Dr. Nyet

CHAPTER TWO

"The Beatles!"

"What? What do you want?" I couldn't help admiring the way Putnam stood his ground with his jaw stuck out.

"The Beatles! The Beatles! We know they're here! Where are you hiding them?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Putnam said, maintaining his usual icy composure.

"He's lying! Let's get them! We'll make them talk!" They milled around us, hands outstretched, blood in their eyes.

"Viet Nam and the Dominican Republic, huh!" Putnam muttered to me out of the corner of his mouth. "What do you think now, Mr. Victor? Do you still think such things can excite people's passions and arouse them to such fury? Not the English, Mr. Victor. They save their mob instinct for the things that really count. And while S.M.U.T. takes over the world, you and I stand here about to be martyred in the name of rock 'n' roll!"

"Shut up, you! Now, tell us where the Beatles are, or we'll string you up the blinkin' chandelier."

"I don't know where they are. But I do know they are not on these premises."

"You puttin' us on, guv? This here is a movie set, hain't it?"

"Yes. But the Beatles are not in the picture being made."

"That the truth, now?"

"Yes."

"Well, why hain't they?" The crowd grew even uglier with the question.

"Because it's a motion picture concerned with high-level diplomacy, that's why," Putnam explained. "There are no roles in it which would be suited to the Beatles."

"And why not? Ask me, that's the trouble with the whole bloody foreign office. The Beatles hain't got a say in makin' policy."

"He might have something there," I murmured to Putnam.

"Damn right, guv. Things'd be a lot different if Ringo 'ad 'is say with De Gaulle."

"They probably would, at that," Putnam granted.

"These blokes is puttin' us on," someone shouted. "I say rough 'em up a bit an' then they'll tell us where the Beatles is at." Again the crowd pressed around us.

"Are you with me, Mr. Victor?" Putnam asked.

"That I am."

"Then let us go."

I followed Putnam's lead as he took a step backward and then jumped through the window. I hotfooted it after him as he picked himself up and started running for the street.

"There they go!" The crowd took up the cry. And behind the leaders still others screamed, "The Beatles! The Beatles!"

Putnam headed straight for the safety of a parked car, with me in his wake. Only after we were in the back of it did I realize that it was the car I'd come in before. The driver must have been waiting. Now Putnam tapped him on the shoulder. "The airport," he said. "And you'd best get cracking before they tear the car apart," he added.

The crowd was upon the car now, and I saw that Putnam's warning made sense. Even as we roared away they were clinging to the bumpers and throwing themselves over the roof. And behind us other cars took up the chase.

"There's a chartered plane waiting for you," Putnam explained. "It will take you straight to New York."

"You were pretty sure of me, weren't you?" I observed.

"Yes," he admitted. "I was."

"I don't suppose there's time for me to stop for a good-bye to Gladys," I said wistfully.

"I'm afraid not."

"What about passport papers, clothing, things like that?"

"All on the plane waiting for you. Everything's been arranged."

I could only shrug at Putnam's efficiency and lapse into silence. Some twenty minutes later we arrived at the airport. The driver flashed some sort of identification that got us past the guard at the gate and onto the field itself. We drove straight up to the waiting aircraft, and I hopped out of the car and boarded it. It started taxiing across the field immediately. My last view of London as we took off was a mob of wild-eyed, screaming, outraged Beatle fans swarming across the runway and howling their frustration.

The flight was uneventful. We landed at Kennedy Airport. It took almost half as long to get from there to midtown Manhattan by taxi cab as it had to fly from London to New York. Wedged into crosstown traffic with the meter ticking merrily, I reflected that New York hadn't changed at all since the last time I'd been here; it had only gotten more New Yorkish.

I grabbed a good night's sleep at the plush hotel where Putnam had made reservations for me. When I woke up, I dawdled over a late breakfast. It was early afternoon when I started out on my campaign to infiltrate S.M.U.T.

Not wanting to be obvious, I'd decided to start on a local level and then work my way up. So I called the Queens chapter of the organization and asked to speak to the chapter president. Her name was Mrs. Prudence Highman. She was all business and careful elocution over the phone. Still, I sensed an eagerness after I'd explained who I was and how I thought I might be of use to her organization. She readily agreed to an appointment to see me later that same afternoon.

It was almost four when the cab dropped me off in Forest Hills to keep the appointment. The S.M.U.T. regional office was in a luxury apartment building. Later I learned that the Highman living quarters were part of the same premises.

