Forewarning:  This story contains adult fantasy topics, especially

in the area of (big surprise for this site) breast enlargement.  It

also hopefully contains characterizations and a plotline

interesting enough to make the reader briefly forget about where

the sex scenes went to.  (Answer:  later.  Honest.)  Since all of

the above are considered to be adult topics, especially the idea of

plot, you have to be over the age of discretion in your home country

to read further.  Sorry about that.



For purposes of continuity, this is part II. In most of the known

universe, it should be read after part I.  Please follow your

regional laws.



Comments and correspondence can be sent to sam_tuirel@nac.net, with

the understanding that the tone of the missive will be the tone of

the reply.



Minor note:  in the absence of text tricks, I use < > to indicate

thought and { } for typed communication.  _ _ underlines words in

between.  If you got through the earlier chapters, you might even be

used to it by now.  The RTF version should be released eventually.

Possibly even before the millennium.



Once upon a time...

































                             In Sequence



                    7.  39:  Meeting of the minds



    Jason stepped out of the bathroom to see Pamela on the phone,

standing this time -- but doing slow turns in place as the

conversation proceeded, wrapping the cord around her body, gradually

creating the appearance of an inefficiently made, high-tech mummy.

    "Hi, Aunt Susan.  Can I get a favor?  It's going to be kind of

expensive.  Uh, thanks, that's -- sweet.  Okay, I need an emergency

bra shipment, Federal Express it.  No, not my standard order.  For a

friend.  This is going to be -- it'll come to me -- about a 32

underbust.  Five-foot five, very slim.  Cup size?  Start with a J

and send me one of everything for the rest of the alphabet.  Could

you stop laughing for a second?  No, this isn't for me:  since when

do I take a 32 or a J?  Look, if I told you what this was about, you

wouldn't believe me.  Maybe I'm going to seam-seal them, fill them

with helium, and have a parade down Houston Street.  Yes, I know

bras that size need custom fitting, but I don't have a choice.  It's

okay if the cups are a little big.  Look, if I try to tell you

what's going on, will you stop laughing?  Fine.  Believe whatever

you like.  The truth is that my old roommate got infected by a

protean editor and is growing at about four inches a day.  They

don't have to be custom made:  current stock is fine.  They only

have to last about six hours each...  What do you mean, it's my

turn?  I don't know what comes after Z:  you're the expert.  Send

whatever you think we might need, ten days supply or so.  The

shoehorn isn't funny.  Aunt Susan -- okay, I'll watch for it."  She

hung up with her left hand, shaking her head.  The rest of her body

had been immobilized by the cord.

    "Your turn for what?" Jason asked, toweling his hair.  He had

gotten dressed in the bathroom -- a tricky prospect:  there had

barely been enough room for him and the suitcase.

    "My turn to deal with all the weirdness for a while."  Pamela

shrugged with her one available shoulder.  "She used to tell me

crazy stories when I visited her in the summer.  I always thought

she was trying to make me feel better about my own body.  'It's all

part of being a Shaw.'  I guess she thought I was trying to pay her

back for having to listen."

    "But she'll ship the bras?"

    "She ships for free:  beyond that, I'll pay, one way or another.

And pay, and pay -- I'll have to visit on my next vacation.  If I

ever _have_ another vacation."  She slowly spun in reverse, untying

herself in stages.  "I love England.  Lots of cloudy days."

    Jason kept toweling.  "And no one in your company ever takes a

vacation because if they did, you'd kill them."

    Pamela finished unwraping and looked up.  "Not good, Mouse, but

a start.  Killing an employee is putting them on a _permanent_

vacation -- and for my company, it's impractical."  She reached for

her jacket.  "I've got the data:  let's put it to work."

    "What kind of team did you assemble?"

    "Don't worry."  The nearly-invisible smile quirked faint lips.

"The entire work force will be there."



    "All right.  That's a one way to Minneapolis on the bullet train,

with a free transfer ticket to the airport shuttle line.  And how did

you want to pay for that?"

    "Do you take American Express?"

    "Always."  The clerk gave Sadira an easy smile.  It was a

pleasant change from some of the other looks she'd been getting.

She'd caught several people's eyes on the way over, men and women.

A few had just glanced once and then moved on.  Others had looked

longer, or kept glancing back, and a few -- oddly, mostly the women

-- had just outright stared, and then fallen to pointing and half-

heard chatter.

    She could understand why people were looking, though:  the front

of her coat had ridden up, so that material which ordinarily covered

her abdomen was now outlining her bosom -- which had stretched the

coat up in the first place.  (There hadn't been enough time to send

the data _and_ buy new clothing)  It wasn't exactly comfortable:

the tightness had some compression effect, but not enough to hide

her build, and nowhere near enough to serve as an effective bra.

Sadira was trying to find a way to walk which minimized bouncing and

maximized speed.  She wasn't having much success.  She _had_ thought

of a movement pattern that involved practically no upper-body

shifting -- but the Groucho Walk turned to be an attention getter.

    Somehow, though, all the looks and snickered comments felt --

familiar.

    Probably just residue from hanging around Pamela.

    She fumbled in her pockets again, finally reaching a tangle of

plastic rectangles.  "Just a second."  Sadira pulled out the lot and

spread the hand.  <Blockbuster, alumni card, Discover, American

Federation of Geneticists...  Bingo!>  "Here you go.  One AmEx

card..."

    Sadira looked at it closely.  One American Express Corporate

card, proudly backed by the credit of GenTree Research, which

happily paid off any excess she acquired in a month and then

deducted it from her salary.  Lisa in Accounting had once come up to

her in the cafeteria line and snidely inquired whether she _always_

had dinner alone.

    She'd known, because she could look at the purchase report, and

find out what Sadira had purchased with the card.

    "No," she said softly.  "I'll keep this statement low.  Make

that Discover."  She paid for the ticket and transferred her luggage

to the attendant:  five minutes before boarding.

    It was just enough time to find a nice, comfortable bucket seat,

the kind with an angle that automatically emptied pockets whenever

anyone settled in.  Sadira sat down, thought for a moment, scribbled

her cash advance PIN number next to her signature, and then made

sure the AmEx card was good and accidentally lost before heading for

the train.

    Ten minutes after the Amtrak pulled out of the station, the

green rectangle was spotted, gazed at with appreciation, and

pocketed again.

    Twenty-five minutes after that, a man walked into the station

and started showing a head-and-shoulders picture of Sadira to

everyone whose attention he could catch.  He was friendly and a

little desperate, because his story claimed that he'd given her the

wrong travel schedule, and she was going to miss her sales meeting.

This made him very concerned about where she might have wound up.

    Unfortunately for him, the ticket clerk's shift had ended

twelve minutes before he arrived.



    Pamela hit the lights and stepped aside.  "There," she said, her

voice mixing equal amounts of embarrassment and pride.  "Welcome to

Terragen."

    Jason had started to worry when the drive had led them just

north of Central Park to an area where the streets had single

letters for names, and most of the people walking them looked too

stoned to spell them.  He had kept worrying when they'd gone into a

building whose best days were past when the bricks were still mud.

What he'd thought was the final level had been reached when Pamela

had led him through an exacting series of locks, keypads, and steel

bars that looked like the approach pattern to Serial Killer Row.

His first glance at Terragen actually relaxed him a few hundred

points on the Stress Index -- but he'd already been in the millions.

    "We're the entire staff."  It was not a question.

    "On the other hand, my payroll is really easy to meet."

    The lab took up most of the seventh floor:  support columns

sprouted in odd places, trying to substitute for the knocked-out

walls.  Maze-like paths ran their way around equipment modern and

antiquated:  a top of the line Mark XII Mutator sat a foot away from

a microscope that had most likely been stolen from a seventh-grade

science class.  The cold storage area was a Westinghouse Bachelor's

Semi-Fridge, the disposal had been modified from a pizzeria brick

oven -- but in between sat a computer with enough memory storage to

accommodate four aisles of the Library of Congress -- and a monitor

screen which glowed green, because green was the only color the

ancient electronics could produce.

    "All mine," Pamela said.  "My father left me a trust fund on the

grounds that I graduated with a doctorate and used the money to

build a business.  I spent as efficiently as I could."  She stepped

past him and made her way to the computer.  "The high-rent district

was not a priority.  I bought what I needed to create a functioning

lab and use the rest to get through the rough spots -- of which

there are many."

    Jason joined her at the computer:  the 28800 baud modem was

joined to the computer by a cracked cable festooned with electrical

tape.  "How does a one-person lab keep going?"

    "Mostly by helping other scientists meet deadlines on the sly in

exchange for silence and a portion of the funds.  I'm trying to push

some projects to the government -- if I can get one good batch of

funding, then I can expand the place and hire people:  most of the

building is available for use.  No one's listening so far."  She

leaned against the monitor.  "Do you think it would help if I went to

the committee meetings wearing a _really_ low-cut blouse?" The zip

disk was placed in the attached drive.  "The benefits would probably

be mixed."

    Jason stared at her.

    Pamela stared back.  "We're going to be working together --

hopefully for no more than a few days.  I'm sorry if I've offended

your delicate sensibilities, but the sooner I get this to the

forefront of your mind, the sooner you can dismiss it.  You can work

better if you're not distracted."

    Jason thought it over, nodded solemnly, reached down for his

belt buckle, and started undoing it.

    Pamela looked down at his hands, then jerked her eyes back to

his face.  "What do you think you're doing?"

    Jason's face was carefully blanked as he said, "We're going to

be working together -- hopefully for no -- " Pamela was obviously

trying to hold back her reaction, but the giggling was starting to

escape "-- more than a few days.  I'm sorry if I've offended your

delicate sensibilities, but --" escalation to full laughter:  he

kept going "-- the sooner I get this to the forefront of your mind,

the sooner you can dismiss it."  She doubled over, her hands braced

against a support column.  "You can work better if you're not

distracted."

    She kept laughing, one hand on the column, the other wiping her

eyes, until she finally managed to look back towards him.  He

nodded again, hooked his fingers under the waistband, and made just

the slightest hint of a downwards motion.  This put her back on the

column, and she didn't face him straight on until she made sure his

hands were away from his pants.

    "Good one, Mouse," she managed to gasp.  "There may be hope for

you yet."

    "Then we get to work?"

    She smiled, and Jason finally saw that behind manner and

mannerisms, there was an attractive face, as if Donatello had

designed a paint-by-numbers sketch.  "We get to work.  Find

something to sit on that isn't expensive.  Let's unzip this and see

what we've got."



    Nine hundred miles from Billings to Minneapolis, files arranged

at her side, food available, and meals being served in transit.

(Sadira, just to be safe, had taken a seat in the dining car)  The

Amtrak Bullet was capable of hitting two hundred per on the longer

straightaways:  it would take a little under six hours to reach the

Twin Cities, putting her there at four p.m. local time.

    Sadira intended to use the time well:  she pulled the first file

up to table level and splayed out the contents.  (Another reason for

switching to the dining car was comfort:  it was no longer possible

for her to look straight down and read --  the position she'd been

using her entire life -- and the passenger tray table was too

small.)  No seatmates, no distractions, nothing but information and

desperate innovation for the next six hours.  And lots of chocolate

supplemented by the occasional bit of food.  Sadira had tried

several times to break the addiction, but this was driving it to a

new level.

    She got about fifteen minutes of useful production before the

man sat down in front of her.

    Sadira looked up and met large, friendly eyes.  The man looked

as if Central Casting had sent out for the Genial Uncle:  late

forties, a little overweight, but in a way that was obviously

comfortable for him.  His hair was graying unevenly and combed away

from the bald spot without pretense.  His wool sweater sagged in all

the proper places, and Sadira was willing to bet he was wearing blue

jeans.  What she could see of the briefcase sitting next to him had

been dented, worn, and loved through thousands of miles.  Every

wrinkle in his face was a smile line.  He looked about as

unthreatening as a human can without having their hands in the air.

    "Hullo," he said with the perfect Genial Voice.  "I should have

asked first, I know, but is it okay if I sit here for a while?"

    Something in the appearance/sound combination made it difficult

to say no.  Sadira managed by being indirect.  "I've got a lot of

work to do.  You might be more comfortable somewhere else."

    "Yes, but I've got something rather silly to propose, and

besides, where else would I be able to enjoy such a fine view?"

    Sadira had, after listening to Jason, realized that GenTree

might be trying to follow her, and had dumped the credit card

accordingly.  It was an almost unbelievable leap to think that they

might have planted someone on the train, and found a person no one

would be paranoid about to boot --

    -- but she was quickly realizing that paranoia was fairly all-

encompassing.

