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Message-ID: <47462asstr$1081973409@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "virgosun" <virgosun@internode.on.net>
Subject: {ASSM} Beryl and the Polymorph 3/9 {virgosun} (mf rom slow nosex mutant)
Lines: 806
Date: Wed, 14 Apr 2004 16:10:09 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


<1st attachment, "poly03.txt" begin>

*BERYL AND THE POLYMORPH*

by virgosun (c) April 2004
*******************************
(Part 3)

"Good morning Douglas, how are you this fine day?" Mum 
asked with cheery matronliness.

Beryl couldn't help a small smile as "Douggie" came to 
mind. There were times when Doug Franklin had a face 
longer than a lame old nag headed for the knackery, and 
today was one of those days. He gave a nervous twitch 
and gulped down his Adam's apple.

"Very well thank you, Mrs. Crabtree," he affirmed, and 
that was all he usually said; but today his speaking 
wasn't done. "I'm sorry Mrs. Crabtree, but I wonder if 
you would mind terribly if I asked of you a favour?" He 
had a small cardboard box in his bony hands, and put it 
up on the display case. "It's a matter of some 
delicacy," he added quietly, glancing about the shop.

"Not at all, Douglas, how may I help you?" said Mum 
kindly, looking at the box curiously. Doug's tanned face 
darkened even more with a blush. Funnier still was the 
way Doug's blush rose right up past his high and 
receeding hairline. For a man in his early twenties he 
had precious little hair left to him, and kept what he 
had laquered down with oil.

"Ah, well ma'am, I was given something that, put in its 
simplest terms, I can't possibly dispose of; which is a 
shame given it's quite tasty and there's nothing in the 
world wrong with it. It's a cake, you see," he 
explained, lifting the lid. "Home cooked and all, but as 
you see it's rather large, and I'm a man on my own and I 
have, uh, an unfortunate sensitivity to chocolate. I was 
hoping you could slice it up and sell it, or it could be 
given to the church or something."

Beryl was already making his cheese and lettuce 
sandwiches - he hadn't needed to ask. "Why, that's a 
lovely cake," Mum agreed sympathetically. "I'm sure we 
can look after it, Douglas, thank you very much - it 
should be gone by lunchtime, and if it isn't, it'll wash 
down fine with custard." That was Mum's standby solution 
for all unsold fare. "You sure you won't keep some for 
yourself?"

"Oh no, Mrs. Crabtree, if it's all the same to you; it's 
just, it was a gift, so I wouldn't want a certain person 
to know that I had to give it away."

His blush darkened, so Beryl rescued him. "It wouldn't 
happen to be heart-shaped, would it?" she piped up 
casually. "I know where it came from, Mum."

Doug jumped. "How did you know it was heart-shaped? Oh 
no, she didn't buy it here, did she? Oh no!"

"Never you mind, Douglas," said Mum competently. "No, we 
didn't make it here, but our Beryl received one exactly 
the same yesterday. We'll cut it up and nobody from 
those Enabled Clans or whatever they call themselves 
will know, all right?"

"Tempest?" Beryl asked as she handed him his lunch. Doug 
gave a sharp nod and let his eyelids flutter shut. 
"Never mind, she'll grow out of it," Beryl assured him. 
"By the way, you don't have to order your lunch 
separately every day, you know? I could see to it that 
your sandwiches get delivered with the main order for 
the site."

"Uh, oh, of-of course, thank you," Doug stammered. "I'd 
hate for her to be let down, you see, she's a nice 
girl."

Mum tapped the side of her nose. "Your secret's safe 
with us, Douglas."

***

As she got to know the Enabled families, Beryl quickly 
learned each of their personal luncheon preferences. 
 From Doug's cheese and lettuce sandwiches to Gran's 
fairybread, from Pro's strawberry shortcake to Pyrus 
Blake's pepper beef and garlic roll, she could set them 
all out; knew which ones needed to be kept in the fridge 
for late lunchers, and made sure they were boxed up 
separately and put in the cooler right away. She also 
got to know who was working at carpentry on the outer 
buildings, who was pouring concrete, and who was working 
at the furnace.

"Why should they have to come all the way out here to 
get their lunch? Of course they have to stop work, but 
somebody should take their meals to them while they take 
a rest."