A male receptionist greeted me. He had acne and sweaty palms. His gait was suspiciously mincing as he went to tell Mrs. Highman's secretary that I had arrived. Maybe it was unfair, but I pigeonholed him as the sort of sexual reject who just naturally seeks an outlet with an outfit like S.M.U.T. A moment later he returned and led me into an inner room where Mrs. Highman's secretary was waiting.

The secretary was a dried fig labeled female by the clothing she wore, but decidedly asexual otherwise. She was juiceless and overage, joyless and as gray and drab inside – I would have bet – as was the shapeless knot of hair topping her wrinkled features. Her voice was chalk-on-a-blackboard as she told me Mrs. Highman would see me immediately. Her step was a geriatric hobble as she led the way into yet another room.

Up to then, the personnel of S.M.U.T. was just about what I would have expected. But Mrs. Prudence Highman was something else again. My first glance told me she was no stereotype of comstockery. And a second look confirmed that I had no ready pigeonhole for her.

She was younger than I had expected, although the clothes she wore were obviously intended to stress her more solid matronly qualities. Her hair as brown with just a hint of a red glow which had been played down but not snuffed out altogether. She wore no make-up, but there was something sensual about her face. The horn-rimmed glasses she wore couldn't conceal a certain subdued joie de vivre glinting in the depths of her deepset green eyes. And the fullness of her lips couldn't be hidden by her habit of pressing them tightly together.

Her age was a well-kept secret. She might have been as young as 25, or as old as her late thirties. It was impossible to tell.

My observation that she had a good figure was at least half a guess. The suit jacket buttoned over her bosom couldn't conceal its largeness, but it revealed nothing of its shape. The way it hung over her hips told nothing about them or of the waist above them. Her skirt was worn longer than the current style, and while her calves were admirable, any judgment of her legs was impossible.

Her voice was as it had been over the phone, formal and with each syllable enunciated with a bell-like clarity. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Victor?" As I took her up on it, she turned to the secretary. "That will be all, Eloise," she said, dismissing her.

The secretary shot me a look which said I wasn't to be trusted, and then left us alone.

"So you are the man from O.R.G.Y.," Mrs. Highman said when we were alone. She pronounced each letter individually, rather than speaking them as one word.

"And you are the lady from S.M.U.T." I pronounced it as a word.

Her forehead creased with distaste, but she ignored it. "As I understood you over the phone, Mr. Victor, you are anxious to enlist in our cause and you feel that your special field of knowledge might be helpful to us. Is that correct?"

"That's the general idea."

"Why, Mr. Victor?"

Well, she was obviously no fool. It was a good question, and it demanded an answer. A very careful answer. "Because my researches have convinced me of the tightness of your cause," I said cautiously. It was more of a feeler than an answer.

"Have they, Mr. Victor? I should have thought that someone in your profession would automatically be against our work."

"But why?" Now it was my turn to play cat-and-mouse.

"By studying and reporting frankly on sexual practices, there can be no doubt that you tend to encourage them."

She didn't know it, but she'd pointed the way for me with that statement. "What you say has been true," I granted. "But it is a side effect, rather than anything which was planned. Pure research knows no consequences, only truth. It was in this spirit that I have always conducted my activities. Still, I have been increasingly aware of what you just pointed out. It has disturbed me greatly. That's why I would like to work with your organization. I would like to redress the balance of permissiveness which I have been instrumental in creating."

"If you are sincere, Mr. Victor -" she looked at me shrewdly – "then there can be no doubt that you can be extremely helpful to us. As one who has been identified with the other side, your remorse would have great publicity value. Not just locally with the chapter I head, either," she mused. "Your importance could be countrywide, even worldwide, to our organization. Just how far are you willing to go with your public support of our case?"

"I'm not sure." I didn't want to appear over-eager. "That will depend on just how much is asked of me."

The caution implicit in my answer seemed to reassure her. "That's understandable," she agreed. "Then perhaps we should start out small, limit your activities to the local level at first. There will always be time to enlarge them."

I guessed that she was thinking it would be a feather in her cap to be able to use me under her personal sponsorship as a spokesman for her particular chapter of S.M.U.T. "That sounds like a good idea," I agreed. Her next words confirmed my guess.

