by Paul Kenyon
She stiffened in surprise. The movement sent his cock sliding down her channel. She sat up straight and tucked in her tail, pushing it in all the way.
He began at once to thrust up and down, arching his back, his hands gripping her hips. She rocked back and forth with him. The long strokes set her innards afire. Carefully, keeping him inside her, she stretched her legs out to full length until she was lying on top of him. They wrapped their arms around one another and rolled over until he was on top of her. The rhythm of his strokes became more urgent.
She gasped for breath. The blind pressure of bliss inside her grew more insistent, demanding release. It was a balloon, pushing her outward, stretching her senses, not yet able to burst. She pumped frantically, driving herself against the hard weight that covered her. She heard herself make little whimpering cries. God, it was good! There was a little spill of pleasure. Too soon. She wasn't willing yet to let it all go. She tightened herself like a great spring and managed to hold it all inside her. Tony's face was pressed against her cheek, making great wheezing sounds in her ear.
There, it was on its way, a rumbling tremor gathering force! It was like dying down there. The sweet urgency grew. She gave a cry and wrapped her legs around him, clasping him to her. Her entire body shook in a huge paroxysm. "Yes, yes!" she heard someone saying in her voice, and then there was one wave after another of delicious, shuddering release.
When her senses came back into focus, Tony was sprawled on top of her, a dead weight, uttering a long, contented sigh. His stem was still inside her, giving a final twitch. She cradled his buttocks in both hands and gave a couple of quick, deft pushes. It caught him by surprise, teasing another spasm out of him and giving her another fluttery release.
They grinned at one another.
"Ask me again, darling," she said.
"All right," he said. "How about another fuck?"
"I mean about Scotland."
He looked at her in surprise. "Do you mean it?"
She wriggled out from under him. "Yes."
"But that's marvelous! What made you change your mind?"
"I decided I didn't want to go three weeks without it, either. Where did you say we're going?"
"The Bane estate. Up by Crombie Firth. I can commute to the drilling rig by helicopter."
She sat up and looked at him brightly. "Darling! That isn't the famous Sir Angus Bane?"
"None other." He narrowed his eyes. "Why do you ask?"
"Do you know him?"
"Not really. I've spoken to him once or twice. He stays out of the way of the paying guests. His factor makes the arrangements."
"Paying guests? I don't understand."
"Sir Angus may be laird of all he surveys up near Castle Bane, but he's strapped for cash. Taxes, don't you know. He's got seven thousand acres to maintain. Those are just the manor grounds themselves, you understand. And then he's got all those crofters to look after. They're all members of the Bane clan, and they're a losing proposition. He's the laird, and he's responsible for them. And the family retainers. And that great white elephant of a castle to keep up."
Penelope laughed. "It sounds quite feudal."
"It is. And it leaves him strapped for cash. Sir Angus might be one of the richest men in the British Isles, but the money goes out faster than it comes in."
"So he's turned his ancestral home into a hunting lodge?"
"He's not the only one. The rich foreigners love it, especially the Germans. Bunch of vulgar nouveau riche businessmen, mostly. They're thrilled as schoolgirls to say they've been hunting or salmon fishing as guests of someone like Sir Angus Bane. Of course, they're lucky if they catch a glimpse of him."
"They pay a good price, I imagine."
"Oh, Sir Angus squeezes them, all right. A thousand pounds for a grouse shoot, and a dirty look from the gamekeeper if you try to keep the birds you've shot. Sir Angus sells them to the top restaurants in New York."
"A wee thrrrifty."
Tony laughed. "He is that."
"But Tony, darling, what are you doing, going to Castle Bane? With all those vulgar German businessmen?"
He eyed her blandly. "It's still the best shooting in Scotland."
* * *
Eric hurled himself over the wooden railing and dived off the causeway. Behind him a voice shouted, "Astanaveets!" He hit the water cleanly, just ahead of a rattle of bullets.