She didn't realise it at first, but Beryl was every bit 
as good at organising people as her mother. The Enabled 
folk were few in number given the size of their 
engineering project, men and women alike working on the 
buildings, young and old. Soon she was delivering 
smaller bundles of lunches within the site itself. She 
had to stop and pick up a hard-hat before going through 
the Wall to the workshops and furnace, but her whistle-
blast was always greeted with glee and the stilling of 
lathes and saws. She put a punctured can of tomato 
juice, corned-beef and pickle sandwiches and a jam tart 
into a basket that was winched up to Basil Blake in the 
cab of the high crane. A gloved hand waving from the 
window was all she ever saw of him.

"Hello Pro, how are you?"

He ambled over with his cheesy grin, a welcome and 
familiar sight. She could even say she was getting used 
to his weird blue eyes. She eyed his ears quizzically, 
sure they looked different. Every time she saw him, his 
appearance was slightly altered, the pigment spots never 
appearing in the same place, as though his skin 
condition flared up and changed from day to day. "Hullo 
Beryl!"

"All right," she said dubiously, "what story is it this 
week? Mac Barber told me you were super-allergic to 
insect bites and dust. Mavy White says it's pollen."

He laughed and spread his palms in a placatory manner. 
"It's not all my doing. Okay, I'll admit to telling a 
couple of folks conflicting stories, but I only do it to 
get them started, because it's amazing what people will 
come up with on their own to explain the unnatural. I've 
been trapped in burning houses, a petrol station 
explosion, but the best one I ever heard was that I was 
welding inside the pipes of a hydro power station, 
slipped, fell and rolled all the way down to the bottom 
of a gorge, leaving most of my skin behind on the way!"

"Oh Pro, that's horrible!" she laughed.

"Seriously, though, Beryl, it's like I've told you. I 
was born this way and there ain't nothin' can be done 
about it - and frankly, I like being the way I am, it 
really comes in handy. What's that in there, cheese and 
ham? Yum!"

She glanced up at the crane and its elusive operator, 
whom it was universally agreed by the Clan was far more 
grotesque than Pro. "You're quite the man about town 
these days by all accounts," she smiled as she handed 
him his lunch. And she had seen him too, by the pub some 
evenings, and even at the picture show. He was always 
dressed in long sleeves and trousers, even on the 
hottest evenings, with his trusty hat; and with one or 
another of the town's eligible bachelorettes on his arm. 
"Do you wear your sunglasses to the cinema too?"

"No, actually," he grinned. "Jean Winslow thinks I've 
got eyes like a cat, because of the way they shine in 
the cinema."

"Oh yes, I noticed you took Jean to the show last 
weekend," said Beryl airily. "You _have_ set your sights 
high!" Jean was a titian beauty who only ever had her 
hair set at the salon, with real matinee starlet looks. 
She was twenty and had been to the city, and smoked 
cigarettes in long black holders. Most of the town lads 
lusted after her, including George, and she liked 
George's car. He always became giggly and silly at the 
thought of Jean. "Don't be fooled," said Beryl with more 
than a hint of viper. "She told Dot she only went out 
with you because she felt sorry for you."

"Well exactly," Pro said, completely unperturbed. 
"That's how I operate. There's no other way I'd get a 
woman like that to be seen with me. Who knows what other 
gifts she might give me?" He gave an exaggerated wink 
and ran his tongue very salaciously over his top lip.

"Oh my God!" Beryl giggled, putting a hand over her 
mouth, just a little scandalised. Which only egged Pro 
on; he assumed a falsetto voice.

"Ooh poor little frog-prince sooo ugly, I suppose it's 
up to somebody totally ravishing like me to make him 
feel good!" Then he sobered. "I don't expect I'll be 
going out with Jean again, not unless she deigns to call 
me. Sad fact is I wasn't hot enough for her. She likes 
it rough. Gee, Beryl, you blush very fetchingly, I love 
it when you do that!"

"Shoosh, Pro Phillips!" Of course, everybody whispered 
about Jean.

"No," Pro sighed in mock pathos, "it's time for Pro to 
move on to the next available dame. I might even have to 
ask _you_ out, Beryl Crabtree!"

Her heart stopped still in her chest. _The letter!_ She 
fell back on Mum's oopsy-daisy laugh. "Somehow, Pro, I 
don't think my boyfriend would appreciate that - that's 
nothing against you, mind."

"Your boyfriend? Oh, you mean that suckerfish you were 
wearing up the back row the other night? Half his luck! 
Ahh, there's that blush again!"