    The man took her moment of reflection for acceptance, and

reached below the table.  "Allow me to present you --"

    -- Sadira's right hand made a fast dive for the fork and knocked

it off the table --

    The man didn't notice.  "-- my card," he finished, presenting

her with a paper rectangle.

    Sadira looked closely at it.  The card was lavishly decorated

with gold and silver foil, and all the writing was in the most

elegant calligraphy computer printing could muster.

    She raised an eyebrow at him and quoted, "Douglas Pollota,

Photographer Plenipotentiary and Extraordinary, Freelance and

Unbeheld, Expert and Sage, Aging and Balding."

    "Well," Douglas shrugged, "I do like to be completely honest."

And at that, and with the table in the way, he bowed.  "I seek out

beauty and record it for Prosperity -- ungrateful and low-paying

though Prosperity generally is, it is still a job worth doing.  I

travel far and wide -- mostly wide --" patting his stomach "-- in

search of those few rare treasures worthy of my attention --"

    Sadira brought both hands above the table, gripped an invisible

shovel, and began flinging insubstantial material towards the solid

window.

    The photographer's right index finger traced a circle on his

cheek.  "Ah, but I've overdone it again.  I always wax effusive when

I'm about to be rejected.  It's a habit that would be so easy to

drop --"  face and voice dipped into absolute sorrow "-- if only

someone would accept my overtures."

    Jasmine would have been the first to point out that Sadira was

hardly world-wise -- Sadira would have placed by about three-tenths

of a second -- but she'd picked up enough clues to reach a

conclusion.  "You photograph women in the nude and sell the pictures

to magazines."

    "Well, not quite," Douglas confessed.  "I'm not nude when I

create my art:  I find, sorrowfully, that it has a detrimental

effect on the ladies' mood."

    Sadira laughed.  "You're very charming --"

    "-- I do my poor best --"

    "-- but no."

    "No to what?"  The look of confusion on his face was slightly

faked.

    "No to posing.  No to being in magazines.  No to just about

anything you could come up with."

    "Ah, but now I must reel onwards, stunned by such a thorough

rejection, carried wounded from the battlefield, distressed that I

once again failed to bring Beauty to the public eye."  He tilted his

head to the left, resting the slight jowl in his palm.  "At least

tell me two things before I am sent into the cold.  Were you

flattered?"

    Sadira opened her mouth and promptly closed it again, then

thought of ten things to say and rejected all of them in favor of

the truth.  "A little."  And found she was blushing.  "What's the

second?"

    "Looking at your features -- an simple feat for a man of my

willpower -- I note that you bear a strong resemblance to a certain

Princess of my acquaintance.  Are you related?"

    "If you're comparing me to royalty, then we're going to have to

get a snowblower in here."

    "No, not actual royalty, although --" his expression soured

"-- she certainly expects to be treated so.  I have just left a

broken royal reception with her, and should have another one shortly

if she so favors me.  The not-very-fair-in-the-treatment-sense

Princess Pirou."

    Sadira's attention perked.  "Pirouze?"

    "She used to speak it so."

    "Her middle name."  Sadira shook her head in disbelief.  "That's

the best she could come up with?"

    "You are related, then?"

    "Unfortunately, yes."

    "Having spent some time in her company, it is easy to comprehend

your motives in speaking so."  The sour expression went into a lemon

orchard and bit down.  "I was to record her in Helena this day after

she had finished her slate of daily public appearances.  Originally,

her Highness was to receive me on Monday, but she kept putting me

off, claiming responsibility to her fans.  She was using the time to

write them letters."

    That didn't sound right.  "Real name Jasmine Archer?  My height,

my age?"

    Douglas regarded her sympathetically.  "Her fans had to send in

a postal money order with their letters -- ten dollars for every

hand-written page they wished in return.  Those attempting to

worship by Email were told to write an physical address, whereupon

they were told the rules."

    Sadira exhaled.  "That's Jasmine."

    "She would not entertain me thus; after postponing repeatedly,

she left for her next palace this morning, an hour before she had

told me to arrive."

    Sadira reached out and patted his right hand, an automatic

gesture perfected after hours of consoling Jasmine's ex-boyfriends,

none of whom had ever rebounded to her -- she'd seen to that.

"You're hardly the first."

    "Oh, I will suffer again:  she will no doubt claim error on my

part, and I will agree and attempt to venture past the gates once

more.  Money is a powerful love, but a painful one."

    <Damn it, I like him.  It's like running into Falstaff.>

"Methinks you need consolation," she told him in her worst Old

English accent.  "Cans't I buy thee a drink?"

    "That, milady, is my line," he replied, and signalled for the

waiter.



    It had taken two aspirin each to get through the data.  They'd

read the contents of the disk straight through, ignoring the

graphics which Pamela's computer couldn't support (she agreed to

haul over her home monitor in the morning), dashing with

increasingly glazed eyes through the text.  By incredible luck,

their reading speeds were compatible to the letter:  there was no

"Go back; I didn't finish," or "Are you done yet?"  It had still

taken hours, and Jason was sure he was going to forget most of it.

    Pamela finished typing.  She had an unusual style that he'd

quickly figured out:  her breasts were large enough to obscure the

keyboard when facing the screen straight on, so she sat sidesaddle

to it and did most of the typing with her left hand.  She looked up

at him.  "So what do you think we do first?"

    "Call Bethesda and get everything they have on the subject sent

in.  Start looking for cancellation hormones --"

    "-- start hoping it _is_ a hormone."  Pamela frowned, her brow

furrowing.  "Sadira deduced the "go" signal more or less from

scratch, but she had a database to work from.  There's megs of

material available on the initiation of puberty, and virtually

nothing on the end.  Maybe I can pay the local teenagers a few

dollars each for blood samples and cheek scrapings -- but we'd have

to get someone whose system was on the verge of shutting down:  what

are the odds against that kind of timing?"

    "You're assuming it's a one-time thing," Jason argued.  There

may be a continuous signal that tells the breasts to hold size until

another factor arises -- pregnancy, mainly -- and that would always

be in the body."

    "In which case, we have to pick it out from the fifty billion

_other_ constant status reports in the bloodstream.  Going by the

already-accumulated vast national database, we can eliminate at

least _five_ ."  Pamela smacked the side of the monitor with an open

hand:  the screen shimmered for a moment before stabilizing.

"_Never_ follow children, animals or geniuses!  Where are we

supposed to start looking?  Every adolescence is unique:  some

factors vary from person to person, and if the signal is a one-time,

millisecond burst, we'd have better luck at the lottery!"

    "I don't believe that."  Jason stood up and walked to the

Mutator.  "Have you ever known Sadira to start something she

couldn't finish?"

    Pamela looked at the screen.  "No," she admitted.  "Things got

away from her, but if she started a program, she knew where it was

going to end -- no hopeless causes.  She might not have known on the

conscious level:  she's so smart she occasionally stumps herself --

but she always had it at the end.  It was like the highest intellect

worked on another level and was trying to push the knowledge into the

main area."

    "Sounds about right.  I was working on a computer game during a

break -- _7th Guest_ --"

    "I've played it."  A quick look passed between them, summarizing

numerous sleepless nights and frenzied swearing at the screen, the

designers, the man who had placed it within sight in store, the one

who should have bought it before they saw it and spared them the

torture.

    "Remember the puzzle in the chapel floor?  The tiles?  I spent

two days trying to jump from one end to the other along the right

path.  I asked her to look at it and she hit it on the first try.

It was like she wasn't even looking at the screen:  something else

was working things out."  He ran his fingers across the control

panel.  "Something in her saw a solution.  Where was she planning to

look?  She couldn't chance randomly catching a subject at the moment

of cessation."

    "There would be no way to perform continuous monitoring.  She'd

need a large sampling group with a lot of base data --"

    Something very much like telepathy flashed across the room.

    Pamela risked it first.  "There's one segment of the population

where you can predict breast growth with absolute certainty, and

have a guaranteed limited amount of time for it to proceed --"

    "-- no more than nine months, and _know_ that it's going to stop

after that, with plenty of medical data and blood testing, sometimes

up to the moment of birth --"

    "Pregnant women." they finished together.

    "You call Bethesda," Pamela said.  "I'm going to risk a run for

pizza.  This is going to be a long night."

    "No," Jason said.  "You call Bethesda and I get this thing

running."  He patted the Mutator.

    "A little optimistic, Mouse?  I'd like to think we could solve

it in time to inject Sadira at the airport, but it's really not all

that likely."

    "Do you have proto-viruses?"

    "In the fridge.  Repeat:  why?"

    "When we find the factors, we're still going to need an organism

that can relay them to the proper site.  Biologically, there's every

chance the trigger for the off-signal is received in the same area

as the initiation site, or close by.  We have the blueprints to

build one that heads for the starting line, and we can modify it

when we have the sequences, instead of starting from scratch."  He

found the On switch, hit it, and they both listened to the gentle

surge of power as the indicator lights came on.  "We have to

recreate BE-1."

    Pamela carefully followed the train of logic and found that it

led to the station.  A hand went up in surrender.  "Go ahead.  Just

don't ask me to handle it without a remote grip, steel gloves, and

full body armor.  I've got the macromastia sequence too, and I'm not

buying a new wardrobe."

    "I've got no intention of being fitted for a bra, myself."

Jason smiled grimly.  "We'll both be very careful."



    "Mixed news from Billings, sir.  One of our men verified

Archer's presence at the train station, but has been unable to

discover exactly where she headed for.  It seems he arrived just

after a shift change:  the confirmation was gathered from other

people waiting in the terminal."

    "Is she larger?"

    "According to witnesses."

    Nigilo smiled thinly.  "Advantage:  us.  The more she grows, the

more memorable she's going to become.  So we know how she left:  do

we know approximately _when_ she left?"

    "Within ten minutes, but there were three trains departing in

that period, and I haven't been able to acquire a passenger list.

Most of the people in the terminal with her left on those trains,

reducing our witness pool.  However, three minutes ago, I received

this."  He handed a slip of paper across the desk.

    Nigilo looked at it, and the grin became more solid.  "Cheyenne

train station.  A ticket to Denver.  And we already have people in

Denver working on the Quainti project.  Shall we mobilize?"

    "We shall, sir."

    Carmody left the slip with Nigilo, but kept his thoughts

private.



                    8.  40:  Plainly speaking...



    They were almost in Minneapolis.  Douglas and Sadira were still

seated in the dining car.

    Sadira had gotten work done:  a thought which had been trying to

come forward for three weeks had finally reached the front of the

line.  She'd spilled her (highly caffeinated) drink when she finally

found the little piece of the puzzle, soaking several files.  Douglas

had quietly helped her mop up and brought her a new one.

    In part from and in spite of his Falstaffian manner, he'd been a

good traveling companion:  quiet when he saw she needed to work,

breaking in with a joke when she started putting little artistic

rips in the manilla.  Sadira had caught him looking at her from the

neck down a few times, but he'd also been consuming alcohol for most

of the ride:  while he didn't seem drunk, she didn't think he was

alert enough to spot an inch of growth.

    Douglas had paid for lunch, snacks, and drinks, claiming an

expense account.  Sadira reminded him that he was self-employed, to

which he'd said, "But if all this helps convince you to pose, then I

am well reimbursed."

    "But why me?  I'm hardly Jasmine's size."  <Yet.  Check back in

a week or so.>  She paused and told her mind <It would be nice to

stop thinking about this,> which didn't seem to help.  Sadira

reached down for another file and winced as her back twinged:  she'd

probably stretched the wrong way.

    "You are, however, somewhat larger than what people laughingly

refer to as the norm, cute enough to cast in chocolate, and unlike

your sister, you know how to bring about a smile without having to

consider all muscle movements first.  I would wish to record you

had you no bosom at all, simply for that smile."  He took a sip from

his drink:  gin and tonic -- according to him, mostly tonic.  "I

would _not_ wish to photograph the two of you together:  the

contrast in emotional styles would be too much for the casual

reader."

    "Just getting us in the same room together would be an

accomplishment."  Sadira finished her drink and jotted a quick note

in a handy margin:  she'd been trying to get a phone link for two

hours, but the businessmen on the train were hogging it.  "When you

see her again, could you not mention having met me?  After all, she

was just a few hours away, and she didn't bother to call."