When he surfaced he was some thirty feet further along, under the shadow of the causeway. It was inky black down there. Beyond was the milky darkness of an overcast night. He could see a spiderweb tracery of yellow lights stretching along the miles and miles of rickety bridges that connected the oil derricks and worksheds of this man-made archipelago in the Caspian Sea. In the distance the flare-off from an oil well cast a ruddy glow into the sky.
He clung to one of the wooden stilts and listened. There was the sound of water lapping against the pilings. Then a voice, startlingly close, said, "Padazhdeety." Footsteps rang on the oak planks above and then grew fainter. One of them had gone for help.
A flashlight beam played along the black water. It couldn't reach under the overhang, but soon there would be men in a boat. Eric paddled cautiously, trying not to splash, groping his way along the pilings. The water was warm.
He managed to make another fifty feet when he turned his head and saw the bobbing light behind him. The man with the flashlight had climbed over the rail and was shinnying partway down one of the pilings.
"Ne veedna," he called to his mates. He began playing his beam along the surface of the water. Eric put a piling between himself and the light. When the beam got close, he ducked under. He stayed submerged until his breath ran out. When he raised his head, the flashlight beam was stabbing in the opposite direction.
The Russians were having a conference now. He strained to listen.
"I can't see him," the man with the flashlight said. "It doesn't matter," said a voice from above. "He can't have gone far."
In the morning the place would be swarming with workers from Baku, fifty miles away on the mainland. Eric had hoped to mingle with them in his work clothes until he could steal a boat. But now they had him pinned down. The man with the flashlight was making periodic sweeps along the pilings and the underside of the causeway. He didn't dare move.
He'd found out what he wanted to know. The Russians had shut off the oil pipelines between the tanker port at Batumi on the Black Sea and the vast oil fields at Baku and Neftyanyye Kamni in the Caspian Sea. The oil was piling up in storage tanks. They were going to have to slow down production.
It was a serious matter for them. But they were in a panic. And he had a pretty good idea of the reason for the panic.
The pipelines had somehow become contaminated. A tanker, taking on crude at Batumi, was the likely cause. The flow of oil had thickened, then turned into a foul-smelling mess that crept backward along the pipelines at a frightening speed. The Russians were terrified that the infection would reach their oil fields, some four hundred miles away.
There was more. The Soviet Army had been holding maneuvers in the Armenian foothills, due south of the pipeline. There had been an inexplicable outbreak of disabled planes and vehicles. The area was littered with burned-out tanks and trucks and personnel carriers. They'd lost scores of aircraft.
It was the same thing that had happened to the NATO forces in Holland.
At first the Russians had suspected sabotage. They'd actually gone so far as to start a nuclear countdown. But then they'd realized that the Western intelligence services knew nothing about what had happened.
And they were scared out of their wits that the West would find out how vulnerable the Soviet Union had suddenly become.
They had no idea that the West was in the same boat. That eliminated the Russians as the mysterious force behind SPOILER. The Baroness had been right. The Russians were victims, too.
Now all he had to do was to get out of Russia with the information.
"This way
!" a voice shouted from above. There was the sound of running feet. Reinforcements had arrived. They were spreading out along the causeway. Another bobbing flashlight appeared. Eric ducked.
Now there was a motor out on the water. A boat, getting closer.
He took a chance and made it to the next wooden piling without being seen. He clung to it, keeping his head down. He listened. He heard no footsteps overhead. Maybe — just maybe — he could climb back up to the causeway and get behind the searchers.
He was halfway up the wooden pillar when the entire world went bright. There was a livid sheet of flame licking its way across the sky. A moment later there was the sound of a huge explosion. The causeway shook and he could feel a hot breath of rushing air buffeting his body.
He froze, his arms and legs wrapped around the piling. The light, bright as day, was full on him.
There was a babble of excited voices, and then, from the boat below, someone shouted, "We've got him! We've got our oil saboteur!"
* * *
"Skytop," Professor Teitlebaum said. "Is that a Jewish name?"
He was a small, brown, wrinkled man with clever eyes and a bald head that was peeling from the sun. He wore an open-necked white shirt with short sleeves that showed a faded tattooed number on one skinny arm.
"I don't think so," Skytop said.
"Are you sure?"