"You're supposed to go to the movies to watch the show, 
and mind your own business!" she protested hotly. "How 
dare you!"

"I was only going to wave and say Hi," Pro said meekly. 
"But you were busy, very busy. I wouldn't know that 
guy's face, he's always got it buried in your neck. He's 
not a vampire by any chance, is he?"

"As a matter of fact, his name is George; he's a 
sweetheart, and I've known him for years," said Beryl 
archly. She refused to be goaded by Pro the way Tempest 
let him.

"You don't mean Barfly George, do you, Georgie 
Rowbotham? I thought he lived at the pub, his car's 
always there, that big red Linker? Hasn't stopped 
drinking since his eighteenth, so they say."

Beryl sighed, no longer angry. "Yes, that's my Georgie. 
He does live there, actually, he rents a room upstairs."

"Oh, well then." Pro looked her up and down, a strange, 
frank gaze. "Looks like he does have a life outside the 
pub." He wasn't joking anymore. It looked like a good 
time to change the subject. Glancing up at the crane and 
the dull steel structure beside it, she shaded her eyes.

"So what exactly is this thing you're building? Am I 
allowed to ask?"

"Oh, this? This is going to be something grand!" Pro's 
grin returned.

"The whole town wants to know."

"Yeah, and I'll bet they've come up with some crazy 
ideas!" He glanced about, up at the stationary crane,  
then toward the base of the workings. "Of course you can 
ask, there'll be no hiding this when it's done, it's 
gonna be the sixth wonder of the modern world. Put your 
hard hat on and I'll show you! Oh, no, hang on; I better 
check with Pyrus first - wait right there!" He trotted 
off with half a sandwich poked in his mouth.

There was no way Beryl was going to leave with this 
chance to see what was going on; she took a drink from 
her bike's waterbottle while she waited. Cheerful 
whistling drifted down from above, but when she looked 
up she still couldn't see Basil hiding in his cabin. 
"Hey," she called feyly, "come on, you can't be that 
ugly!"

Laughter drifted down. "My dear girl," came an urbane 
voice, "you would have to be head-over-heels in love 
with Pro Phillips before I could be sure you wouldn't 
faint at the sight of me! He is a vision of angelic 
beauty beside one such as I."

"Aww!"

Basil waved again and made no further comment. On the 
heights of the concrete wall she could see Doug sitting 
with Pro's elder brother Reg eating their lunches under 
a canvas sunshade. _Maybe they really are building a 
castle_, she thought, which was one of the popular 
rumours going around. The other was that they were 
building a circus or a fun park.

When Pro came back he looked crestfallen. "Sorry," he 
said, "but they just finished an annealing cycle and 
it's all still way too hot, red hot iron everywhere so 
it isn't safe for visitors. But you could always come 
back later on. Work halts at dinnertime mostly. If you 
wanted to come back at sunset, I'd show you around."

"Oh, I'm not sure." George was supposed to be picking 
her up at eight, although before then he'd be at the 
pub, of course. "I was going out later..."

"It wouldn't be for long, and I could pick you up and 
drop you back in a jiffy. You _do_ want to see this, 
don't you?" he asked, tone teasing.

Beryl smiled and nodded. "Well, yes actually. All 
right."

"Tell you what, I'm doing a late afternoon delivery run 
from the mill at just on six. What if I meet you at the 
corner of Railway and View? That's not too far from your 
place is it?"

"No, that'd be fine, Pro. All right then. I'd better get 
going again before Mum sends out a search party," said 
Beryl, glancing at her watch. "But before I go, there's 
something else I wanted to give you." She delved into 
one of her panniers, beside the pouch for the cooler-
brick, and pulled out a little package of foil that she 
unwrapped. The last of the flowers left over from Fools 
or Lovers' Day had finally run their course, but Beryl 
had saved a pink carnation bud that had just opened. Now 
she reached up and tucked it through the topmost 
buttonhole of the lapel of his overalls. "There. Now 
you're dressed to thrill. See you at six."

A big, genuine grin lit his face. "Why, thank you! Okay, 
'bye Beryl, see you later."

***

She felt rather silly standing on the corner in one of 
her good party skirts - the pale cream one at that - 
when Pro pulled up in the big flatback truck laden with 
timber. He beamed down from the cab.

"My, Beryl, you didn't need to go to all that trouble! 
You've even had your hair set! It's not like we're going 
to the Odeon!"