    "I would love to regale her with details of how she is the

lesser of two Archers, in spirit if not size --" Douglas began --

and then caught Sadira's look.  "Indeed.  I shall withhold every

word and take only secret delight, which will make it all the

sweeter.  I have met the fairer of the sisters today, in every sense

of the word."

    "Thanks."  She went back to her notes.



    They parted company at the entrance gate, with Douglas insisting

that she keep the card, in case she should ever change her mind.  To

set his mind at ease -- and because she did like him -- Sadira

promised that if she ever decided to pose, he would be the first and

only person she'd call.  Since she wasn't going to make that

decision, it was a safe promise.  She recovered her luggage and

headed for the phones.



    "Already done," Pamela told her, keeping most of the smile out

of her voice and none of it from her face.

    "You figured it out?"

    "Probably at the same time you did.  I should have checked a

clock:  we may prove psionics yet.  I'm rapidly learning more about

pregnancy than I ever want to experience first-hand."

    "I knew you two would make a great team."  The lab had a speaker

phone:  the two in question just looked at each other.

     "Where to now?" Jason broke in.

     "Shuttle to Lindbergh International:  there's a train that runs

from the station to the airport every two hours on Sunday.  Of

course, I just missed the last one, and while there's taxis,

there's a traffic jam around the airport."  A soft sigh.  "And from

there, New York."

    "Call from the plane," Pamela told her.  "Lab and home:  I'll

come pick you up."  Jason blanched.

    "Will do.  Any sign of pursuit at your end?"

    Jason shrugged at the phone before his instincts kicked in:  the

sound quality was very good.  "None for me, but I bought my plane

ticket under my name:  I wasn't expecting you to play Cleavon

Little."

    "At least I didn't take _myself_ hostage," Sadira defended.

"But I think they're concentrating on me, anyway, and there might be

a small hitch:  I dumped the credit card."

    Jason instantly figured it out.  "Being used?"

    "I hope so.  I hope it's being taken on a nice trip to Japan.

It should get out more."  A pause.  "_I_ should get out more.  This

doesn't qualify."

    "Since you've effectively fired yourself," Pamela put in, "I'd

be happy to let you crash for some R&R."

    "After, maybe.  I'm definitely going to need a job.  Both of us

are."

    Jason nodded ruefully.  "No great loss," he said.

    "No, probably not.  I'm going to refuel:  check in later."  The

dial tone sprang to life.

    "Does she ever let people say goodbye?" Jason asked.

    "No.  Have you heard her answering machine?"

    "Not yet."  Nothing had picked up at the apartment:  the

searchers had probably disconnected it.

    Pamela tilted her head back and worked her lips.  The resulting

voice was just close enough to be parody:  a high tenor's idea of

what a contralto sounded like.  "'Absent.  Speak.  Beep!'  And she

_says_ beep."

    Jason shrugged again and turned back to the Mutator.  This got

him a hand on his shoulder.  "Wrong.  That's _her_ trick.  You have

to eat to be effective, and there's nothing in that fridge but

disease and food that might be diseased.  Time for pizza."

    "We have to work --"

    "And if you pass out in the middle of that work, or get so tired

you make a mistake, what good are you?"

    Jason allowed himself to be led out of the lab.



    It was good pizza.  It was incredible pizza.  It was the sort of

pizza that could be placed on an pedestal and worshipped.  Jason

paid homage at the altar.

    In between bites, he looked at Pam, who eventually decided to

take notice.  "What?"

    "I'm trying to picture you and Sadira living together.  It's not

easy."

    Pamela took a long sip of soda.  "It wasn't, not for the first

month.  The first day, she got in about an hour before I did:

picked a bed, unpacked -- threw things and let them stay where they

landed.  I walked in just as she was destroying the kitchen to

specifications."  She was looking across the miles and smiling at

the years.

    "What happened?"

    "I said, 'Hi, I'm Pamela Shaw.  Looks like we're going to be

rooming together,' which admittedly wasn't the most original thing I

could have said.  And she looked at my face, and then she looked at

my chest, and she repeated the pattern until we were both thoroughly

sick of it.  We shared classes, professors, we got stuck as lab

partners in one session -- two weeks later, she asked me to turn

down the radio.  First words I got out of her.  Jasmine's fault."

    "Have you ever met Jasmine?"

    "She was strutting two towns over in our junior year:  I hid the

sports section for a week so Sadira wouldn't see the ads.  No real

interest.  You?"

    "Frankly, I'm scared to."  They both took another slice.  "How

did you get her to warm up to you?"

    "Mutual oppression, basically.  The other Genetics students

thought we were the most fun bundle of walking recessives they'd

ever seen, Ebony and Ivory.  She started getting back for both of

us, and then I confronted her and demanded to be let in on it --

short form, we roomed together for four years."  Pamela took a big

bite, chewed thoughtfully, decided it was feeling-out time, and

said, "How long have you two been sleeping together?"

    Jason choked on his bite and dove for the soda, tossing away the

straw in favor of huge swallows to clear the obstruction.  As soon

as he stopped coughing, Pamela added, "I'm sorry.  Should I have

said fucking?"

    This time, there was only bile in his mouth.  "We don't.  We

haven't.  Satisfied?"

    "No.  I'm just curious as to why you're doing this.  Review?"

She put up one hand, spread the fingers, and began ticking off each

white digit.  "One:  you've lost your job.  Two:  you're liable for a

whopping lawsuit, because you broke bond.  Three:  you're aiding a

felon:  assault with a potentially deadly weapon.  Four:  Your

reputation is shot and last, you ain't, as the saying goes, gettin'

any.  So what's the motivation?"

    "She's a friend and she needs help."  If this was another

challenge, he was ready for it.  "But I guess you're one of those

women who think males and females can't have any sort of

relationship which doesn't involve sex."

    Pamela put the slice down and applauded with greasy hands.

"Hey, the Mouse watches talk shows!  Sorry, but that's not it.

You're putting yourself through a cesspool of shit for her.  Has it

occurred to you that if they follow you, they're going to find me?

I could come out intact.  I could also lose home, lab, and life --

depends on how nuts these people are.  I've got my reasons.  What

are yours?"

    "I could ask the same thing."

    "I could be a real asshole and say I asked you first."

    "Too late."

    Pamela quickly wet a finger against the side of the soda can and

drew a line in the air:  one point for him.  "I love her.  I lived

with her for four years.  It's very hard _not_ to love her, if you

make the effort to say hello -- or have her say it to you.  Your

turn."

    "Friendship," he said.  Half-truth.

    "So you haven't slept together -- pardon my French, fucked --

dated, taken in a movie, nothing."

    "Nothing," came the tense answer.

    "Fine."  <Then I might be clear.  If he's telling the truth.

If...>  She met his eyes, brought the slice up, and took another

bite.



    Yes, she was definitely getting looks, and they were steadily

being drowned out by an ever-increasing feeling of deja vu.  It

didn't feel like something she'd experienced at one-remove, either.

Weird.

    The shuttle train finally arrived, and Sadira got on the third

of the five cars.  The seats were arranged like a Long Island

commuter train:  rows of semi-couches, barely padded on both sides,

packed closely together.  Half of the seats faced towards the

destination point, half looked backwards at the departure.  It was a

fairly basic design, and the overhead racks were skimpy on all of

them.  Sadira had to stretch and push to get her bags secured, and

her back kept complaining:  intermittent sharp signal flares, a

reminder of presence and fault.  She'd hurt something at some point,

but she couldn't remember on what.  Sadira was normally fairly

resilient:  a necessary defense mechanism when she spent half her

life falling over.

    The train filled up quickly:  Sunday schedules usually just

meant that more people waited around longer.  Sadira got a seatmate:

an husky adolescent male who glanced over and immediately scooted in

next to her, reaching up to shove his overnight bag into what little

space she'd left.  He leaned over her, one hand on the bag, the other

braced on the metal rail --

    -- he slipped, and the bag was wedged into place as his hands

came down on her breasts.

    Sadira had seen a million accidents, nearly all from the

initiation end.  She knew _deliberate_ when she saw it -- and the

boy's smile was a clue in itself.

    She reached up, grabbed his wrists, and shoved backwards.

Either she was even more pissed off then she felt -- hard to believe

-- or her body was only too happy to deliver energy on command:  he

went sailing back into the aisle and across most of it, falling

backwards into a senior's lap, landing on a knitting needle.

    Sadira dispassionately listened to the howl, then climbed up on

the seat, recovered his bag, and threw it at him.  She sat back down

and didn't watch as he disengaged and scampered to another car.

    <Mark that down in the date book,> she thought with more than a

hint of irony.  <March 17th:  my first feel was copped.>

    The train started moving.  The motion, while smooth,

occasionally set off twinges in her back.  Sadira tried to ignore it

for the first few miles, then, just after they left the outskirts of

Minneapolis, tried to beg an aspirin from the grandmother across the

aisle.  She got a "Hhmph!" and an intolerant look.

    <Must be from carrying the suitcases.  And I didn't take my

stretch this morning.>  Better late than never:  Sadira raised her

arms, arched her back, and took a deep breath, feeling the

resistance of the jacket.  Halfway through, she also felt eyes on

her, and turned to see the grandmother radiating even more

disapproval.

    <Live with it> -- she almost said it, but decided it was more

practical to resume the stretch.  She reached up and breathed

deeply --

    -- at the apex of the stretch, she felt a little jerk forward,

as if the train was slowing down, and had just enough time to

falsely conclude arrival before the jerk turned into a slam, motion

meeting obstacle and the impediment winning, her body flying

forward, crashing into the next seat, and screams started to reach

her ears --



                          9. 41:  Derailed



    Impact.

    Her breasts were squeezed between ribs and seat, momentum

continuing to push her forward with nowhere left to go.  The

pressure built, became pain -- and then the kinetic energy ran out.

Sadira rebounded, and was thrown back into the seat.

    She breathed, just to see if she still could, and it hurt.

    All around her, there were the cries of the wounded and dying.

    Sadira tried to stand and again, found that she could.  The

floor was on a slight angle.  Pain continued to pound inward from

her breasts.  <One way to get a fast reduction:  compression>  She

looked across the aisle and saw the knitting senior clutching her

head.  There was blood seeping out between the fingers.  She had

been pitched forward, and her head had hit the back of the seat.

    <And if I hadn't been in that position -- if I hadn't been

"cushioned" -- my ribs would have been crushed.>  A whiff of smoke

hit her nostrils.  "Fire," she whispered, and stepped across the

aisle.  "Can you move?"  The senior whimpered.

    Sadira reached down, got her arms around the heavy body, and

hoisted her to a standing position, taking almost all of the

weight.  She started dragging her towards the emergency exit at the

back of the car.  Other people were starting to stagger down the

aisle, several of them helping neighbors along.  Midwestern

hospitality.

    It was surprisingly easy to move the old woman, at least at

first.  Sadira's analytical mode kicked in.  <Lots of calories --

increased efficiency and mobility of energy -- and in this type of

situation, stress overrides the new programming to some degree.>

But as they moved on, the weight began to drag on her, and a helpful

young woman joined her in the effort.  <But at the same time, I'm

using the energy faster...  I was working so hard at the station,

almost missed the shuttle:  how much did I eat?  Still felt pretty

full from the train...>

    They moved through the increasing smoke.  Someone ahead of her

in the procession had reached the exit and gotten it open:  the

acrid scent of burning plastic was slightly lessened.  Some of it

could be toxic.  She tried to move faster and found that the young

lady was now providing most of the motion for all three of them:

between adrenaline and virus, she was burning out.  "Keep moving..."

    "We're almost out," the young lady assured her.

    Sadira peered at her through tearing eyes.  "Did I just say that

out loud?"

    "Yes."

    "Shit."  They shuffled forward.  It was remarkable, really:  no

panicked rush for the exits, no stampede, just a relatively orderly

departure, if you ignored those people scampering over the seats to

reach the exit first.  She also had to ignore all the ones who tried

to punch out the emergency escape windows and pulled their burned

hands back: the fire was outside, heating the glass.  It seemed that

grade school fire drills _partially_ stuck.

    "Almost out," the teenager said.  The senior was removed from

both their grips and lowered to ground level:  the fire was several

windows down, and the exit was still clear.  "We're going to pass

you down..."  Strong hands gripped her under the arms and lowered

her into the arms of a teenage boy -- the same one who had copped

the feel.  He didn't notice who he was holding:  he just passed her

to the side and just waited for the next relay.

