by Paul Kenyon
"It's mostly the ones with no skills who end up as laboratory subjects," Dr. Jolly said.
They entered a huge domed chamber, fifty feet across. The atmosphere was hushed. Rising from the floor was something that looked like a giant walnut, as big as a small house.
Penelope blinked.
It was a brain.
It Was made of some translucent material, with different areas in a variety of colors. Tiny lights, like Christmas bulbs, were blinking on and off deep within the enormous structure. Bright wiggly worms of neon moved through it as she watched.
"This is the result of our research," Dr. Jolly said passionately. "We've succeeded in mapping the human brain as no one has ever mapped it before. And we're adding more detail all the time."
"The detail comes from those poor bastards you experiment on?" Penelope asked.
"Of course." Dr. Jolly stepped over to a huge console studded with dials and switches. He seated himself before it like an organist.
His fingers flew over the keys. Lights stabbed through a crinkly mass deep within the monster brain. "This is the pleasure center." he said. "Stimulate it with a tiny current of electricity and the person experiences unbearable ecstasy."
He pressed more buttons. The lights shifted slightly. "But only one fiftieth of an inch from the pleasure centers are pain centers. Stimulate those and the person feels unbearable agony."
Mr. Sim shifted his ponderous weight from one foot to the other. "You can see why we've had to experiment on thousands of subjects. The exact location of these various centers has been a mystery up to now. Other researchers have discovered them more or less by accident, probing the brain with electrodes during brain operations. Very imprecise."
"We're learning more all the time," Dr. Jolly said. "Every possible emotion and sensation can be switched on, as it were, by finding the right spot. They're located in the thalamus and the hypothalamus, buried in the center of the brain, and the structures of the limbic system that surround them."
He moved his hands expertly over the console. Lights twinkled, streaks of neon lightning flashed in the transparent brain.
"Here's a spot that causes violent rage. Here's another that causes fear. This one causes sexual orgasm. This one will prompt a person to eat himself to death, unable to stop gorging himself. This one makes you drink water — drink to the point of insensibility. Pass a current through this one and you think you're smelling exquisite fragrance — or foul odors. Here's one for music. By stimulating this structure, we can give intense maternal feelings to a normal man — to the point where his nipples will secrete milk…"
Mr. Sim was fairly bouncing up and down. "Yes, yes! And by mixing them in various ways we can give people sensations that no one has ever experienced before!"
Dr. Jolly switched off the console. "Shall we show the Baroness some of our human subjects?"
"By all means, my dear Doctor."
They marched her down another corridor. They came to a vast noisy room that looked like a combination gymnasium and hospital ward. Naked men and women strained at complicated exercise machines. White-coated attendants wandered among people who were twitching and moaning on surgical cots.
It was like a scene out of hell.
Mr. Sim pointed to a naked Chinese pedaling a stationary bicycle. He resembled a human frog, with a normal torso, but enormous, muscled legs that were as big around at the thigh as a telephone pole. Wires from a transformer were connected to the man's shaved head.
"For every ten thousand revolutions he pedals," Mr. Sim said, "he's rewarded by one minute of electrical pleasure. He never stops. He has to be forcibly removed from the device once a day to rest and take nourishment."
A naked girl sat spread-legged on a mat, lifting a fifty-pound barbell up, down, up, down, up, down. She did it as fast as she could, over and over again. She had a small pretty face, nicely curved legs. But her torso was massive. It bulged with slabs of hard muscle. Even her breasts had turned into broad flat dinner plates that seemed to be afterthoughts of the enormous pectoral muscles. Her arms were like thighs.
"She gets a one-minute jolt of pleasure for every thousand lifts," Mr. Sim said. "She'd kill you if you tried to take that barbell away from her."
They approached an emaciated man on a cot. Wires went into his head. He had an expression of ethereal bliss on his face. His erect penis pointed like a finger at the ceiling. Glucose from a jar dribbled into his arm through a rubber tube.