"I shall have to work very closely with you myself," she said. "And I think we should keep your activities secret at first so that the impact will be greater when we do make your participation public. Yes, there are many things we should discuss, you and I." She glanced at her wristwatch. "The office will be closing soon," she told me. "I wonder if you might take dinner with me tonight, Mr. Victor?"

"I'd be delighted."

"Good. My quarters lie just beyond these offices. We may as well go in now."

Dinner was to be promptly at six. I mention that because the cooking of it was something to behold. It began, in a sense, when Prudence Highman led me from the office to the apartment behind it.

The apartment was quietly expensive. The furnishings were utilitarian with no frills. There was nothing at all frivolous about them. Everything was functional in the living room to which I was first conducted. Even the landscapes on the walls contained hidden light tubes to justify their having been hung.

It was dusk when we entered, and the room was dim. Mrs. Highman clapped her hands and immediately there was light. "They call it Sonuswitch," she explained. "It reacts to certain sounds and turns on lights and sets all sorts of electrical appliances in motion." She consulted her watch. "Come into the kitchen and you'll see," she told me. "My husband is about to cook dinner."

I followed her into the kitchen. There was a telephone on the wall nearest to the stove. As we entered, it started to ring. Mrs. Highman stood half-smiling as it rang fifteen times. As the last ring sounded, a tray with a roast on it slid into the oven. The oven door closed, and the electric stove went into action. One of the burners on top grew red, and a fry-pan containing potatoes slid into place atop another burner which was heating. And a gadget beside the stove began tossing a salad positioned beneath it.

"I thought you said your husband was cooking dinner," I said to Mrs. Highman.

"He is. That was him on the phone. By the time he gets home there will be nothing for him to do but put the food on dishes and serve it. I think you'll find our household very well-organized, Mr. Victor. Sonuswitch has enabled us to regulate almost all of the tasks of daily living." She led me back into the living room. "Would you like a cocktail?" she asked.

The question took me by surprise. I would have bet Mrs. Highman was teetotal. Still, never look a gift drink in the mouth. "Yes," I nodded.

She walked over to a massive buffet and snapped her fingers. I stared at it as she returned to me. Two bottles and a cocktail shaker had popped to the surface of it. Now metal fingers picked up the bottles and poured. The shaker was capped and began to agitate itself. After a moment two cocktail glasses snapped into place and the shaker uncapped itself and poured its contents neatly into the tumblers.

"Well, I'll be damned!" I exclaimed as Mrs. Highman went to fetch the drinks.

"Please, Mr. Victor," she said sternly. "If you are to join S.M.U.T., you must renounce the use of all profanity."

"Sorry. I promise I'll be more careful." I accepted the drink she handed me and took a hearty swallow.

"Gosh darn it to heck and back!" I exploded, still managing to remember to restrain my natural profanity. "What the blue blazes is this stuff?"

"Sauerkraut juice, Mr. Victor. With a dash of attar of wheat germ. It's a health cocktail. I'm sorry if it isn't to your taste."

"Oh, it's fine," I lied. "It's just than when you said a cocktail, I naturally thought -

"That it would be alcoholic. I'm sorry, Mr. Victor, but I don't believe in indulging in alcoholic beverages. It's against my principles. Against S.M.U.T.'s too. That's something else you'll have to curb if you are to join with us. Also, your smoking. I have noticed that you smoke a great deal. We shall have to cure you of that, too."

"How about sex?" The question sprang to my lips before I could stop it.

"My husband and I are content with a relationship of courtly love," she informed me primly.

"And he doesn't object?" I asked.

"Not at all. You can ask him for yourself when he arrives."

Over dinner later, I did just that. Peter Highman was pretty much what I expected. He was a scrawny man with a nervous tic and a Caspar Milquetoast habit of looking to his wife for approval every time he spoke. Still, I sensed something brooding under his surface.

"You don't smoke?" I tried it on him for openers.

"No, Mr. Victor. I did try a cigarette once. I found no joy in it. So I never tried it again."

Prudence Highman nodded approval.

"And you don't drink, either?"

"That is correct," he said. "I indulged myself in a glass of wine once. It made me ill. I've never touched alcohol since."

Again his wife's nod said that his course was wise.

"How about gambling?" I asked.

"No." He shook his head. "I played poker once. I lost. Since then I have never touched a card."

His wife's nod was peremptory this time. Her mind had strayed. "Did you look in on Oscar when you came home?" she asked.

"Of course, my dear. Oscar," he explained to me, "is our son."