    She was received by a man and a woman who took her arms and

helped her away from the train.  The fire was spreading faster along

the sides, and smoke was starting to pour out of the cars, but the

people were coming out even faster:  Sadira allowed herself the

unrealistic hope that everyone had made it out.

    The ground tilted and rolled under her feet.  She rocked within

her helpers' grips, twisted, and went to her knees.  "Too low," she

whispered, and didn't care if it had been aloud or not.

    She looked up, and found the sky twirling faster than the

ground.  A spinning face looked at her with distorted worry and said

"She got too much smoke.  We're going to have to carry her."

    <No, not smoke.  Fire.  Internal fire...>  She had chocolate.

She could eat something:  her body would break down the sugars

almost immediately.  "Food..."

    "We'll get you food," the woman said.  "They'll send people out

to help us.  Vic, we're far enough from the train:  I'm going to

stay with her."

    "I'll go look for injured," Vic said, and half her support

vanished.  The woman tried to compensate, but Sadira's palms smacked

ground.  She could feel the weight of her breasts, of the pain, of

exhaustion, all dragging her forward.  She could still smell the

fire behind her.  The fire.  Something about the fire...

    Her head jerked up, and she was on her feet again.  "My files!"

she said clearly, strength flowing through her.  "The data is still

on the train!"  She took a step back towards the wreckage.

    The woman was still holding her arms.  "Honey, you've got to

rest!" she insisted.  "There's nothing on that train worth dying

for!"

    "You don't understand!  My life --" and the last few drops of

gas sputtered through the tank.

    Sadira gratefully noted that the ground had stopped spinning, in

fact it was wonderfully stable and worthy of a closer look, and then

she was descending towards it, or it was reaching up to receive her,

so considerate...

    The woman, still holding on, was dragged to the ground.  She

scrambled into position at Sadira's side, right hand automatically

going for her wrist and the pulse point.  She clamped down -- and

her eyes widened.  "Vic!  Get back here!"

    Vic was there almost immediately:  he hadn't had to go far to

find injured people.  "What happened?"

    "She just collapsed. Her pulse is erratic, she's going pale --"

He took the other wrist, checked Sadira's pulse, and went a little

pale himself:  he quickly glanced at her chest, checking her

breathing, and drew the right conclusion.

    "Find some extra jackets, any clothing from rescued cases:

we have to keep her warm.  She's going into deep shock.  If I yell,

get ready for CPR maintenance."

    "From the smoke?  I've never seen that reaction in the ER!"

    "Because it's not from the smoke."  Doctor Victor Shalm stared

at his wife, who was already moving towards dropped suitcases.

"Pulse weak, breathing slow, temperature, pallor, sweat -- this is

starvation.  We have to get her conscious and put some energy in her

system, _fast_.  Find some food!"  He checked her pulse again, then

glanced back at Claire, who was emptying the contents of a duffel

bag across the frozen turf.  "So much for our vacation."  There was

no time for regrets, though.  There were lives to save.



    They heard the ambulances before they saw them, streaming out

from the airport.  Six minutes had passed since the crash.  The

interior of the train was ablaze: no one else was getting out.  No

one was sure if everyone _had_ gotten out.  There had been a few

fatalities:  they had been laid at the edge of the group, and

someone had taken the time to close their eyes.  Of the three

hundred people on the cold ground, there were three doctors, a

nurse, and a veterinarian:  they were doing all they could to help

the survivors.  The girl had been wrapped in jackets and shirts:

Claire was keeping watch.  She had managed to get her patient awake

for brief periods, no more than a few seconds -- but long enough to

get a few morsels down her throat.

    It wasn't enough -- but a person didn't have to be awake to eat.

    Claire rubbed the girl's jaw at the base of the neck, trying to

stimulate a swallowing reaction.  "Come on, Honey," she said,

praying the girl would hear her.  "You've got to eat something.

You're going to live, right?  You're too young to go this way.  Come

on, swallow for me..."

    Her patient swallowed:  Claire began pre-chewing another bite of

granola.  She watched the girl's face -- no, woman, the body should

have told her that, the face was just so young.  How could she be

starving?  Her features weren't drawn, and there was certainly some

fat being stored in the breasts -- but she was showing all the

signs.

    She pushed another morsel in, got another swallow, and then red

flashes caught the edge of her sight.  The ambulances had arrived.

She watched Vic stand up, finished with his impromptu bandaging, and

dash over to the lead car, waving his hands and hospital badge at

the driver.

    He was back two minutes later, with an attendant and an IV

bottle.  "Got it."

    The paramedic stared down, confused.  "Starvation?  But --"

    "I know what it looks like," Vic said firmly.  "I also know what

it is."  He dropped to his knees and began to dig through the

layers, finally exposing an arm.  "Thank God the standard pack

includes calorie kits.  Help me with the needle.  And turn up the

drip:  she needs this _now_."

    More ambulances arrived, with more paramedics and more doctors:

 Vic and Claire stayed with the young woman as they finally bundled

her onto a stretcher.  They rode to the hospital in the back of her

ambulance, one sitting on each side.



    Pamela kept looking at the phone.  It was starting to look back.

"Call," she muttered.

    "Maybe she got stuck again."

    "It's after ten.  Stuck in what?  A tar pit?"

    "Delayed planes.  She took the wrong shuttle train."  Jason

reached for more answers.  "Bad phone lines."

    "Or maybe she got caught."

    Jason kept working on the Mutator.  "I'm trying to stick to the

options I can do something about."

    "Fine.  Maybe someone outside cut the line to sell the copper

for drugs."  Pamela picked up the receiver, listened to the dial

tone, then slowly stood up, put both hands on her lower back, and

arched.  "We go back to my apartment and check the answering

machine.  I've been active long enough for a Sunday."

    "I'll shut down."  Jason started flipping switches.  "What do we

do if she's been taken?"

    "Find her."

    "How?"

    "Easy answers first, Mouse.  The impossible ones require

planning."



    No messages.  Pamela was staring at the phone as if it was

personally responsible.  "Taxi crash.  Plane went down.  Sudden

European Vacation.  What the hell is going on?"

    "Check your Email," Jason suggested, and Pamela practically

knocked him aside to get at the computer.  Jason sat down on the

edge of the bed, reached out, and thumbed on the TV.  The eleven o'

clock news was on.  He watched.

    "No mail."  A finger stabbed the off switch.  "We're going to

the airport.  Grab your jacket."

    "And where did you plan on going once we reached the airport?"

    "Montana.  I'm going to go to GenTree and ask them for my

roommate back."

    "And if they don't have her, then we're gone, and she has to

work alone again.  There wouldn't even be any flights at this hour.

We have to find out if GenTree has her first."

    Pamela's face contorted as she tried -- and dismally failed --

to think her way around the logic.  "Would you stop being right?

It's getting on my nerves...  Okay:  how are we supposed to do

that?"

    "Does Manhattan have twenty-four hour Internet cafes?"

    A pale eyebrow went up.  "Don't know, Mouse.  Never looked.

Probably.  What's your tail twitching at?"

    "The hackers in the city have to hang out somewhere.  If we can

find and hire one, he can break into the GenTree system and see if

they have any memos regarding Sadira.  I could log on from here, but

the system would record the contact, and I don't have full access.

We need to be invisible, and, if they track it, we need to be

elsewhere."  Jason thought it over.  "At the very least, we can call

the airports and see if they have passenger lists on the arriving

flights from Minneapolis -- today and tomorrow."

    "You think we can find someone at this hour?"

    "Did you ever know a computer science major to sleep?"

    "I never knew any."

    "I roomed with one."  Jason momentarily closed his eyes.  "Sleep

was not easy to come by."

    Pamela thought it over.  "And how do we spot the hackers in the

room?  Wave a sign?"

    "Just look desperate," Jason suggested.  "That's how I got

Leonard to teach me word processing."

    "You can look desperate.  It's not an expression I'm good at."

Pamela grabbed her jacket.  "Let's go."  They headed for the door,

leaving the TV on.

    The story about the Minneapolis train crash was aired as they

got in the elevator.



    "Take a look at this."

    Claire, now dressed in hospital whites, stepped in from the

hallway, joined her husband at the sickbed and looked down.  She saw

two rather large breasts, with expansive areola and extensive

bruising.  She shrugged and spoke quietly to avoid awakening the

patient.  "She's got big boobs.  From the look of them, she hit

something tits-first when the train crashed.  What about it?"

    "The bruising:  the pattern and the amount are right for that

scenario, but not the time factor.  That discoloration would be for

an injury a week old:  the train crashed at 6:15.  Eight hours."

    "Maybe she was beaten, and she was running away?"

    "With what?  A two by four _feet_?  This is massive pressure

applied _simultaneously_.  And Richard down in Radiology said that

when he X-rayed her for cracked ribs, she was black and blue all

over.  She's _healing_.  Her metabolic rate is off the scale:  she's

using the IV drip as fast as she gets it.  Temperature is high,

heartbeat accelerated -- and I'd swear she looks larger than when

she came in."

    Claire's brow furrowed.  "Swelling from the impact?

Menstruation?"  Vic shook his head and pointed at the yellowing

bruises.  Claire saw his point:  any swelling would have vanished by

that stage.  "Hypertrophy?"

    "This fast?"  Vic closed the hospital gown.  "I checked her ID:

she's a geneticist.  Maybe something got loose."

    "Just before she collapsed, she was saying something about

files..."

    "Right."  Vic reached a decision.  "I'm going to get a blood

sample, and I want it sent to the lab for immediate analysis.  If

she's carrying something, I want to know what."

    "But we've been in contact with her --"

    He nodded.  "And people have been on the train with her, and

some of them have gone home, or headed back to the airport -- if

it's airborne, then it's too late to stop it from spreading if we've

got Patient Zero here.  Or it could be spread by blood, or sexual

contact.  That's why we need to start testing."

    Claire looked at the young woman's resting face.  She was

deep into Stage Four sleep:  at some point, they'd gone into normal

volume, and she hadn't stirred.  Passive, beautiful, and innocent.

"Or she could have been infected by someone else.  Or Richard could

have been wrong:  he's been on shift two days, unless he actually

slept while we were out."

    "Richard?"  Vic exhaled and half-smiled.  "Possible.  So we call

her employers and find out what they know." He walked over to the

closet and quickly went through Sadira's jacket, looking for the AFG

card.  "There.  GenTree Research, Montana.  And we call tonight."

    "All right.  Let's move out:  if it's airborne --"

    "-- then we're all dead already."  Vic put an arm around his

wife's shoulders.  "Let's find out _why_ we're going to die -- or,

more likely, what's happening to her."   He reached for Sadira's

arm, automatically making one last pulse check -- and stared at the

IV needle.

    The skin had healed around it.

    Quietly, he removed it, cleaned and covered the small wound,

then changed the needle and switched to the other arm before getting

the blood sample.  They headed for the door.

    "You said she looked larger than before?"

    "Yes."

    "Exactly when were you looking the first time?  We were escaping

a burning train:  I'd have thought your mind was on other things."

Victor winced.  "And for that matter, why were you looking now?

Checking her condition I can understand, but looking at her breasts?

Medical ethics..."

    "I wanted to check the extent of the bruising."

    "Of course you did, dear."  She put an arm around his shoulders.

"Assuming we all live through the next few hours, we're going to

have a talk..."



    "Vegas?"  Nigilo sat up in bed.

    "According to the credit card records, she reached Denver,

caught a flight to Las Vegas, then went to the Golden Nugget and

took a huge cash advance.  That was about fifteen minutes ago."

    Nigilo just looked at the phone.  Carmody was calling from the

office, where he had decided -- on his own -- to stay for as much of

the duration as he could.  It made it harder to question him, since

much of Nigilo's style involved posture intimidation.  The time

wasn't a help:  one in the morning.  "Gambling?  Why the hell would

she be _gambling_?  Did the virus make her delirious?"  He tried to

focus his thoughts.  Any thought.  "Are there any genetics labs in

Vegas?"

    "No."

    "Is she meeting a financier?  Someone with money to back her?

Is she trying to _win_ money for backing?"  He stared at the

darkness:  if he turned on the lights, he'd never get back to sleep.

    "Unknown.  We have a location, though:  I'll try to send someone

to check it out."

    "Don't try.  _Do_."  He slammed down the phone.

    Nigilo lay awake for an hour, waiting for another call.

    He spent the three after that pacing the floor, waiting to

become tired enough to drop back into sleep.



    "Mr. Carmody?  I have a call on line three."