"He's been experiencing continuous pleasure for twenty-one days now," Dr. Jolly explained. "We're about through with him. His body has reached the limit of endurance."
He pulled a switch, and the man's face and body went flabby, as if he'd been turned off. He struggled to a sitting position. He gasped like a fish out of water.
Dr. Jolly looked inquiringly at Mr. Sim. Mr. Sim nodded. Dr. Jolly rummaged in a surgical cabinet and brought out a long gleaming knife.
"Listen to me," he said to the emaciated man. "I want you to cut off your head. I will turn on the current. I will keep the switch on as long as you continue. But the moment you stop, I will turn the switch off. Do you understand?"
The man nodded vigorously. Dr. Jolly handed him the knife. He took it eagerly. Dr. Jolly turned on the switch. Instantly a look of happiness appeared on the man's face.
While Penelope watched in horror, the man began sawing away at his throat. He was smiling all the while. Blood spurted out and ran down his naked chest. He continued sawing, the smile still on his face. The blade went through his windpipe, but he kept on sawing weakly as long as he was able. A few seconds later he slumped over sideways, dead.
Penelope caught sight of Happy's face. A worse horror was there. Happy looked envious.
"Now do you believe me, Baroness?" Mr. Sim said. "I don't propose to turn you into an automaton, like that man. Not immediately, at any rate. Not as long as you can be useful. I think we'll begin by conditioning you to a five-minute jolt of pleasure once or twice a day. You'll be able to function in the outside world for us, like Happy here."
Penelope stared coolly at the fat man. "You don't really expect to get anywhere with your crazy scheme, do you? How do you imagine that the president of the United States, or the premier of China will submit to a brain operation?"
Mr. Sim looked amused. "We won't need electricity and wires. Our research is almost complete. The ecstasy drug is almost perfected now. We'll start with the middle-level people — cabinet aides, senate secretaries, White House staff. They're easy to reach. A waiter puts a few drops of a tasteless chemical into their dinner. Or the supermarket clerk doctors their breakfast cereal. They experience the ultimate pleasure a half-dozen times. Then, a phone call telling them what they have to do if they want it to continue."
"I see," Penelope said slowly. "The secretaries dose their bosses' coffee, the bosses reach their bosses, and so forth. Until you control enough important people. The President included."
"Yes. The heads of state in every country. England, France, Russia…"
Penelope studied Mr. Sim's bloated body with a professional eye. The windpipe was buried just about there… the carotid artery there… the vulnerable seventh vertebra there… The heart, liver, kidneys, were out. They were protected by too much fat.
But if she could reach one of the other spots with a kick — a kick delivered with all her skill and force — she could kill Mr. Sim. She could kill him before Happy could stop her, or before the guards could aim and shoot. She'd die herself, she knew. But not before she put an end to Mr. Sim and his mad ambitions. If she couldn't kill Mr. Sim, she might be able to kill Dr. Jolly. The scheme couldn't succeed without him.
But they were both out of reach of her deadly feet. She couldn't get to them, even at the end of her chain. Even if she succeeded in pulling Happy off his feet, the chance would be gone.
As if they were reading her mind, Mr. Sim and Dr. Jolly took a step or two away from her. Happy began marching her toward the door.
; "We'll start immediately, Baroness," Mr. Sim said. "The first step is to map your brain."
* * *
"She's been gone for three days now," Wharton said. "No word, no signal. Nothing. Something's wrong. Something's very wrong."
Sumo, neat and unwrinkled in his linen suit, continued to insert a series of tiny vials into a plastic device the size and shape of a pocket Bible. "Eric or myself has been staying within signal distance of that villa twenty-four hours a day," he said. "If the Baroness had sent any sort of message, we would have received it."
Skytop pounded his fist on the hotel night table. The lamp on it jumped. "Maybe she's in trouble. Or maybe she isn't there."
Wharton said, "I've been studying the layout of the villa. Damned tough to get in there. Armed guards, dogs, watch stations."
"You can get into any place," Skytop snorted. "There aren't any exceptions."