"Oh be quiet, I'm meeting George afterwards, remember?" 
She reached up for the doorhandle, and hoped her scarf 
would keep her "do" in place.

"No no, let me." The door swung open, and Pro unrolled 
and spread a towel on the seat before leaning over and 
offering her a hand up. His touch was warm and silken-
dry, not at all clammy, and somehow Pro-peculiar. His 
hand was strong and firm, but must have been very fine-
boned, for it seemed she couldn't feel the normal 
hardness of human fingerbones beneath the skin. And he 
definitely didn't have fingernails. As ever, his smile 
was reassuring, and before long they were jolting along 
toward the Clan's holdings. Reg met them at the gate; he 
was shorter than Pro, with grey eyes and a rounded, pale 
face, and curly hair so fair it seemed almost silver. He 
smiled and whistled.

"Looking sweet tonight, Beryl! You can't possibly be 
going out with _him_!"

"Maybe I'm doing him a favour!" she called back 
cheekily, and Pro laughed out loud.

"Oooh if only!"

He stopped the truck by the houses, and gallantly 
offered Beryl his arm so that together they strolled 
past the workings and into the inner compound. The sun 
hadn't quite set, so there was still plenty of light. 
Clanners called out in greeting and waved. Many of them 
had gathered in the half-built homes behind temporary 
canvas walls, and lively radio music mixed with the 
delicious smell of sizzling onions to make for a homely 
atmosphere.

When Beryl glanced up at the silent crane, Pro chuckled. 
"No, he's not up there, he's long since gone home. Come 
on, this way, and mind your step. Oh, here's a hard 
hat."

"But!" she wailed, hands to her scarf.

"Oh. Ah. Look...do you want to see this or not? I'll 
shout you your next trip to the salon, okay?" He fetched 
down a silver helmet from a peg on the wall of a 
construction shack, and adjusted the band out before 
setting it very carefully over her hair and scarf. "Hmm. 
Maybe Tempest can give it a brush up again before you 
leave."

"Oh, thanks," said Beryl sourly.

"No, really, she's good with hair! Come on." He switched 
his own hat for another helm, showing a flash of mottled 
skull.

Up a short flight of new concrete steps, they entered 
the building beneath the central scaffolding. In front 
of them was the base of the iron shaft, with a wide 
curving doorway into its interior. The column was 
hollow, a thick iron tube, perhaps five yards across. A 
broad, shallow spiral staircase had been worked into the 
shaft's inside wall, leaving the core of the structure 
empty but for a rope dangling in the middle and some 
cables from the crane. Beryl gazed up at the circle of 
sky overhead. Pro was already on the staircase, and 
beckoned.

"What...what's it for?"

"This is going to be our tower," said Pro eagerly. "From 
here we'll be able to see for miles, right beyond the 
horizon! We'll be able to talk to people in far-off 
countries, and be able to pick up television pictures 
and the very best radio! We'll be able to look for 
trouble, like fires and accidents, and then we can go 
out and help people, and rescue them. We can use our 
Enabled abilities to look after ordinary people. Then, 
maybe, they'll learn to like us more even though we 
might look ugly or scary."

"Wow!" She was a little breathless on the stairs as she 
hurried to keep up with Pro.

"At the top we'll put a lookout station with radios and 
radar to help airplanes, and a weather station, and 
we're going to build lightning rods to catch lightning 
from storms for power! And with the workshops below 
we'll invent things, like faster cars and trucks that 
don't break down, 'cause some of our Enabled are really, 
really clever. We'll even make machines that think, and 
television with colour pictures. There's so much we 
could do!"

"Ooh!" Beryl looked down, to find a deep hole yawned 
below in the centre of the shaft, and although she was 
safe she still grabbed at Pro's sleeve. "What's down 
there?"

"That's where the tower's growing from, where we pour 
the hot metal under the ground. We've already put enough 
of the observation deck on the top to be safe, it's got 
handrails and all, you'll be fine." He steadied her 
elbow with a firm, cupped hand. "There's going to be a 
lift in the middle when it's all finished, which'll be 
easier than walking."

At the top, she was on a level with the pilot-house of 
the crane, almost as high as a grain silo. There was a 
shallow, cupped disc of steel here three times the width 
of the shaft, with a timber deck, under which iron 
support arches curved. Bundles of cables made bristling 
industrial blossoms in the floorspace. There were also 
several wicker chairs, a canvas roof, and a good solid 
railing around the entire level that was comforting.