    "Mr. Nigilo?"

    "No.  He just said he was calling from the V.A. Medical center

in Minneapolis:  got the security desk hoping someone would be in.

He wants to speak to anybody that isn't me.  Shall I put him

through?"

    <At this hour?>  Intelligence sparked.  "Did he give any hints

as to _why_ he was calling?"

    "No.  He was just insistent.  Do you want to take the call?"

    "I'll take it."  He hit the button.  "Carmody."  He listened.

"Yes, she works here.  She's on vacation at the moment.  A train

wreck?  Is she all right?"  He paid careful attention to the next

few sentences.  "No, she's not carrying anything.  She does have a

rare genetic disorder:  her body has a horrific metabolic rate.  She

has to eat large amounts to stay alive."  He'd been paying close

attention to the scientist's most recent extrapolations.  "She's

trying to discover a way to produce it in others -- on a temporary

basis, to accelerate healing.  Otherwise, she should be in fine

physical health.  I appreciate your calling:  it's good to know that

she's all right.  Thank you for your concern.  Please let me know if

anything happens." He hung up.

    Carmody considered the new information.  He turned it over and

examined it from every angle, carefully searching for every last

advantage, and then he did something about it.



    Vic put the phone back on the receiver and glanced at Claire.

"Wait for the blood tests," he said.  "Naturally hyper metabolism,

my ass."



                  10. 43:  The V.A. Infirmary Blues



    Jason yawned and rolled away from the divider.  Despite the size

of Pam's bed, he'd wound up on the floor.  It hadn't come as a

surprise:  he cleared space, she didn't stop him.  He had a few

blankets and two of the pillows.  It was surprisingly comfortable.

    "About time you woke up."

    He looked up and across:  Pamela was sitting on top of the re-

made bed, fully dressed (all black again), legs folded in a lotus,

wearing earphones with a small antenna on the side.  She was

watching television -- at least, she was facing that direction:

there wasn't much attention being paid.

    "Did you sleep?"  She looked briefly confused, then turned a

small knob.  He repeated the question.

    "A couple of hours."  She leaned forward until her breasts hit

her legs, still staring at the screen.  "Taken in five-minute

increments.  No calls."

    "I guessed.  You wouldn't have let me sleep if she had."

    "Right.  You passed out nicely, though."

    "I was traveling, working, and looking pitiful for hours.  If

there were any hackers in that cafe, they weren't feeling

sympathetic."  There had also been a few meant-to-be-overheard

remarks:  nothing.  They _had_ managed to confirm that no Sadira

Archer had arrived at the local airports, which did them no good if

-- the thought had occurred to Pamela as they left -- she'd traveled

under a false name.  "Besides, you said it yesterday: if I'm too

tired to work well, what good am I?"

    "Not much.  But that could be said --" she stopped, as if

catching herself, then said, "Sorry.  Before you ask, it's six a.m.

So you got about four hours worth.  I called the airports:  there's

planes leaving for Helena if we need them.  I checked some old

classifieds to see if anyone was subtly suggesting computer hacking

for hire, but they must have some sort of secret underground, code,

or handshake, because they sure as hell don't advertise."

    Jason threw off the blankets and stood up.  "You still want to

go to Montana?"

    "I can't think of another option.  She wouldn't drop out of

contact for this long unless something was wrong.  She called me

once a week.  Sometimes more."

    "It's possible that her system was stressed to the point where

she fell asleep for -- no, the hunger would have woken her up."

<Unless she was completely out of energy -->  He stopped the

thought, and spared Pamela the pain of sharing it.

    Pam shook her head.  "She may be in New York and on her way

right now.  She could be stranded in the Midwest, she could be

locked in some kind of work cell, and I _know_ that the instant I

walk out to find her, she'll come to the door and get stuck alone,

and _I'll_ be in a plane crash.  We can't call the police.  We sure

as hell can't talk to GenTree, and we can't goddamn stay and we

can't fucking leave!"

    <The clock.  The damn clock is always running, and nothing we

can do will slow it>  "Then we wait."  He was surprised at how soft

his voice was.

    "Like _hell_ we do!  We have to do something!"

    "Waiting is doing something."  He walked over and sat on the

edge of the bed facing the kitchen.  "The hardest thing.  We can

call every hotel, hospital, and house in Minneapolis, and throw in

St. Paul.  We can disconnect your Caller ID and answer every call on

the first ring, or we can split up, one at the lab, one here, so we

don't miss anything, but we can't go running off just because we

want to."

    "We?"  Light sarcasm mixed into heavy anguish.

    The next words came out before he could edit them for

content, still soft.  "Do you know what I want?  A lance and

gleaming armor, and a horse to charge in on.  But I'm no one's

shining knight, horses don't move fast enough, and I even can't

ride."

    Without looking at him, Pam said, "I can teach you.  I'm pretty

good."  Then she got up and went for her coat.  "I'll be back."

    "From Montana?"

    "From the bookstore.  I need a city directory for Minneapolis,

and there's a twenty-four hour shop ten blocks away.  You stay here

with the phone."

    He nodded.  She wrapped and left.



    New area to check:  breasts; not the least bit sore <and why

would they be?>  Arms:  left one felt a little weird.  All other

systems nominal, open eyes and...

    Sadira was on her back, looking to the left:  the first thing

she saw was the IV tube.  It was the only thing she looked at during

the seconds it took for her memory to return.  Looking at _it_ meant

that she didn't have to look around, which would finalize the

conclusion she'd already reached -- Eventually, she looked.

    Hospital.

    _She_ was in a hospital.

    _She was in a hospital._

    Her right arm whipped across her body and jerked the needle out,

barely noticing the pain.  Sadira sat up, jumped out of bed, and

started darting glances back and forth. <_Hospital_>  They had to

have her clothes somewhere, hopefully close, or she was going to

steal something.  <Files were on the train>  That was a closet.

<Lost the data>  She dashed over.  Her clothes were in it.  <Bigger:

more movement with the run>

    She didn't care.

    She was in a hospital and she had to get _out_.

    Sadira threw off the gown, started dressing.  Everything seemed

to be in place.  They'd probably gotten overrun with people from the

train and forgotten to put her pocket contents in a personals bag.

Lucky.  If they had been missing, she wouldn't have stopped for them.

    Panties were still on, as were socks:  pants, shoes, blouse --

not the blouse.  She got the pullover past her shoulders and no

farther:  the waist wouldn't stretch enough to get over her breasts.

Sadira immediately grabbed the hospital gown from the floor -- her

back twinged:  she ignored it -- and put it back on, tucking the

lower portions into her pants.  The sleeves hung long on her:

they'd given her a larger size so it would close comfortably.

    Fuck them anyway.  It was time to go.



    Victor glanced up with bleary eyes as Neil finally walked into

the doctor's lounge.  Claire had fallen asleep hours ago, worn out

from their "little talk."

    "Well?  What did you find?"

    Neil held up the sample tube.  "It's blood.  AB positive.  No

known or unknown viruses.  Lots of hormones.  If this was an

adolescent --"

    "No, early twenties."

    "Then she's having a late puberty attack:  I recognized some of

the chains.  That's a little unusual in itself -- a few people

finish up late -- but I've never seen these concentrations before.

Other than that, she's normal.  If you're worried about her

spreading something, she's got nothing to pass along -- except that

body.  She can give that to my wife."

    "Neil, have you ever heard of someone naturally having a hyper

metabolism anywhere near this degree?"  He'd tried hanging out in

the lab, talking shop while waiting for the results, and found the

lighting in the room gave him a headache.

    "Not this fast.  Double normal, sometimes, maybe two-point-five,

but from what you told me about that healing rate, we're looking at

a hell of a lot faster than that.  If Richard was right.  Spoken to

him?"

    Vic snorted.  "He must have gone on one of his post-shift

drinking binges:  I can't find him.  But I saw that needle:  the

skin had healed around it."

    "Are you sure?  You had a pretty bad shock yourself, and you've

been up more than a few hours yourself."

    "Claire saw --"  But Claire was asleep.  "I'm sure.  I think I'm

sure."  He stopped.  "I'm tired," he admitted.  "But she's had the

new needle for a while:  come up with me and we'll see for

ourselves."

    "Sounds interesting.  Always wanted to see a miracle, myself."

    Vic double-checked:  Claire was still asleep.  "The healing or

the tits?"

    "Any one out of two."

    "I heard that..." came the sleepy murmur from the couch.

    Vic and Neil left in a hurry.



    The garment closed, barely, a zip-your-own straightjacket.

    It was Monday -- she hoped it was Monday -- the size increase

was about right for Monday -- there was no other way to tell how

long she'd been out.  At least she didn't feel hungry:  in fact, she

felt extremely satisfied -- and her stomach was empty.  The IV drip

had been a feed tube.  <Who cares?>  She kicked the blouse under the

bed and ran outside.

    A middle-aged, red-headed, vaguely familiar man was walking next

to a short black man, same generation, holding a sample tube, whom

she'd never seen before.  The amiable conversation stopped as they

heard the door rebound off the wall.

    Sadira was only looking at them because she was looking

everywhere, for signs, for lines painted on the walls that led to

other areas, for proof that she wasn't in GenTree --

    -- no, it was a hospital.  Those were doctors.  And this was

worse.

    There was a blue line on the wall, stretching down the hallway

in both directions.  There was no telling where it went:  one end

was clear, the other end had hospital staff.  On the other hand, the

doctors had to have emerged from somewhere, elevator, staircase, and

therefore the exit was mostly likely in that direction.

    Total analysis time:  three-tenths of a second.

    Sadira broke into a dead run, heading for the men.

    Her breasts tried to jiggle, bounce, and throw her off balance,

but found no room to move:  the jacket was simply too tight, and

restricted them more than the best-made bra.  And in the middle of

the much-more-important process of _getting out_, the weight and

balance changes were easy to ignore.  They simply hadn't happened.

    Nothing was going to happen except a hasty exit.

    On some level, she was aware of someone, maybe the black man --

she could vaguely remember the white man's voice -- saying

"Miss!..." and she blew past them before they could further react,

jogging the black man's elbow, still picking up speed.  The sound of

shattering glass was registered and discarded.

    Vic and Neil glanced at each other, then gave chase.



    "Why didn't you tackle her?"

    "Why didn't _you_!" Vic yelled back.  "You were closer!"  They

were losing ground:  neither one was in especially great shape, and

they had to steer around the carts, equipment, and personnel pushing

said equipment and carts around the awakening hospital.  The

geneticist simply dodged them without thought, seemingly switching

her center of weight with no regard for inertia.

    Neil, who was something of a specialist in the workings of the

human body and a male chauvinist of long standing, would have sworn

that it was impossible for a woman that buxom to move that fast.

    He was, in both senses of the word, rapidly being proven wrong.

    She reached the elevator bank a good forty feet ahead of them,

glancing wildly at the four sliding and two conventional doors,

barely slowing down.  Vic imagined he could hear her thoughts as her

eyes shifted from door to door <elevator/staircase/elevator> -- and

then there was the most momentary hesitation as she focused on the

staircase before throwing herself at the door.

    It opened, and she plunged through.

    Vic was the first to follow, but by the time he was in the

stairwell, the still-accelerating sounds of running were growing

faint.  It was only three stories down to the first floor:  she was

probably there already.  He pulled up and leaned over the railing,

breathing heavily.  Neil joined him in position and behavior a few

seconds later.

    "I think," Neil gasped, "she's okay to leave.  Nothing wrong

with that girl's health.  Give my wife some of _that_."

    "Mine, too," Vic started, then reconsidered.  "I'd die."



    Sadira hit the ground floor, hit the door, hit the hallway

running.  There was a rapid series of sensory impressions -- signs,

lines, arrows pointing this way and that which her brain added into

a workable sum -- and when that knowledge reached any sort of

conscious level, she was already fifty feet down the hall.

    People.  Patients.  Items.  Obstacles.  She went past them,

around them, through one, knocking an IV stand out of the way with a

forearm.  None of it mattered except the lobby, becoming larger in

her sight, the doors getting closer.  All the faces in her visual

field merged into one startled look, and then she was outside, the

cold air hitting her lungs like a blast of nitrous oxide.  Sadira

barely noticed.  Her attention was on the cars parked next to the

receiving lobby, all colors and models, with one that was green and

white and had a sign on the door that said "$1.50 for the first 1/8

mile," and it was empty but for a driver, and the engine was

running, and that was all she needed to see.  She wrenched the door

open and dived in.