"Your only child, I presume," I responded.

"Yes." Now there was more than a trace of wistfulness in Peter Highman's tone as he explained. "Since Oscar's conception, my wife and I have lived together in blissful chastity."

"Blissful?" Somehow I managed to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

"Blissful," he repeated staunchly. But there was a quaver in his voice.

"You see," Prudence Highman told me. "We don't just talk S.M.U.T. We live it. We live by our principles."

"Yes, I see. Very laudable," I assured her. "Quite admirable."

"And now, Peter," she said, turning to her husband, "Mr. Victor and I have business to discuss. You can do the dishes while I take him into the study."

"Maybe first I can give you a hand with the dishes," I offered.

"That won't be necessary," he told me. "All I have to do is tack them in the dishwasher and whistle. Sonuswitch will se that the washer and dryer does the rest. We're completely automated here," he told me proudly.

"It's really more than human," his wife agreed.

"Or less," I muttered, but not loudly enough to be heard. I was thinking more of their "blissful chastity" than of Sonuswitch, tough. "Then why don't you join us in the study?" I asked Highman aloud.

He didn't answer. But the look he shot his wife was the equivalent of a child begging to be allowed to stay up for the grown-ups' party.

"That won't be possible." Prudence Highman scotched his hopes firmly. "You see, Mr. Victor, Peter is only a lay member of S.M.U.T. The library contains much confiscated material which I, as an official of the organization, am responsible for holding. It's the hardest part of my job, having to study such filth. But my position obliges me to do it, and so I do. However, I would never subject Peter to such material."

"Then do you think it's really all right to let me -" I started to say.

"Your case is different, Mr. Victor. I'm sure that you have seen many such examples in your work. Like myself, I'm sure that you are able to control your disgust while viewing the real enemy."

"Well, I'll certainly try," I assured her, noticing that Peter Highman looked disappointed but resigned as he started to clear the table. I got to my feet as his wife did and followed her to the library.

Outside the door she paused, mouthed a whistle which had been hanging on a chain from around her neck, and blew it. There was no audible sound. Yet the door swung open and closed behind us as we entered. "I keep it locked because of the salacious nature of the material stored here," Mrs. Highman explained. "It will only open if the proper ultrasonic pitch is sounded outside the door. And this is the only existing whistle capable of reaching that inaudible pitch. That way I'm sure that no one can sneak in here."

"You mean Peter might try -?"

"I would hope not. But one can never be sure. He is made of flesh as we all are, and flesh is weak. That's why it's so important that the work of S.M.U.T. be carried forward to fight the temptations of the flesh. Here, let me give you some idea of what I mean." She crossed over to a row of filing cabinets and stopped in front of one of them. She snapped her fingers and a drawer slid open. She took out a folder and came back to me. "It will be more comfortable if we sit down," she said, leading me over to a couch. "Now, just look at this." She handed me the folder.

I took it and looked at the outside of it. A small ad was neatly pasted on the tab, evidently to identify it. "GENUINE FRENCH POSTCARDS" was the heading on the ad. I glanced casually at the first three subheads underneath it. "A Sight for the Discriminating and Knowing Tourist in Paris!" the first announced. "The Hottest Picture in Montmartre!" the second blurb read. "A Stimulating Close-Up of a Magnificent French Organ!" the third promised. There was more, but I didn't read further. Curious, I opened the folder instead.

The first "genuine French postcard" was a picture of the Eiffel Tower. The second turned out to be a shot of a blast furnace in a Montmartre factory. The third was a close-up of a French organ all right – a church organ!

"Sorry. Wrong folder." Prudence Highman took it back from me. "We gave these people a clean bill of health," she explained as she replaced it. "From the ad we thought they might be peddling pornography, but we were wrong."

"I can see how you might be misled," I told her.

"Yes. Ah, here we are. This is the genuin article." She pulled out another folder and rejoined me on the couch. She openend this one herself.

I found myself looking at a picture of a fully clothed girl. Prudence turned the page and the girl was still fully clothed except that her gloves were removed. When the next page was turned, the photo showed the girl with her shoes off. Now Prudence stopped turning the pages and began riffling them. The pictures dissolved one into the other to show a rapid strip tease. When all her clothes were off, the girl was stretched out nude on a bed.

But that wasn't the end of the sequence. Far from it. Prudence continued turning the pages slowly again, and with each new picture the girl was caressing her naked body more and more intimately. Then Prudence riffled the pages again and the effect was of the girl having an erotic ball all by her lonesome.