"That's true, Chief. But if we don't know what we're looking for, we could do more harm than good. Get her killed before we could get to her, maybe."
Inga spoke up. "We don't know what she's been up to. Maybe she's on to something. We might spoil it for her."
Paul stretched lazily. "Dan's right, chillen. First step is to figure out what we're gettin' into. Yvette's working on getting the original architectural drawings for the villa. They're on file with the Victoria architectural commission. At least we can get some idea of the interior layout."
"Not later modifications," Wharton said.
"No, but at least we'll know something."
"What other leads do we have?"
"That phony policeman, Pickering."
Skytop said, "Maybe I should start following him again. I won't lose the bastard this time. Could be he'll lead us right to the Baroness."
Fiona had been seated at the vanity, brushing her long red hair. She hadn't appeared to be listening. Now she said, "What good will that do, Chief darling? He moves around a lot. He might visit a place where the Baroness was locked up and you'd never know it. Mr. Sim's villa, for example."
Sumo snapped the last vial into place and stood up. "Okay," he said, "this should do the job."
They all looked at him. "What is it?" Wharton said.
"It analyzes odors," Sumo said. "Each of the vials reacts chemically to a particular molecule. As few as eight molecules of the right kind will trigger a chemical reaction in the right vial."
"Sort of a chemical bloodhound?" Paul said.
"Right. I've put together a chemical profile of the Baroness's individual scent — sweat, breath, perfume, and so forth. Everybody has a distinctive scent, even if it's too faint to smell it. But a dog'll smell it — and pick out one person from a million others." He paused. "You know, just one human footprint has two hundred and fifty billion molecules of butyric acid in it from the perspiration that seeps through your shoe. This just has to detect eight of them."
"What's that got to do with Pickering?" Skytop said.
"If Pickering's been within twenty feet of the Baroness in the last twelve hours, some of the molecules of her scent will still be clinging to him. All I have to do is get close to him."
He picked a Nikon camera off the tabletop and opened it. It was a dummy, hollow inside. He put the scenting device into the Nikon and snapped it shut. He hung the camera around his neck. In his linen suit, with his straw hat and the camera, he looked like a million Japanese tourists.
"I'll hang around the police station till he comes out," Sumo grinned. "Then I can bump into him and say, 'So sorry.' "
* * *
The police HQ building where Pickering had his office was a modern stone-faced structure indistinguishable from any other government building. There was a lot of traffic in and out — people with forms to get filled out, citizens making inquiries. Sumo decided on a frontal approach.
He approached the inquiry desk inside the entrance. It was manned by a uniformed Britisher with a ruddy, reassuring face.
"I'd like to see Major Pickering, please," Sumo said.
"Certainly, sir, if you'll just tell me the reason for your visit."
"I'm making an inquiry on behalf of my employer. Major Pickering is acquainted with her. The Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini. I'm Tom Sumo."
The policeman spoke into an intercom, his voice muffled. He turned to Sumo again and said, "Go right up, Mr. Sumo. The number is Four-B."
Sumo took the elevator up. He marveled at Pickering's cool assurance, the nerve that had let him present false credentials and actually get an office at police HQ. Somebody must be covering for him in London, he decided.
Four-B had a frosted glass door. Sumo knocked.
"Come in," Pickering's voice said.
He pushed the door open. Pickering was sitting at a desk in his shirt sleeves. "Good of you to come, Mr. Sumo," he said. "You've saved me a lot of trouble."
Two officers stepped from behind the door and grabbed him gently but firmly by both elbows. "Arrest him," Pickering said.
"I don't understand," Sumo said.
"I think you do, Mr. Sumo. I'm going to put you out of circulation for a while. You and the rest of the Baroness's little group. I don't want you interfering with my activities during the next few days."
Sumo considered struggling, but decided against it. It would only make matters worse.
"The property clerk will take care of that camera," Pickering said.
Sumo watched helplessly as they took it from him. Another policeman entered the room — a sergeant.