    The driver, a young black woman, spun around, lipstick running

across her cheek as she moved:  her hand still held the stick.

"_Airport_," Sadira said, and there was something in the tone which

suggested it was a good idea.  The cabbie spun back just as fast and

hit the accelerator.

    Thirty seconds later, the cabbie, voice high and hesitant, said

"Which one?  Holman or Lindbergh?"

    "Lindbergh."  Sadira collapsed into the soft seat.  "Unless

Holman is closer."

    "We're just a few miles from Lindbergh.  Are you okay?"

    "I'm fine."  <Kind of.>  The first hunger pangs were starting to

arrive, but they were weak:  she must have gone through a ton of IV

bags.  "I just wound up taking an overnight stay that I couldn't

afford.  I've got ta reschedule my flight."

    Another quarter-mile passed before the cabbie said "Let me

guess.  You were in that train wreck?"

    "Yeah.  Do they know what happened?"

    "Naw.  A lot of people are taking the credit, though."

    "Are they from Montana?"

    "Sorry?"

    "Never mind."  Sadira heard a plane going overhead and got to

the other window just in time to see it soaring into the sky.



    Vic and Neil slowly walked back to the first floor.  "So what do

we do?" Neil said thoughtfully.  "She checked out on your watch."

    "_We_ do and _my_ watch, huh?" Vic replied.  "Well, she was out

of state:  we're going to have a hell of a time collecting the

bill."

    "Charge it to her company.  Look, you wanted to know if she was

spreading anything.  She's not.  You're safe, Claire's safe, we're

all safe.  From the way she blew out, she's either really late for

something or she didn't like our company.  Leave the girl her own

problems."

    Vic had heard every sentence, but was paying special attention

to the first.  "Charge it to the company?"



    "Carmody."

    "Victor Shalm."

    "Thank you for calling."

    "You wanted to know if something happened."  There was a sharp

bark of laughter.  "Well, it sure as hell did.  She woke up and left

in something of a hurry.  You said hyper metabolism:  you didn't say

Barry Allen."

    "Did she say where she was going?"

    "She didn't say anything.  She ran past me doing about eighty:

there wasn't exactly time for a conversation.  According to the guys

in the lobby, she screeched out in a taxi.  She could have done it

on foot.  You guys give really short vacations?  I have to

reschedule mine now."

    "What was her condition when she left?"

    Another brief explosion of mirth.  "Feeling no pain."  Carmody

was trying to think of a way to ask if her breast size had increased

when Shalm said "I'll send the bill for her stay to you.  And if

you're telling the truth about that metabolism, then get her back to

work:  we could all use that here."

    "Mr. Shalm, I assure you --"

    "-- I'm sure you do.  Well, I couldn't find anything, so I've

got nothing to say to anyone about it, nothing I can prove anymore,

so I've got no choice but to keep my mouth shut, except for this:

you're a liar, and we both know it."

    "Mr. Shalm --"

    A snort of disgust.  "_Hyper metabolism_."  The phone was

slammed into the receiver.

    Nigilo walked in.  He didn't look as if he'd gotten much sleep.

He was holding a piece of paper.  He looked angry.

    Carmody met his superior's eyes.  "Sir," he began, "I have some

new information..."



               11.  44:  Four of the three musketeers



    There was a fast plane leaving fifteen minutes after she reached

the airport:  Sadira got a cash advance on her Discover card and

bought the ticket under a false name.  She ran through a newsstand

and left with most of the candy rack, a few newspapers, and a blank

notebook, followed by two minutes in the souvenir shop and five more

in the bathroom.

    She got a good seat with no one next to her, and spent the

next half-hour waiting for the phone, eating, and reading articles

about the crash, none of which listed her name.  Eight people had

died.  A hundred and twenty had been injured.  No one knew why.

Sadira didn't know any of the names.  Regardless, she mourned for

them, and possibly for herself.

    When the steward finally carried the phone to her seat, he found

her sleeping, tears drying on her face.



    It had taken Pamela hours to return with the directory:  the

bookstore hadn't been as comprehensive as she'd hoped.  She'd called

in twice to keep him from looking for her.  They were making up for

lost time.

    "Shriners Hospital, nothing."  Jason reset the connection.

"What's the next one?"

    "Shriners, check.  University, check.  V.A."  Pamela gave him

the number.

    The connection came on the first ring.  Jason listened to the

brief greeting, then said, "I'm trying to find out if you have a

patient registered.  Sadira Archer.  S-A-D --"

    "She left," replied the abruptly brusk voice.

    Jason shot a quick look and thumbs-up to Pamela, then turned

back, missing his chance to see three tons of strain depart her

body.  He was too busy feeling it himself.  "At what time?"

    "Recently."

    "How recently?"

    "Two hours.  Maybe three."  The voice was vaguely amused.

    "What was she in for?"

    "Train wreck."

    Jason successfully resisted the urge to chime, "I don't know.

_Third base!_"  Slowly, he said, "What train wreck?" and felt some

of the weight settle back in.  Pamela, who had been lying next to

him on the bed, sat up and reached for the phone.  Jason didn't

notice.

    "The local one."

    Jason drew in a deep breath between clenched teeth.  "Can I

speak to someone a little more talkative?"

    "No."  Dial tone.

    He took the five seconds necessary to repeat the conversation

for Pamela.  They exchanged another glance -- the near-synch was

starting to get spooky -- and headed for the computer.

    Using "train wreck" and "Minneapolis" as key words, they

searched the news bases.  It took all of thirteen seconds to find an

article.  They read silently.

    "She's fine," Pamela said as they finished.  "She probably woke

up, saw where she was, and ran like hell.  That phone is going to

ring any minute."  She turned off the computer and headed for the

kitchen.  "Breakfast?  Or did _you_ remember to eat this time?"

    "Nope."  He sat on one of the stools.

    "I left the newspaper outside when I came in.  If I'd bothered

to read the thing..."

    "You would have panicked."

    "No, _we_ would have panicked.  Eggs?"

    "Scrambled."

    "Figures."

    "Yours?"

    Pamela started to answer, stopped, then reluctantly said, "Over

easy."

    Jason let the silence stand in lieu of comment, then said,

"She's phobic about hospitals, isn't she?"

    Pamela quickly controlled her surprise.  "Let me guess.  You

suggested she have a reduction after the cure, and she freaked."  He

nodded.  "Hospitals, doctors, surgery, the works."

    "Why?  Was it the leukemia?"

    Pamela clamped down on her reactions again.  "The phobia you can

guess, but she told me the details in confidence, Mouse.  It's not

my story to give."



    "You failed."

    "Yes, sir."  He didn't like it when Nigilo was this quiet,

reasonable, _controlled_.  It was unnatural.

    "You didn't call me."

    "I felt I could handle it, sir.  I had woken you up once:  you

needed your sleep."

    "This is from Las Vegas."  He threw the paper down on the desk.

"It says that the person with the card tried to get more cash

advances for a lot of cash, so American Express halted the automatic

approvals and alerted casino security.  They apprehended the person

with the card a few hours ago."  He paused, and his voice got

softer.  "The person with the card was not Archer."

    "Sir, I got the report from Minneapolis --"

    "And you didn't call me.  You set things in motion, and they

just didn't show up in time, is that it?  We know where she was a

few hours ago, and we lost her again?"

    "Sir, I couldn't ask the hospital to sedate her, or hold her

without giving a reason, and any reason worth keeping her for would

have alerted the control agencies or the police."

    "Fatal disease," Nigilo checked off.  "Insanity.  Escaped

criminal.  Yes, you're quite right.  All we could have done was try

to get there in time."  Nigilo smiled, and his voice began to hiss.

"The good news, Carmody, is that American Express has decided not to

hold us liable for most of the cash advances, or any of the tickets.

I was able to convince them that the card was stolen in Helena, and

they've agreed to accept a payment of only a hundred dollars.  Can

you find that in the budget?"

    "Yes, sir."

    "Good.  And wake me next time, will you?  I was up anyway."

    "I will, sir."

    "That's nice to hear."  Nigilo walked out at a normal pace.

Carmody began counting.

    He got to fourteen before he heard the pounding start, fists and

feet flailing away at the fake mahogany walls, occasionally breaking

through.  The count was at seventy-nine when it stopped.

    Carmody got up, and went to see if his superior needed any

bandages for his hands.



    The phone had rung.  Pamela had not wanted to switch long

distance carriers.  She had said this quickly, imaginatively, and

definitively before smashing the phone down and resuming her wait.

    They had not gone to the lab.  Jason had suggested following up

on Pam's idea of splitting their forces, but she'd refused, tapping

into the lab computer and working furiously at the keyboard.  Jason

had asked for the keys and security codes to the lab.

    Pamela had narrowed her eyes and said, "There's nothing we need

the lab for at this moment.  Sadira may have lost the lab number,

but she'll remember mine.  We wait."  And she kept glancing at the

phone, and snapping questions off at him, all the vanished stress

from four hours ago returned in full with company.  He put up with

it because he was trying to keep his own levels low, and because she

was right.

    He almost wished she wasn't right.  _His_ nerves were already

shot.

    "Let's check the placenta next," he suggested.  "The loss during

birth may send out the stop signal."

    "Christ, I hope not.  I don't think there's much on placenta

secretions, and with that organ, we might be looking for a chemical

_absence_."

    "Then we find a way to remove the chemical from her body," Jason

replied -- and almost barked.  It was definitely getting to him.

    "Fine."  Pamela typed.

    Two knocks rang through the apartment.

    Jason froze.  Pamela's hand came down hard on the keyboard and

left a trail of hash on the screen.

    Another knock.

    They both headed for the door.  Pamela, by right of residence,

got there first, peered through the security port -- and somehow got

the seven assorted locks on the door open in one motion, flinging it

open with the last bit of momentum -- and of course she was standing

there, looking a little sheepish, more than a little happy, and

entirely present.

    There was a wonderful bit of chaos where everyone was trying to

move in all directions at once, trying to get closer together, which

resolved with Sadira's arms wrapped around Pamela, Pamela reaching

up to return the embrace, and Jason standing behind them with a grin

big enough to pass for a clown's makeup.

    At least, they tried to hug.  Sadira tried to nestle in close,

and found the best she could do was a sort of A-frame, with their

feet wide apart, and their breasts the only parts really touching.

She drew back, suddenly embarrassed.

    Pamela took it in stride and stepped into the hallway.  "From

the side, Ebs," she said, and they tried it again, meshing into a

single being that wriggled with delight as the halves welcomed each

other home.

    They disengaged, and Pamela stepped back for her first good

look.  "Wow," she breathed, and immediately regretted it.  Her face

flushed -- which, with her face, was particularly evident.

    "It's okay, Iv," Sadira whispered.  "We're going to beat it."

She looked at the doorway and saw Jason leaning against the frame,

the grin still taking up most of his face.

    "Come here, you --" she said, and he obeyed immediately, one

long step to the hallway.  She reached up, gripped his shoulders,

and gently pulled him down.  Jason didn't resist, and found himself

the recipient of an enthusiastic kiss, her lips pressing against

his, breasts pushing into his chest, pressure on pressure --

    -- they separated, and he felt as if part of his body had been

pulled away.

    Sadira stepped back so that she could see both Pamela and Jason,

forming a nearly equilateral triangle.  She smiled at both her

friends.  "Ready to work?"

    Pamela and Jason had a quick pass-de-jam as they went back

through the somewhat-too-narrow doorway, heading for their coats.



    Sadira followed them in to find Pamela scrambling into her

usual layers, like a Tatooine Sandperson come to life.  Jason

already had his jacket on.  He turned, ready to head back out -- and

for the first time, saw Sadira's hands.  They held a small shopping

bag, and nothing more.

    "Sadira," he said slowly, "what happened to the files?"

    "Burnt," she replied heavily.  "I was so busy getting off the

train, I left them behind.  All the print data, all my clothing, and

a lot of chocolate.  There just wasn't time to think about it until

I was out -- and then I couldn't think of anything."

    "It's all right, kid," Pamela broke in.  "What's important is

that _you_ got here.  I can get you some clothes."  Pamela's left

hand came back down, still holding the sunglasses.  "I'm going to

have to teach you how to buy off the rack:  it's a skill."  A very

long pause.  "I'm going to have to teach you just about everything."

    Sadira looked at her former roommate, a little confused.

    Pamela smiled, the movement just barely visible under the cloth.