"So, how do you like this for a sun-deck?"

"This is fantastic!" Beryl went to the railing on the 
northeast side, gazing down at late-afternoon 
Kennarthen's glittering red rooves. To the east Mount 
Barrow loomed; to the southwest, Mount Moody. The 
norwest plains, a patchwork of hazy earthen fields, 
swept away to the blue of the ranges on the far side of 
Lake Tipok. "How much higher is it going to go?"

"Hundred-fifty foot, maybe two hundred, maybe even more 
if we can get the steel," Pro shrugged.

"My God! Wow, what are you going to do with it?"

"Me? I like to come up here 'round this time of night, 
just to get away from it all." He batted a hand toward 
the ground. "Much as I love my weird and wacky family, 
there's times a feller needs a place to sit and think on 
his own."

"And what do you think about, Pro?"

He joined her in gazing across the town, elbows on the 
railing. "How best I can help people, and get them to 
like me, without having to bow and scrape or crawl on 
hands and knees. The things I can do. I'm not one of the 
clever ones, but there's other things being Enabled lets 
me do."

"Why do all men have to prove themselves?" Beryl asked, 
thinking not only of Pro, but Georgie and most of the 
other menfolk she knew. "For me, the best way to get 
people to like you is to just be yourself."

"That's a lovely thought in theory, Beryl." Pro twined 
his fingers together, and they seemed to flex and flow 
like tentacles, another magician-like move. His voice 
tinged with bitterness rather than humour; the same 
sneer she saw in Sylvia's face, the anger in Tempest. 
"I'm sorry to say this, though - in the human world, 
looks still matter. Every one of us with an obvious 
physical deformity has at some time had sand kicked in 
our ugly faces. If we can't get the looks right, we can 
at least get the deeds right. We'll earn respect if 
nothing else this way." Then he gave a laugh. "Don't get 
me wrong, we have plenty of great friends too, such as 
fellers like Douggie - I mean to say, Basil got married, 
so if he could manage that then there's no excuse for 
the rest of us! But it's not always easy. Neither's 
life, I suppose." He shrugged. "One step at a time. Get 
this tower finished, there's a start."

"I think, maybe...building a tower a thousand feet tall 
would be easier than getting some people to like you. It 
wouldn't matter what you did, saving their lives 
wouldn't even be enough," Beryl ventured.

"Oh I know, there's a darkness in human nature that 
hides the ugliest of hearts under sweet faces," Pro 
agreed. "Bad guys don't always wear black. But people 
are shallow, Beryl, nobody cares to look too closely. 
That, at least, is why I have to prove myself. Call it a 
man thing if you wish, but hey, that's what I am."

"With your confidence and your sense of humour, Pro," 
Beryl smiled, "you might just pull it off."

"Confidence?" He chuckled, shaking his head at the deck. 
"Yes, well, giving up is pretty pointless. Being a 
reject from the cosy sameness of society teaches one 
self-reliance if nothing else."

It was tranquil so high above the town. Pro stood beside 
her, facing the population yet far above it, sober-faced 
and resolute in profile. His nose was a slightly 
different shape again, his chin pointy, ready to cop 
Life's blows solidly. Right now George would be raising 
a glass with his mates, having never needed to go it 
alone. He had a security that he took for granted.

"If you want acceptance, why aren't you down at the pub 
with the rest of the fellers?"

Pro gave a little smile. "Sometimes I go. But there's 
regulars there that don't much like me. Even if I don't 
cause trouble, they do. Only one or two of them, but 
it's stupid how one or two loud mouths can sway a crowd. 
Unfortunately, I don't rant very well."

"Sure. I'm sorry."

"Beryl," he said sternly, blue eyes glaring at her, 
"don't you _ever_ feel sorry for me!"

She gave her mother's giggle, but her eyes were sober as 
she nodded. He turned and walked a few paces away. She 
was clutching her handbag, and remembered the few 
cigarettes Dot had given her.

"Uh, mind if I smoke?"

"Sandbox over there for the butt." He gestured toward 
the wicker chairs negligently. "As for the pub, I'm 
working on it. Soon my friends will outnumber my 
enemies, and then things'll be easier."

Beryl realised she had no matches. George always lit for 
her. "Er, you wouldn't have a light, would you?"

"Light? Oh, right, er..." He slapped his pockets, 
looking awkward.