"My tribe's the Cherokee," Skytop said.
Professor Teitlebaum's eyes twinkled. "One of the lost tribes, maybe?"
"Our exodus was a little more recent," Skytop said. "We were escorted by the United States Army."
"Yes," Teitlebaum said, suddenly serious. "I know. The Cherokee Removal. The Trail of Tears, your people call it. Half of them died on the way."
"You know about that?" Skytop said in surprise.
"I take a special interest in genocide," Teitlebaum said. "It's a hobby of mine."
They were sitting in Teitlebaum's big sunny office in the Tel Aviv Scientific Institute. Outside the window was a fantastically rich blue sky and a bare, sun-bleached hillside with lots of new construction going up on it. Teitlebaum had been busy, but he'd made time to see Skytop.
"And what brings you to Israel, Mr. Skytop?" he said.
"Your bug," Skytop said. "The one that eats oil."
"And what's your interest in it?"
Skytop crossed his legs, showing off the expensive new boots. Everything he was wearing was expensive, and looked it: the hand-styled buckskin jacket; the tooled leather belt; the custom twill jeans; the gold Rolex watch; the three-hundred-dollar Stetson with the eagle feather in the band.
"They slipped up on our promised land," Skytop said. "It was supposed to be worthless desert, but there was oil in it. I'm representing the tribal investment group. We're thinking of buying a tanker. Tax diversification, you know."
"Ah, yes," Teitlebaum said. His eyes were polite and distant.
"And we heard about your oil-eating bacteria As I understand it, you've experimented with injecting the bacteria into the tanker's hold after the oil's been discharged. There's generally a couple of thousand tons of oil residue left behind that the pumps can't reach. The bugs gobble it all up and get rid of it."
"Yes," Teitlebaum said, smiling. "Our aim was to eliminate the pollution caused when tankers rinsed out their tanks. The beaches around here are sometimes filthy with oil."
"Yeah," Skytop said. "Fine. But there's a practical benefit for the ship owners, too. Scrubbing out the tanks is the most dangerous part of the procedure. Fuel tanks don't explode, but when they're empty, the leftover oil fills them with vapor. The nozzles of the high-pressure hoses build up static electricity. Most of the tankers that have blown up have exploded when they're being scrubbed." He shrugged his great shoulders. "We thought we'd better look into your bug. If it really works, it'll be a good way to protect our investment."
"It's still in the experimental stage, Mr. Skytop," the little biologist said. "But if you'll come with me, I'll tell you what I can."
He got up. Skytop followed him down the corridors of the institute. Researchers in white coats were hurrying down the passageways with folders or trays of little bottles. Many of them were remarkably pretty young women. Skytop turned to ogle them as the professor led him on.
Teitlebaum pushed a door open and they entered a long, well-lit laboratory. One wall was lined with workbenches covered with Petri dishes. Other tables bore glassware and tubing and gleaming stainless steel equipment. There were eight or nine people in green smocks working in the lab.
One of them looked up as they approached. He was a young man with a ferocious black beard and a wide, clear forehead.
"This is Dr. Rabinowitz, one of my collaborators," Teitlebaum said. "David, this is Mr. Skytop from the States. He wants to know about TAR-4."
Rabinowitz shook hands. "Nice jacket," he said.
"Thanks," Skytop said.
"That beadwork's a Cherokee design, isn't it?"
"That's right," Skytop said, raising his eyebrows.
"I thought so. I used to live in Oklahoma. What do you want to know?"
"This bug of yours. Where did it come from?"
"TAR-4? Well, we bred it from a genus of bacteria called arthrobacter, which can digest crude oil. They isolated a particularly fast-growing strain over at Tel Aviv University. We took it from there. We encouraged it to grow in a culture medium of oil mixed with salt water, phosphorous, and nitrogen compounds. We recultured the most promising colonies over and over again. Kept increasing the amount of oil in its diet. Here, take a look."
He handed Skytop a Petri dish covered with a black, tarry substance. A milky white patch was growing in the center.
"Looks like pure oil," Skytop said.
"It ain't chicken soup, baby."