"You don't know how to move without risking injury, deal with people

on the street, balance, typing, back exercises -- you're smart:

you'll pick it up fast."

    The second set of knocks in five minutes rang across the room.

There was a fast exchange of frowns, and Pamela got the door.

    The delivery man stood frozen, staring at her.  Pam knew what he

was seeing:  a strip of stark white skin, broken only by blue

points, surrounded by a sea of black.  And that was just the head:

they were of equal height, and he hadn't gotten to her breasts yet.

"Speak," she said airily.  "It's not too hard for a reasonably

evolved mammal."

    "I -- uh --"  He swallowed hard.  "I have a delivery from Susan

Shaw for Pamela Shaw.  Are you she?"

    "No one else fits the description."  She reached out and grabbed

the clipboard and pen from his numb hands, signed.  "Thank you.  Is

that all the boxes?"

    "No.  There's some more downstairs..."

    "Mouse?  Could you give this guy a hand?  I'm not sure he can

walk unassisted."  The courier's gaze had finally, in an initial

attempt to escape, wandered down.

    Jason came out and, with long strides, strong arms, and a

handcart, got the rest of the shipment up in one trip.  Sadira sat

on the bed, watching until all ten boxes were in the apartment.  It

made the place noticeably smaller.  "What's in there?  Research

data?"

    Pamela stepped back inside and slammed the door behind her,

leaving a slightly stunned deliveryman with his nose against the

wood.  "Close.  Support mechanisms."  She peeled back her mask and

peered at the boxes, quickly locating a plastic envelope attached to

the second box in the first stack.  Pamela tore it off, opened it,

glanced at the contents, winced, and tossed it aside.

    "What's that?" Jason asked.

    "The bill.  I got a five percent family discount and  --" with

false merriment "-- she'll let me pay on installment!"  She

extracted her car keys and began slicing through the packing tape.

"I took the liberty of ordering you a few bras, Ebs.  They're off

the shelf, but they're pretty well made."

    "Like those ones you kept getting for your birthday?"

    "Bingo.  Aunt Susan.  Good with undergarments, lousy with

imaginative gifts."  Pamela got the first box open and glanced at

a black label against the white fabric.  "What the hell is Level

II?" she muttered, then took the bra out of the box and shook it

open.

    They all stared.  The white fabric shrouded all of her torso and

part of her hips, and either of Pam's breasts could have fit in the

cups with space for shelving and a trapdoor to the basement.  Sadira

looked away first.

    "What is that?" Jason quietly asked.

    "Level II," Pamela absently replied.  "Somewhere towards the end

of it, I'd guess.  Aunt Susan said she was working on a new sizing

system."

    Sadira partially recovered.  "_That's_ off the shelf?"  She

still hadn't looked back.

    "She said she's been getting some unusual clientele in the last

few years."  Pamela shook her head, a rapid series of vibrations, as

if trying to dislodge something, put the bra back in the box, and

looked at Sadira again.  "I'll open another box --"  A blink.

"-- and we'll find something to fit you."  A slightly closer look.

"In fact, you've got Mouse syndrome.  You're in sore need of

cleaning up.  And we have to find you something to wear, and --"

Her eyes momentarily unfocused.  "Right.  Into the bathroom.  I'll

join you in a minute."

    "What?"  This from Jason and Sadira.

    Pamela ignored them.  "I am now your official counselor in all

things buxom and pains-in-the-butt.  And one of the things you need

to learn is how to wash.  _Go_."

    Sadira, still tired from the flight and the events of the last

few days, went into the bathroom without another word.

    Pamela grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled fast.  "Mouse,

these are the codes for the locks -- and these are the keys for the

locks -- and the password for the computer -- and this is the train

you take to get there.  When you get off the train, don't make eye

contact with anyone.  If you do, and they see it, get ready for a

fight.  If anyone follows you, kill them and hide the body.  If

things go bad in the lab, there's a .357 Magnum under the computer."

She thrust the paper and a ring of keys at him.  "Start working.

We'll catch up."  Jason took the paper and stood in place.  "Oh,

don't _you_ start.  She's had a hard weekend and nothing perks her

up like a long bath.  New clothes couldn't hurt.  You could stay and

wait for us if you're worried about splitting up, but it's been

three days.  Have we seen anyone?   No.  _Go_."

    Jason, who to Pamela looked a bit dazed from the series of

instructions and a little unhappy in the bargain, left.

    She wasn't sure she liked the "unhappy" part.  If she was lucky,

it was just a reaction to splitting up, or to being ordered around.

    She'd seen the kiss, through.  Both sides of it.

    Pamela headed for the bathroom.



           12. 45:  Tutorial programs (remedial division)



    Sadira was still dressed, staring at the bathtub.  Pamela closed

the door.  The two of them took up most of the floor space:  the

bathtub had the rest.

    "Come on, Ebs.  I don't want to leave the Country Mouse alone in

the city too long.  He'll probably walk into the Winter Garden and

get eaten by cats."

    "You're right," Sadira said quietly.  "I'm going to have to

learn to adjust, unless we can come up with something that reverses

the process -- but how do you get rid of matter?"

    "You can't," Pamela said.  "Not for ordinary people.  You're the

genius, remember?"

    "I canna change the laws of physics, Jim," was the too-soft

reply.  "I'm a geneticist:  I don't even know where the loopholes

are."

    Pamela sat on the closed toilet.  "I already had this

conversation with Mouse.  Time _is_ important -- but so is keeping

you sane through all this.  What's the point if you're cured and

_nuts_?  And when you're extra-tense -- when you need to free

yourself up so you can really concentrate -- you vanish into a

bathtub for an hour and let the stress soak away, unless you've

decided to stop hogging the bathroom since college.  Do you really

think you're fit to work?"

    "No."  Almost inaudible.

    "Then you're taking a bath.  Strip."  No movement.  Pamela

forced a smile and wished Sadira would look at it.  She was still

staring at the bathtub.  "We've seen each other naked before,

remember?"

    "Not like this."

    Pamela abandoned _reassuring_ for a moment and turned to

_practical_.  "The sooner we start this bath, the sooner it ends.

How late did you want to begin working?"

    Sadira reached up and carefully grasped her jacket zipper, then

slowly pulled down, guiding the handle over the curves.  Her breasts

swelled a bit under the oversize sweater, as if relieved to have

escaped.

    Pamela looked at the very tall, handsome young black man on the

sweater and read the logo.  "Kevin Garnett:  Minnesota

Timberwolves?"

    "I left the hospital without my shirt.  Souvenir shop.  Pamela

-- Ivory, I nearly died.  I starved myself into a near-coma less

than six hours after eating a big meal, because my body kicked into

a fight-or-flight reaction on the train.  And when I woke up -- I

burned off God knows how many IV bags in less than two minutes.  I

don't -- I don't know how --"  She stopped.  The next words were

there, but it was bad enough to have to hear them inside.  <I don't

know how I'm going to survive.>

    Pamela simply said, "Tell me."

    Sadira did.

    "I can solve the energy needs," Pamela finally said.  "I've been

thinking about that one for a while.  And I can do this."  She got

up, stepped over, and slipped into the side-stretch hug, holding

Sadira as close as she could.  Sadira reached back, turning a bit,

and returned the gesture emotion for emotion.

    "You're alive, Sadira," Pamela whispered, "and the Mouse and I

are going to keep you that way.  Nothing is going to stop us from

curing you.  Nothing in this world.  Don't ever forget that."

    "I won't," Sadira whispered back, and nuzzled in.

    After a mutually wonderful eternity, they separated.  Pamela

looked at Sadira's face.  "No tears?"

    "I think I'm out of stock."

    Pamela smiled.  "Then you need a recharge.  And that means

getting you in the water."  She sat down again.  "Strip."

    "Okay."  Sadira reached down and removed the lower garments,

saving the sweater for last.  Quietly, she faced Pam, briefly met

her eyes, and then removed it quickly, as if trying to lessen the

pain's duration.

    Pamela looked, and kept looking.

    Sadira's breasts had expanded downwards about five, maybe six

ribs worth, but it was a natural consequence of the size increase:

there had been no sagging yet.  Their shape was almost classic:  a

projecting teardrop, filling out rapidly just under the collarbone

and pushing outwards in a tidal swell, their farthest point several

inches from the chest wall.  They had also expanded towards the

center and to the sides:  with Sadira standing upright, spine

locked, she had a substantial amount of cleavage, with the beginning

of spillover off the ribs and onto the arms.

    Pamela breathed.  It felt as if she hadn't done it in some time.

"I'm going to have to apologize."

    "Accepted."

    "Thanks."  <But I might also have to apologize to everyone who

looks at me.>  Pamela was starting to understand the feeling.  It

was hard to take her eyes away.  The Sadira she remembered had a

tight body:  built like the baseball player she was.  No overt

muscles unless she flexed and grunted for a few minutes, but fit and

toned.  The body she could see still had those characteristics, and

now --

    Pamela got up, started the water running -- very hot:  they both

liked it steamy to the point of choking -- and threw in a liberal

amount of bubble bath.  They watched it fill in silence until there

was about a foot of water in the tub, and then Sadira got in,

slipping smoothly through the bubbles.  Pamela pushed back her

sleeves and knelt down next to the tub, far enough back so that only

her arms would reach over the edge.

    "Why no stretch marks?"  She tried to, and succeeded in,

phrasing it as an academic question.

    "The skin cells are dividing.  It might also be the metabolic

effects again.  We'll run a sample at the lab."

    Pamela grabbed the soap and handed it to Sadira.  "You want to

start at the nipple, then work your way outwards in a circular

motion until you've gotten the entire front, then rinse."  She stood

up, took down the flexible showerhead, and let it hang.  "After

that, lift and do the underside:  smooth down strokes, then get in

there and make sure you've cleaned out the fold where they join the

rest of the body.  Soap up a finger and stroke, or use a thin

washcloth.  If you don't get everything there for a long time, it's

a great site for a fungus infection.  Be careful in that area,

though.  It's pretty sensitive -- well, it is on me."

    "I remember," Sadira said dryly, and began soaping her arms.

"Why the nipple first?"

    She fought back the blush:  she hated looking like a stoplight.

"Because on developing girls, they tend to be very sensitive, and

you want to get them out of the way immediately."  <Because if you

don't, you can be in the tub all day.>

    Pamela watched Sadira wash.  Her ex-roommate was stalling,

hitting every upper-body part _but_ the breasts.  She also dropped

the soap twice.  Which was strange:  it normally would have been

four or five times _accidentally_.

    "Have your manual dexterity and agility changed at all?"

    Sadira looked at Pam through narrowed eyes.  "I drop things.  I

trip.  Same as usual.  Why?"

    Pamela scrambled for a response.  "Just checking."  She hadn't

found a good one.

    Sadira rinsed and finally went to the right breast, looking at

the soap, then slowly lowered it towards the surface.  "Pamela?"

    <Please, let it be something scientific, dry, and _distracting_>

"What?"

    "How do I look?"  Plaintive, appealing, a little scared.

    <That wasn't it.>  Pamela looked at Sadira's face and found

sincere curiosity with a thick varnish of fear.  She braced her

hands on the tub rim and leaned in slightly.  "You're cute, Ebs.

You're always cute.  Frankly, it's annoying."

    "Right."  Sadira dropped the soap again and splashed about

feeling for it.  "Like I can get an unbiased opinion from you."

    "How do you think you look?"  Quite serious.

    "I've been trying not to think about that."  Even more serious.

Before Pamela could break in, she added, "I mean, I can hardly play

baseball now."

    "You've still got room for full extension on a swing."

    "I can't slide."

    "You slide on your _side_.  Another lesson taught."  Pamela took

a deep breath, trying to find oxygen in the steam-filled air.

"Look, Jason told me your theory about the leukemia."  The next

sentence was a little envious.  "You got an extra ten years of

sleeping on your stomach.  Right now, it's puberty all over again,

with a thousand hormones racing through you.  I went through all

this over seven years.  You've had three days.  All the insecurity,

all the panic --" Pamela stopped.  Jason had also told her about

Sadira's near-breakdown in the apartment when she'd followed the

train of thought off the end of the track.  "What's important is how

you _feel_."

    Sadira found the soap and leaned back in the tub so that she was

almost lying down, her breasts mostly hidden by mounds of bubbles.

She looked at them:  four days ago, there would have been nothing to

see.  The tub was too small to sink any lower.  She scraped some of

the bubbles away and began working down from the left nipple --

    -- jumped a little.  So did Pamela.  "That _is_ sensitive.  It

wasn't that bad yesterday."