The model played with her large breasts until the roseates widened and the nipples distended. The riffling pictures gave the impression of her breasts heaving rapidly as, with eyes half closed, she caressed her lower body. The photos blended into a series of close-ups of this area as she manipulated various objects and the flesh began pulsating as if with a life of its own. Then they blended back into the full view to show her body writhing as her hand disappeared almost to the wrist. The grand finale showed her jackknifing with a double-jointed display that was pretty amazing.

"Isn't that disgusting?" Prudence said, gazing over my shoulder and breathing a little rapidly herself.

"Disgusting!" I granted. "And I wouldn't have thought it possible, either."

"It's not. These pictures have been doctored."

"How can you tell for sure?"

"They had to be. What she's doing is impossible. I checked to make sure of that."

"How did you check?"

"I tried it. For position only, of course. I'm in pretty good shape, you know. Physically, I mean. So I did my duty and attempted it. Believe me, it's an anatomical impossibility."

"You certainly do take your work seriously," I complimented her. "Not many people in your position would be willing to make such sacrifices."

"I believe in what I'm doing," Prudence said. "And it's necessary to know exactly what we're up against. That's why I devote so much time to this filth. Most of the people in my chapter of S.M.U.T. have never even seen this sort of thing. They have no idea of the real nature of the evil they're fighting. By taking the burden on myself, I save them from ever having to confront it. I am strong enough to do this while someone like Peter, say, might be overwhelmed by it. But," she added, "you haven't seen anything yet, Mr. Victor. Here, take a look at this." She brought me another folder.

This one contained printed matter. It was a booklet called The Naughty Nympho. I opened it at random and started reading. Prudence read right along with me. I could feel one of her breasts rising and falling as it pressed against my arm.

"… Dolly was burning with lust as she looked at the stripling lad," I read. "No older than she, he had not her experience and so trembled under her insinuating gaze. Dolly wasted no time on words. She pulled off her clothing until she stood before him clad only in her shift. Then she kissed him, her body clinging to his, feeling the rock of his burning manhood through the flimsy material covering her soft belly. When the kiss was over, he tore off his own clothing, so aroused that his shyness was forgotten. Dolly gasped with admiration at the magnificent length of his passion. She made haste to caress it, and her eyes opened wide as it swelled in her grasp. He had pushed the shift down to her waist now, and his face was buried in the creamy roundness of her wondrous white bosom like a greedy little tom-kitten lapping up a saucer of milk. Wild with desire, but fearful at what she might have unloosed, Dolly pulled off her shift altogether and mounted him. Before settling herself, she paused to look once again at his mighty machine. Almost, she changed her mind at the sight of it. Surely it would split her asunder! Surely she would never survive such an impalement! But his hands clasped the hot flesh of her round buttocks and forced her to complete the motion she had started. Pain and pleasure mingled as the hot poker of his manhood pierced her, and then…"

"Turn the page! What are you waiting for? Turn the page!" Prudence was taut with impatience beside me.

"I'm just resting my eyes," I told her. "This print is so fine, and the light's kind of dim here."

"Oh. Well, we can fix that." She clapped her hands twice, and the room was plunged into darkness. "Oh, dear!" she exclaimed. "There must be a short circuit somewhere." She calpped her hands once, and the lights came back on the way they'd been before. Then she reached over her head and clapped again. A reading light beamed down from the wall behind us. "Do you want to go on?" she asked. "Or would you rather look at something different?"

"I think I get the idea of this one," I told her. "But I'm afraid I don't understand why you're showing me these things."

"I want you to appreciate the full scope of what S.M.U.T. is up against," she told me. "It's necessary if you're to play a major role in our activities. Here, just look at these! Aren't they appalling?"

She took a small box from one of the filing cabinets and handed it to me. I opened it to find a dozen or so wood-carvings inside. They were quite intricate, obviously done by a master, and highly detailed. Each one featured a man and a woman, both naked, in very sophisticated sexual positions.

"These come from India," she told me, removing one of the little wooden sculptings and holding it in the palm of her hand. "There are few cultures so depraved as the one from which these items come." Her fingers trailed delicately over the wooden sex organs. "Notice that the erotic titillation is accomplished by surpassing reality," she said, her eyes glittering as she stared at the sculpture, a fine film of perspiration glistening on her brow.