"You don't smoke?"

"I can't," he said, making a helpless gesture. "Every 
time I try, I get the hiccoughs."

Beryl laughed, and he joined in. "Who ever heard of such 
a thing!" she giggled.

"No, I swear it's true. Fact..." He started riffling 
about near the chairs. "I'll prove it, should be some 
matches here."

"Proving yourself again?"

"You clearly don't believe me." He stood up with a box 
of matches and flicked one alight. Beryl drew back on 
her smoke so that the tip flared golden-orange while Pro 
waited expectantly, smirking. Then she handed him the 
cigarette. He drew an assertive breath, and his throat 
rolled in a curious, exaggerated way; then he gave a 
cough and splutter, just like she had when first 
starting out.

"That isn't hiccoughs," said Beryl dismissively.

"Oh, you ain't seen nothing yet," he replied a shade 
wheezily. "How did you like the cake?"

"Pro, it was delicious!" she said happily, squeezing his 
forearm. "How did you know I love chocolate?"

"Ahh, it's a pretty safe bet - anyway, it's traditional 
on Fools or Lovers' Day. You see, I have a secret plan 
to sabotage your lovely figure and complexion by plying 
you with chocolate so that no other man will ever want 
you again."

"Well it worked very well, so well in fact that I..." 
She handed him the smoke again and stood on her tiptoes 
to whisper in his ear. "...had a few pieces of Doug's 
cake as well, but that's a secret!"

He coughed again and gulped. "Uh-oh. That bad, uh?"

"He was really embarrassed about it. Said he had some 
kind of allergy to chocolate and couldn't eat it. He 
didn't want to hurt her feelings."

"Ohh boy," Pro sighed. "She was so excited about baking 
that cake too. Well, my lips are zipped."

"Pro," Beryl said slowly, eyeing him carefully. "You 
didn't send me a sweetheart letter as well, did you?"

"A sweetheart letter?" He looked bemused. "I give you a 
cake, and you expect a sweetheart letter into the 
bargain?"

She blushed. "_Somebody_ sent me an anonymous sweetheart 
letter, and said he'd ask me on a date soon."

Pro shook his head. "Well it wasn't me, I'm not kidding. 
I don't actually write very well, and I sure wouldn't 
dictate a mushy letter. Unless...Tempest might be 
playing a prank on us both, did you think of that?" His 
face had twisted into a glower, and Beryl couldn't help 
but marvel at the plastic nature of his expressions. He 
was certainly entertaining to watch. "If she has, she'd 
better watch herself! Love letters indeed! Next thing 
you'll expect a kiss." His face shifted to one of 
lowered-lids seduction, voice dropping to a purr. "Ever 
been kissed by a double-jointed man?"

"And just how many women have you kissed, loverboy?" 
Beryl said in teasing, silken response, batting her 
lids. He grinned boyishly.

"Less than the number of cigarettes I've smoked. Come 
on, this irresistible face? Women can't help 
themselves."

"Did Jean give you some measure of private tuition?"

"I got lipstick on my cheek, lipstick on my collar, and 
all that for my empty wallet," he smiled wryly.

"Pro, have you ever kissed anyone?" Beryl asked 
dubiously. "I mean, _really_?"

"Yes I have. It was about a year back. Sylvia and I 
thought we'd better get some practice in, in case we 
ever got the opportunity for real." He wrinkled his 
nose. "Even back then, she tasted like an ashtray."

"Mm." Beryl turned and stubbed out the cigarette on the 
railing, then dropped it in the sand bucket. "I could 
almost feel sorry for you."

His voice dropped and cooled again. "Don't. I've had 
enough of condescension this week."

"I mean to say, having to get all that lippy out of your 
clothing." The tension went from his shoulders and he 
smiled as she walked over to him. He still had the 
carnation in his buttonhole, but it had slipped awry, so 
she reached up and fixed it. His lips were smooth and 
shiny, and had definitely flushed more crimson. His 
eyelids lowered a fraction as he looked down, at her 
mouth.

But just when it seemed he might tilt his head and lean 
down, he stopped still. His throat pulsated, and as he 
gave a muted "hic" he pressed his lips tightly together, 
and the colour bleached from them. His eyes opened wide.

"Oh oh," he muttered. "Told you this'd happen."

Beryl watched as he swallowed, jerked and hiccoughed 
again. The blue discs of his eyes bulged. "Don't hold 
them in, it just makes them worse...oh my God! Pro! 
There's smoke coming out your...ears!"