    Pamela, having an excuse, looked closer.  The nipple was

swelling rapidly.  It had grown in pleasant proportion to the rest

of the breast.  "Told you.  You're getting a lot more nerves in that

area.  Just keep going."

    "It feels weird."

    "You're not used to it."

    Sadira resumed soaping.  Pamela, with difficulty, resumed eye

contact.  "_I_ feel weird.  I can feel people looking at me almost

all the time, or at least I think I can.  I've been so edgy..."

    She looked up:  the steam was condensing back into water as it

contacted the cooler tile of the tub ceiling, creating a small

drizzle.  "I feel them looking, and I hear them whispering,

laughing, pointing, and it all sounds familiar somehow."

    "From when we went out," Pamela reasoned.  "It was like having

my own personal Greek chorus."

    "No.  It's something that was happening to me before this --"

<Click>  She sat up, bubbles cascading down the slopes.  "The words

aren't the same, but the tone, the looks -- they're _exactly_ the

same as when I was flat!  Nothing's different at all!"

    Pamela's eyes went wide, and then she slowly nodded, matching up

her own memories of their times out.  "Exactly the same," she

echoed.  "Sadira, with breasts -- people's perceptions -- the small-

regular-large size range is as narrow as their minds.  It runs a

grand total of three inches:  B to C to D.  Anything below or above

is noticeably different."  Pamela unconsciously ran her left hand

down the exposed right forearm.  "Anything people see as being

outside their own definition of normal, they hate -- and they

express it as mocking, or derision, or even fear.

    "Did you know that some people still don't know what albinos

are?  They think I've been cursed by God.  Like being gay:  I'm a

sin against Him, but He Marked _me_ for all to see."

    She looked down, saw what her hands were doing, and stopped it.

Sadira was waiting, intensely listening for the next words.  Pamela

continued.  "When you're large breasted, as big as I am -- it's one

more difference, and it's one that I can't just hide under layers of

cloth.  People look, and laugh, and know I must be stupid, because

everyone _knows_ bust size is inversely proportional to IQ.  If I

show them my doctorate -- well, I must have fucked for it, because

sex drive is _directly_ proportional."

    "So you fight," Sadira said, words blending into memory.

"Verbally, perceptually, all the time."

    "That's my way.  There's others.  But --" the corners of her

mouth faintly quirked "-- there is the other side.  No, _downward_

strokes.  Start just below the base and work down."

    "Like this?"  Sadira was staring at the area in question,

concentrating.  She missed seeing Pamela swallow.  Hard.

    "No, longer strokes."

    Sadira corrected the movements.  Pamela kept her left hand from

reaching in to help.  "Did you say other side or underside?"

    "The first one."  In the middle of a dissertation, and she got

distracted by an expense of smooth skin -- very -- Pamela yanked the

switch and changed tracks.  "It isn't _all_ people.  There's ones

that would look at you before and say 'She's flat-chested and clumsy

and too smart for her own good.'  And there's a few who say,

'There's Sadira Archer," and they don't mean it as a summary of the

things the first people said.  For every person small-minded enough

to laugh and fear whatever they aren't, there's another who will

accept you for that -- and a few who will love you for it."

    Sadira folded her arms on the available tub rim, leaned forward,

and said, "So it's fifty-fifty, then?"

    "I'd like to think so," Pamela replied.  "If you want personal

statistics, the good guys are seriously outnumbered -- but if you

weigh off the emotions and keep yourself strong, it all balances

out.  Sometimes it even tips over onto the good side."

    Sadira nodded.  "Like Jasmine uses the scales?"

    "Christ, no!  Do you _feel_ like being a manipulative, uncaring,

selfish bitch because your breasts are bigger?"

    Sadira laughed.  "No.  Never occurred to me."

    "And it won't.  That's not the kind of person you are."  Pamela

grinned, sharp and feral.  "It's the kind of person _I_ am, but I've

vowed to use my powers only for good -- or my own personal pleasure,

whichever comes first."

    Sadira lay back down in the water, still giggling.  "So what is

the good side?"

    "Albinism or big boobs?  You could always pick me out of a

crowd either way."

    "You never wear anything but black.  I lost you on moonless

nights if you didn't remember to peel your mask off.  Is this

washcloth thin enough?"

    "This one."  Pamela reached up to the towel rack.  "I keep it

around for just such an occasion.  Soap the whole thing and slip it

over one finger.  And I'm _still_ planning on sneaking up on you one

snowy day."  She smiled.  "No, there's other benefits to this build.

Some of them are pretty stupid or petty -- I lose an argument with

another woman and I can always think, 'Yeah, but my tits are

bigger!'"

    "And did you?" came the immediate wry response.  "With me?"

    "No, because you can think tesseracts around me:  what's the

point?  And I only wind up doing to people I hate.  Jasmine probably

does it to everyone."

    Pam's gaze searched inward, delving deep.  "But on my good days,

I feel more feminine than other women, and I can believe people see

me that way.  There are times when I'm depressed about something

else and it's nice to get the attention, to believe people would

want me for any reason.  There are also some very nice people among

the breast fetishists, and I'm starting to hope that they _are_ the

majority.  I'll teach you how to deal with the minority:  it's

called a right cross.  Sometimes I love my body, because I love

myself, and how you look is always part of who you are.  On the best

days, I'd never want to be anyone else."  She gave Sadira a half-

wink before saying, "I'd think you'd have figured out a few others

by proxy."

    Silence.

    "It wasn't exactly something we agreed to forget.  It happened,

Data."

    "I know,"  Sadira said.  "I was bringing it up before.  I just

really haven't thought about it in a long time."

    Pamela looked at her friend, her former lover, realized how easy

it would be to say something that would result in a soapy embrace

followed by a quick dry and long bask on the sheets.  Sadira was

starting careful work on her right breast, movements becoming more

sure, circling smoothly, almost seeming to tease the nipple with the

edge of the soap.  She was so vulnerable, looking for reassurance,

for --

    Pamela wanted to touch her -- kiss her -- and then -- it would

be so easy --

    -- so of course, she did the hard thing.  She stood up and

tossed a towel within Sadira's reach.  "I'm going to crack open some

of those bra boxes and find something that might fit."

    "There's a measuring tape in my jacket."

    "In a week, I might actually manage to find it.  We'll use my

shopping tape."

    "You carry a measuring tape with you when you shop?"  Their

after-class activities had rarely included mall walks, and never for

clothing.

    "So will you:  it's handy for checking sizes.  You soak:  I've

got nine more boxes to go through."  <And do a _private_ underwear

check.>

    She held off the blush until she got outside.



    It was like the Spanish she'd taken in high school:  she'd

memorized the words for the tests and forgotten them immediately

afterwards.  The only thing she'd really retained were the assorted

curses the Hispanic kids (taking the class for an easy A) had used

in the hallway.  Pamela looked through the bras, trying to remember

exactly what a J constituted.  It seemed very little of her summers

in the shop had been retained.  She was stuck with her own personal

experience, and she'd left J behind at fourteen.

    The world needed a cure for fatal diseases, a working Unified

Field Theory, and peace in all lands.  At the moment, she would have

traded them all in for a universal bra sizing system, a refresher

course _in_ bra sizing and a quick explanation of just what the

_hell_ her aunt meant by Level II.  Pamela took a 35Z under what she

thought of as the standard system: she'd never needed to worry about

this stuff.

    "I'm going to hold the first payment until she sends me a

translation," Pamela muttered, and kept looking.

    "Ready?"  Sadira came out, wrapped in a towel.  Kind of wrapped:

 it kept slipping off.

    Pam spotted the problem.  "Fold and tuck under your armpit:

it'll hold better."  She immediately regretted saying it:  so much

for another free look.  "No.  I'm a geneticist and _this_ is nuclear

science.  I know what I wear, and some of these really big ones..."

Sadira's face was starting to go vacant.  "Let's just try the old

fashioned way.  Arms up, Ebony.  _This_ I remember how to do."

Sadira assumed a captured position, arms folded on top of her head,

and waited.  <32/45 -- one inch per letter -- if she's modified that,

we'll be here all day -->  "M," Pamela said in what she hoped was a

conclusive tone.  "This box --"

    It fit perfectly.  She showed Sadira how to work the hooks.

    "Heavy," Sadira remarked.

    "The back straps have a bit of metal in them:  counterbalance.

It feels better when it's on.  Make sure the shoulder straps aren't

scrunched up, and try to even out the coverage area --"

    "I remember some of this," Sadira said.  "Jasmine had a lot of

fun putting them on in front of me."

    "Yeah, but _watching_ and _doing_ are two different things --

there!  How does that feel?"

    Sadira turned around twice, testing.  "Pretty good," she said

slowly.

    "I'll just grab the next one if you need to change at the lab and

lay out a few more for later."  Pamela stepped back and looked at

Sadira.

    "Sexy" was a good word.  Too good.

    "All right," Pamela said.  "Now comes the hard part..."



    Sadira sat in the car and waited.  Pamela had gone into the

first store alone.  Fine by her:  she really didn't feel like going

out in public.  It wasn't her expanding bustline at the moment:  it

was her clothing.  The sleeves hung off her hands until she pushed

them back, and stayed there until she did something complicated --

like move.  The pants had been rolled and pinned, giving the

impression that she was about to go fishing, and the front of the

blouse sagged tremendously.  Add that to the oversize, unadjustable-

by-any-means panties, and she was fine where she was.

Uncomfortable, but fine.

    Besides, if she got out, the car was going to be towed.

    Pamela got back in the car.  "And this," she said, thrusting a

large bag at Sadira, "solves the calorie problem."

    Sadira reached in and pulled out something roughly the size and

shape of a chocolate bar -- a little thicker, with a gold wrapper.

"What is this?"

    "Read the label.  Powerbar.  Why did you think I wanted a

camping store?  One of these things is a meal supplement for thirty

mile a day hikers.  Two is a meal by itself.  Six, and you may never

eat again.  Portable, powerful, and eight assorted flavors --

including chocolate.  Try one."

    Sadira got the wrapper and took a bite of the beige concoction.

She chewed carefully.

    "Well?"

    "Chocolate-coated."

    Pamela frowned.  "Chocolate-coated _what_?"

    "Guess."

    A shrug.  "Best I could do.  Try the banana."



    Seven revolting sample bites later, they reached the clothing

store and encountered a Certified Manhattan Miracle, also known as a

legal parking spot ten feet from the door.

    Sadira looked at the name.  "The Brick S. House?"

    "As in, 'built like a...'"  Sadira's quickly narrowing eyes cut

her off.  "Standard sizes, but they snatch up the irregulars and get

some quasi-custom items.  For real comfort, you either pay through

the nose or make your own, but this is short notice."

    "Pamela -- the bras, food, clothing -- this is costing you a lot

of money --"

    "-- I have a store credit card.  All we need is a few outfits

and blouses with some stretch to them.  You can't wear my stuff

forever:  we're asking for a pratfall."  Sadira ruefully nodded.

"In and out --"  Pamela pulled out the measuring tape

"-- ammunition in hand."



    Shopping with Pamela was an experience.  It wasn't a _pleasant_

one, but it was educational.  Pamela measured each garment, looked

them over carefully for flaws, asked her a few questions, ignored

most of the answers, and headed for the counter five minutes later

with an armful and an audience.  People gathered from all over the

store to get a glimpse of the staff cowering in terror.

    It seemed none of the prices in the store were fixed.

    Pamela argued garment quality.  She demeaned the designer,

insulted the manufacturer, and made some lewd suggestions about the

sheep the wool had come from.  She pointed out flaws by placing them

a millimeter from the manager's eyes.  She threw things.  She

threatened to throw people.  She did throw a fit.  She was loud,

creative, obnoxious, got everything down to half-price, and then

demanded a frequent-buyer discount.

    Somewhere in the middle of it, Sadira retreated to the middle of

Footwear, afraid of gunshot-by-association, and watched from what

she hoped was a safe distance.  The acoustics of the store made her

spot just as loud as the counter.

    She finally saw Pamela take a receipt with a sound of disgust

that reached New Jersey, scribble a signature, and slam the door

open, stalking out with three bags.  Sadira hurried out after her.

    Before she could say anything, Pamela said, "Yes, I had fun.

That _is_ why the one guy hid when we walked in.  And only half of

it is black.  You look better in gray."  She unlocked the car.

"Now we're ready to _work_!"