"Ah, Sergeant," Pickering said. "Mr. Sumo has saved us the trouble of collecting him. Would you take a contingent to the Peninsula Hotel and round up the rest of them. Make sure you have enough men and sign out some firearms. These people are to be considered resourceful — and dangerous."
Sumo said, "Where's the Baroness?"
Pickering laughed. "You know that as well as I do, Mr. Sumo. She's with Mr. Sim."
14
She was in a rose garden. The roses were as big as cabbages and the color of trumpet calls. Penelope wondered about that. Trumpet calls weren't a color, were they? Now there were violins playing. They sounded… orange. There was a soft warm humming all over her body. Everything was mixed up. But it felt so good that she wanted it never to stop.
She was happy.
The happiness grew more intense. The violins tasted like honey now. She could taste the roses, too. She was tasting them with her body instead of her tongue.
But her body had changed. It was a vast flat ocean, stretching for miles and miles. She could feel the warm currents, the surface ripples. A school of bright little fish swam through her. They tickled.
It was getting better, swelling to an incredible joy. Then the ocean that was her body started to recede. "No, no!" she cried.
Gradually she realized where she was. She was in the domed chamber with the giant transparent brain. Colored lights were twinkling all through it. The lights seemed to have something to do with her. Every time she tried to move, or drew a breath, ripples of flashing color went through the brain.
She was naked, lying flat on her back on a foam pad. Her arms and legs were strapped down. At the edges of her vision she could see that there was a sort of metal bowl over her head.
"Very good, Baroness," Dr. Jolly's voice said behind her. "We've made a good deal of progress the last half-hour, mapping your visual, olfactory, and tactile centers."
She tried to turn her head, but it was held rigidly in clamps. She could feel her hair; they hadn't shaved it off yet.
She remembered now. They'd been doing this to her for days. Sometimes she was aware of it, but sometimes the sensory impressions were so intense that reality disappeared.
Footsteps approached. A bony hand fondled one of her breasts, squeezing till it hurt. Dr. Jolly liked to sneak a feel whenever he was alone with her in the room. She suspected that was as far as he ever got with a woman.
"You needn't worry, my dear," he said. "We haven't opened your skull yet. This is just an induc
tion mechanism so far. The effect is rather imprecise and blurry, but it's gradually telling us enough about your brain before we do the preliminary surgical exploration. Imagine the sensations you'll feel then."
His hand was feeling her other breast now. Abruptly it jerked away. She saw the big round bank-vault door swing open, and Mr. Sim waddled in.
"How is our subject doing this afternoon, Dr. Jolly?" he said.
"Fine, fine," the doctor said with false heartiness. "We're feeding it all into the computer. The Baroness is an extraordinary woman. She has a fantastic capacity to feel sensory impressions. Superb nervous system."
Mr. Sim was wrapped in a black-and-red polka dot dressing gown with a black fez on his head. He resembled a giant ladybug. He removed a blimplike cigar from his lips and said, "You're a fine-tuned instrument, Baroness. It's a pleasure to play upon you. Dr. Jolly, what's next?"
"Sex," the doctor said. His lips were wet.
Penelope strained at the straps. "If you're going to rape me, why don't you do it the old-fashioned way," she said. "Or is that beyond you?"
Dr. Jolly flushed.
"You should find this interesting, Baroness," Mr. Sim said. "You know, the human embryo is both male and female. The genitals ultimately develop as either male or female, but the original circuits remain in the brain. We're going to electrically stimulate the sexual structures in your thalamus now."
There was a humming sound. The cage around her head rotated slightly. Deep in the giant brain in the center of the chamber, bright wiggly lines of colored light began to writhe.
There was a tingling sensation in her groin and breasts. She could see her nipples grown full and erect. Flashes of heat seemed to be traveling the length of her vagina.
"You perverted bastards!" she shouted. Mr. Sim chuckled.
The chamber seemed to grow dim and far away. She was only dimly aware of it, as the electrically induced sensations began to overload her senses. She had the impression that Mr. Sim was growing transparent. Lights flashed and there was a brief illusion that she was smelling lemons.