"Surpassing reality?" I shrugged. "I don't think so, the position is unusual, I'll grant, but quite within the realm of possibility."

"Do you really think so? Do you really think it's possible for a man and woman to have sexual congress in such a manner?" I noticed that she was surreptitiously clenching and unclenching her thighs as she asked the question.

"Yes," I told her, and then momentarily changed the subject. "The erotic titillation you mentioned before? Doesn't it ever effect you? I mean, being forced to spend so much time with the kind of material you've shown me, don't you find yourself responding to it despite yourself?"

"I'm afraid I do," she admitted, lowering her eyes. "But I struggle against it. My body struggles against it."

"And you're struggling right now," I guessed, aware that the little, secret, rhythmic movements of her hips were making the couch move under us.

"I am. But I always win my struggle, Mr. Victor. In the end my body always finds the contentment of virtue. I always conquer my lust."

I saw that she was serious. And I realized that she wasn't even aware that when she "conquered her lust" she was actually releasing it. She didn't admit to her orgasms; she merely had them and told herself they were triumphs over passion. Well, to each his own, I told myself.

"Surely you're mistaken, Mr. Victor," she was saying now. "Surely this particular position is unattainable." She continued bouncing on the couch, seemingly unaware of what she was doing.

"I say it is attainable."

"Then prove it." Her tongue darted between her lips as if obeying some inspiration apart from her, an inspiration all its own.

"What do you mean?"

"Prove it. With me. Show me how it's possible."

"Do you mean -?"

"Certainly not, Mr. Victor!" She actually looked shocked. "I simply mean that we should assume the position. With our clothes on, of course. Just to see if it really is possible."

"Okay," I agreed. "If that's what you want." I took the wood sculpture from her and studied it for a moment. Then I set it down on the table in front of the couch. "Let's go," I told her.

Prudence stretched out on the couch. I grasped her ankles, and she bent at the waist. I forced her ankles back until they were touching her shoulders. Then I crossed her arms so that she had a hand gripping each ankle and locking it in place.

"Just a minute," she panted.

I couldn't tell whether she was breathing hard from exertion or excitement. "What is it?" I asked.

"My suit jacket's in the way," she said. "Let me take it off."

"Okay." I released her.

She doffed the jacket. The blouse she was wearing under it was very sheer. She must have been wearing a halfslip, because the flesh of her waist was clearly visible. Also, the bra she was wearing was surprisingly frivolous and only doing half the job for which it was intended. For the first time I was able to appreciate that Prudence Highman did indeed have a voluptuous figure. The waist was small, but the bosom was more than ample and firmly molded into exciting twin peaks that quivered and strained with her breathing.

I manipulated her into position once again. Now her skirt was tight over her derriere, which was outlined clearly through the material. I turned around and slipped my ankles into the wedge created by her ankles and wrists. She tightened her grip, and now my ankles were also locked securely in place. Then I sort of folded myself around her, bending at the waist with outstretched arms and slipping beneath her until my fingers were clenching her shoulders from underneath. My nose was buried somewhere in the middle of her back and my voice was muffled when I managed to speak.

"You see," I told her, "It is possible. Not the most comfortable position, but it does provide tremendous pressure just where it's needed." To demonstrate, I moved against her.

I was getting pretty excited myself, and I guess she couldn't help feeling this as I proved my point. But she chose to remain unconvinced. "I still don't believe that penetration is possible this way," she huffed. "Wait a minute and let me pull my skirt up. Then we can get a clearer idea."

She hoisted her skirt and half-slip over her waist. She had good legs, shapely, with fleshy thighs that were pink from having been rubbed together. I caught a brief glimpse of flimsy, transparent white panties before we resumed the position once again.

"Would you mind unbuttoning your trousers, Mr. Victor?" she asked in a voice that didn't quite manage to remain above it all. "Then we can be really sure."

I obliged. Then I wrapped myself around her once again. Only those skimpy panties were between us now. Our flesh burned hungrily as the position we were in mashed it together. And then I felt her eager desire clutching at my manhood as if trying to draw it deeper. I took my hands from her shoulders and pulled off her panties from underneath.

"What are you doing, Mr. Victor?" she asked, half moaning.

"I just want the experiment to be accurate in every detail," I assured her as I once again grasped her shoulders for leverage.

"Very well. We'll see it through in the interests of research. But there must be no passion, Mr. Victor. Please remember that. We are not making love."