"Wha'? Ick!"

"There is!" Beryl cried, pointing and laughing at the 
faint but definite wisps that puffed from under his 
helmet rim. He opened his mouth to say something, but 
only a hic, then a belch came out, and more stray curls 
of smoke. She had never seen or heard anything quite so 
funny and doubled over in fits of laughter, as Pro 
quivered, gurgled and made a hundred astonished faces as 
his body rebelled. At last he mustered a deep, bubbling 
laugh of his own, intermixed with burps and coughs of 
smoky gas.

"Ohh you poor thing!" Beryl gasped, dabbing tears from 
her eyes with a hanky. "I should never have let you have 
a smoke!"

He shook his head, batted his hands about his ears to 
disperse the smoke, and wheezed apologetically. "I guess 
it...ick...just doesn't agree with my..ick...biology!"

"So I suppose a kiss is out of the question?"

With a gulp and a cough, he batted a hand at the sky. 
"Sun's almost, ick, gone, we should...ick...head down 
now," he grinned ruefully. "You've got a hot, ick, date 
with a suck-ick-tion cup, remember?"

"You don't like George much, do you?" They headed for 
the downramp.

"No, I don't...ick...because he's got something I ick-
want, and it's not his ick-car either!"

"Pro, you won't get anywhere with me if you go along 
insulting my beau," Beryl said righteously. She eyed the 
rope that hung down the middle of the shaft. "That's not 
part of the crane rig, what's it for?"

"The rope? Oh, that's my ick-ladder. I can get up and 
down much qui-icker on the rope than on this staircase."

"Show me," she said brightly, but Pro blushed as if he 
suddenly regretted mentioning it.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't. I'd have to, er, take off my ick-clothes 
to do it properly, ick, and you wouldn't want to see 
that. Ick."

"You climb the rope in the nuddy?" Beryl started 
giggling again.

"No, no, well, ick, yes, but it's not what you think, 
no, ohh fiddlesticks! Forget I ever mentioned it!" 

At the bottom of the steps he turned to her. "You must 
think I'm a complete dunderhead, ick, after today," he 
said dolefully. "I don't normally make a complete ick-
pratt of myself in front of ick, er, fair company."

"I don't think that at all," said Beryl sincerely. "It's 
my fault anyway - and you really shouldn't smoke. Thank 
you for showing me around; it's truly spectacular."

They left the inner workings, and took a short walk to 
the part-built home where Pro's parents and Tempest 
lived. While Pro asked his father if he could borrow the 
car to drop Beryl back in town, Tempest made a fuss over 
her hair. With deft strokes from a brush, she managed to 
restore some of its bounce, for which Beryl was 
grateful.

"Are you sure you wouldn't care to stay for dinner?" Mrs 
Phillips called from her open-air kitchen. "It's high 
time we Phillipses fed you, for a change." She was a 
pear-shaped woman, a rounded version of Tempest with 
darker, smoother hair. Their father was the truly exotic 
one, with crewcut white hair and a pallid, almost lilac 
complexion; his skin was flecked with pale scales that 
made it glitter in the right light. His eyes were the 
most vivid lime green she had ever seen. He handed his 
son some keys, then yawned and stretched - cracking 
every bone in his body, which clicked and snapped from 
head to toe.

"Thank you, Mrs Phillips, but I'm meeting someone for 
dinner."

"Oh well, you're always welcome here any time of day. 
Maybe next time we'll have some real glass in the 
windows," she laughed.

Pro drove her back to the main street, stopping in front 
of a bus shelter across the road from the pub. His eyes 
did glint in twilight conditions, and he peered around 
suspiciously. "Are you sure you'll be all right here?"

"Of course," said Beryl confidently. "I'll go sit in 
Georgie's car over there. It's a country town, Pro - 
look around you, there's no-one for miles."

He smiled. "Sure. Just don't seem the gentlemanly thing 
to do, though, drop a girl off on an empty street in the 
dark. Actually..." He gazed speculatively at the warmly-
lit bar. "'Spose if Georgie boy's stepping out with you, 
where's the harm in me going in for a quiet drink? I'll 
see you later, Beryl," he said, stepping out of the car. 
"Wouldn't do to be seen with another man's girl, so I'll 
say ta-ta now. Thanks for visiting this afternoon."
<1st attachment end>


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