"Why do you call it TAR-4?"
"Acronym for the initials of the researchers: Teitlebaum, Abrams, and Rabinowitz. The 4 stands for the fourth strain we've developed from the original seed bacteria."
"Is there a fifth strain?"
A guarded look passed between Teitlebaum and Rabinowitz. "Yes," Rabinowitz said.
Skytop let it pass for the moment. "Tell me," he said, "what would happen if your bug got loose? Isn't there a danger that it would run wild — gobble up all the oil in sight? That could be expensive."
Teitlebaum shook his head. "Not a chance, Mr. Skytop. TAR-4 is a nice, tame little bug. After it's gorged itself on the oil residues, it dies. There's nothing left except a couple of hundred tons of fish food. The fish clean it up. That's the beauty of it."
"Or the remains can be harvested for animal feed," Rabinowitz put in.
"But, say a few of the bugs stayed alive," Skytop persisted. "Wouldn't they multiply the next time the tanker took on cargo and eat up all the oil in sight? Maybe even get loose at the refinery when the tanker docks, or carry an infection back to the oil fields?"
Teitlebaum pursed his lips. "I appreciate your concern, Mr. Skytop. We're taking no chances. No chances at all. That's why we haven't released the bacteria for commercial use yet. We're trying to develop a mutated strain from TAR-4. A strain with a genetic defect. One that would do its work and be unable to reproduce after a predetermined number of generations."
"But there are problems," Rabinowitz said.
"Are you talking about the fifth strain? TAR-5?"
Again there was that guarded look. "We can't use TAR-5," Teitlebaum said. "It turned out to be too virulent."
"But it's very tempting," Rabinowitz said. "There's a weak place in its gene structure that we're hoping to be able to reach with a plasmid — a complete ring of DNA." When he saw Skytop's uncomprehending look, he added, "Sort of a gene transplant, if you dig me. But the work's going very slowly. We just don't have the manpower or the facilities."
"We considered letting some of the work be done under license," Teitlebaum said, "but we decided against it. Too dangerous. We're not going to turn TAR-5 loose on the world till we teach it some table manners."
"Tell me," Skytop said casually, "have you had any inquiries?"
"Yes," Teitlebaum said. "Biotikum UberGesellschaft was quite eager to get their hands on it. That's the big West German pharmaceutical combine. They were quite persistent up until a few months ago. We showed them all our research. But we didn't let them have any of the seed stock."
"Big company like that," Skytop said, "couldn't they duplicate your research?"
"To a degree. They could start with the original arthrobacter strain. But it would be a billion-to-one chance that they'd hit on a mutation similar to TAR-4 or TAR-5."
"So you're the only folks that have it?" Skytop said. "Keep it under lock and key, do you?"
Rabinowitz laughed. "For the time being. Would you like to see it?"
"That'd be kindly of you," Skytop said. "I'd hate to go all the way back to Oklahoma and tell them I didn't even get a look at it."
"Dr. Abrams is working with TAR-5," Rabinowitz said, getting up. "Come on, I'll take you. It's just down the hall."
Dr. Abrams turned out to be Dr. Davina Abrams, an astonishingly beautiful girl with dark hair, a quick smile, and a pert, upturned nose with a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge. "Of course you can have a peek," she told Skytop.
She took him to a locked cabinet. "This is the second time today," she said. "The man from BUG turned up again this morning."
"That's Biotikum UberGesellschaft?" Skytop said.
"Yes. I was surprised to meet him. He hasn't come around for months. But I filled him in on our progress since last time."
She opened the cabinet.
"That's it, huh?" Skytop said.
There were hundreds of stoppered test tubes in racks, each one of them neatly labeled. Dr. Abrams frowned. "Now, how did that happen?"
One of the racks had fallen over. A couple of test tubes were smashed. There was a dark smear of the oil-based culture medium on the steel shelf, dripping down to the shelf below.
"Hey, that's not serious, is it?" Skytop said.
She wrinkled her pretty nose. "No, I'll just clean it up and sterilize the shelf. It was just a couple of the intermediate TAR-5 cultures."