"Oh, absolutely not," I assured her, sliding against her ever so gently.

"You must under no circumstances lose control of yourself and allow your lust to be released."

"Under no circumstances!" I rammed with all my strength.

Her body was writhing now as if possessed by a demon. Her first explosion came so quickly that it took me by surprise. It was followed by half a dozen more in rapid succession. She screamed aloud with the last one, and I joined her in a long drawn- out moment of ecstatic release. Then we fell apart, momentarily exhausted.

"Mr. Victor," she said finally, her voice chiding, "you broke your word. You had sexual congress with me."

"It takes two," I reminded her.

"Nothing could have been further from my actions," she told me seriously. "While you were giving in to your carnal impulses, I was conquering mine."

"Again and again," I mused.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" she asked frostily.

"Look, let's not fight," I told her. Suddenly I was feeling tender toward her, kookie as she was. In her own perverse way, she had given me great pleasure. I was seized with a sudden desire to show my appreciation. Also, I was feeling a little playful.

I suppose that's why I clapped my hands twice so that the lights went out, made a grab for her, and kissed her soundly. She slapped me in the face – hard! – and the lights popped on again.

"Mr. Victor!" she was truly outraged. "How dare you take such liberties with me?"

"But after what we just did -" I said confusedly.

"That has nothing to do with it. That was merely an experiment. Nothing more. And it certainly gives you no right to think you can take advantage of the situation to indulge in libertine osculation. Why, I don't even allow my husband to kiss me the way you just did. I shall have to wash my mouth out thoroughly."

"Gargle away." I shrugged and zipped up my fly. The motion made me conscious of a sudden need which would make it necessary to zip it down again. "Is there a bathroom around here?" I asked her.

"Just down the hall. And please see that you return in a frame of mind more suitable to S.M.U.T." She blew her soundless whistle at the door and it swung open.

It closed behind me and I heard the lock click as I started down the hall. It was still solidly shut when I returned from the bathroom. I knocked at the door. There was no answer. I knocked louder. Same result. I pounded.

"Is there some difficulty, Mr. Victor?"

I turned around to find Peter Highman standing behind me. "I seem to have locked myself out," I told him.

"Well, it won't do you any good to knock. The room is completely soundproof. Prudence insisted on that. She's so easily distracted from her work, poor dear."

"I can see how she would be," I told him, feeling half sarcastic and half guilty. "But then how do I let her know I want to come back inside?"

"There is a pushbutton on the wall." He pointed it out to me. "Prudence should have told you about it."

"Oh, well, now I know." I pushed the button.

He stood there with me for a moment, hovering, as I waited. Nothing happened. The door remained staunchly shut. I stuck my finger on the pushbutton and held it there.

"That will annoy her," Peter Highman remonstrated mildly.

I took my finger off the button. Still there was no response. "Why doesn't she answer?" I asked him.

"I can't imagine. Do you suppose she's all right?" He was starting to look genuinely concerned.

"She was all right when I left her just a couple of minutes ago," I assured him. "Perhaps the bell is short-circuited or something."

"Then the door would be out of order, too," he said positively. "It's on the same circuit. And if that's the case, she can't get out."

"Do you think we should break it down?" I asked.

"I'm afraid it's the only way, Mr. Victor. Will you help me?"

We put our shoulders to it. It took some doing, but we finally broke the lock and forced it open. I went hurtling into the room first. I stopped short at what I saw, knowing that my jaw was hanging open but unable to summon up the will to close it. All I could do was stare in horrified fascination.

Prudence Highman lay in the middle of the floor, completely nude. Her clothing, in shreds and tatters, was strewn all over the room as if it had been forcibly ripped from her body and violently thrown every which way. Her body was horribly twisted as if it had been rung by some gigantic mangling machine. Her hands were pressed tightly to her ears as if trying to hold her skull together. Her features were contorted as though by a sudden cerebral stroke. I didn't have to look twice to know that she was dead.

But how? I knelt beside her. Despite the way every muscle in her body was twisted, there wasn't a mark on her. For a crazy instant it occurred to me that perhaps she had strangled herself. But her neck, although broken, didn't have a mark on it. There were no wounds of any kind on her.

Yet Prudence Highman had met violent death in a locked room. All by herself, she had been killed. Yes, she had told me herself that she had the only key to the door – or, rather, the only whistle pitched to open it. But then how had she died? What had killed her? And why?

Most of all, why?