  I felt her weight behind us on the bed,
then her hands at our coupling, caressing my balls and apparently
her sister's clit.   Tilly's cries grew louder and more shrill.
Her arms released me so that her hands could raise the large
tits, sagging sideways as the big ones do, and scour the erect
nipples against my chest.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Tilly announced, her body growing
rigid.  Well, why not?  I joined her, releasing squirt after
squirt.  Nothing matches that thrill, even when you have control
of it.  I found myself chuckling as I sagged to one side and
rolled on my back.

Lu scampered around to kneel, grinning, beside me.  "Did you feel
her fart?"

"What?"

"Then what's so funny?"  Her hand enclosed my dick.  "God, you
must've swabbed her decks!"

I didn't tell her my mirth arose from realizing that this was my
first sex outside the "family" in years.  Instead I asked, "Was
your husband in the navy?"

"Yeah, even though he never saw the ocean in his life until he
joined up.  I used to like the taste of his too."

"Too?"

She answered the implied question by bending suddenly and
slurping me in.  Her hair was still restrained in the net.  I
could clearly see her throat accommodate itself.  Her lips sank
steadily deeper.

"You also like your sister's taste," I hazarded.

She shrugged without removing me from her face.  But I understood
she was holding her breath.  The glans must have been past her
epiglottis, the flap that closes off the airway for swallowing.
Not even Rosalind had taken more.  I was impressed and wondered
how she or anyone else could tolerate it there without gagging.

Slowly she withdrew an inch or two and her nostrils flared with a
deep breath.  She began a deep stroking, breathing only on
withdrawals.  After a bit she hitched herself around far enough
that she could see my face.  Her eyes twinkled.

"Turn your tail the other say," I suggested, "and I'll return the
favor."

She spun around with alacrity.  I guided one knee over my head
and pulled her split down to my face.  She was rank, but of
course none of us had bathed since morning.  Fortunately after a
few tongue strokes the character of that flavor changes radically
for the better, or so I have always observed.  I was tempted to
redirect NEPENTHE to saliva but finally left it alone.  Lu was
destined for a mouthful as it was.

Denizens of the 24th Century have complete control of their
bodily functions -- and so did I.  When her hips began to buck and
nasal moans grew in volume at the other end, I released my second
ejaculate, making sure it was copious as the first.

Finally she gagged.  Her body convulsed and she leapt violently
away from me, rolling off the end of the bed onto the floor.  I
suppressed further spurts and sat up, noting that Tilly was no
longer in the bed nor apparently in the room.

A curious mixture of choking, gagging and vomiting sounds arose
from the naked figure, too slim for Tilly, who crouched on the
carpet.  Uh-oh!  NEPENTHE only works if it stays in your body.  I
slipped out of bed, avoiding the unrecognizable remains of her
lunch, and helped Lu sit up.  "Shall I get you a wet cloth?"

"Wha-what happened?"  She stared at me blankly, dripping semen.
My last spurt had laced her lower face.

"I'm afraid you strangled.  Here.  Let me help you get back on
the bed."

Her mouth made tasting motions.  "Was I sucking you off?"

My eyebrows rose.  "We were both sucking."

"But, but ...  Who _are_ you?"

Aha!  Potent stuff, this NEPENTHE!  I gestured to the door.  "Go
get yourself a drink and we'll discuss that."

Eyes huge in her wet face, she got shakily to her feet and went
out into the hall.

I jerked on my outer clothes, threw shoes on feet and stuffed
socks and underclothes into my pockets.  Neither woman appeared
as I tiptoed up the hall to the living room.  Sounds of running
water emanated from the closed bathroom door.  In a jiffy I took
my coat and eased my way through the main door into the common
hall, where I made it to the street without seeing another
person.  My feet were cold when I reached the car, but the engine
retained enough warmth to fix that problem with the aid of my
socks.

The time was 1:25.  I wondered if Jerome would get back to
Fernworks before I did.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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