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last wrinkle on the skintight suit, which fitted to perfection. "Remember to
breathe only through your nose and it will be like fresh breezes. Au revoir-et
bonne chance.
Before Beatrice could protest or her raised hand could touch her nose the
floor opened and she fell through into the water. She kept her mouth closed
and sank under its luminescent surface and found she could breathe as easily
as she had always done. The sensation was wonderful, or novel to say the
least. There was music, carried to her ears clearly by the conducting water,
white sand glinting below. She dived and turned and would have laughed aloud,
if she were able, her lovely red hair streaming behind her.
Ron swam up, handsome and tanned in a pair of white trunks to match her suit,
and smiled charmingly - then twisted under and tickled her foot. She turned,
smiling too, and darted away, but he followed and they did a breathless dance
of three dimensions through the crystal water, around and about, free,
unhampered, happy.
Deliciously tired, she floated, suspended, her eyes closed, and felt his arms
against her back and the entire strong length of his body against hers and his
lips on hers and hers answering . . . .
"No . . . she said aloud, and a great bubble arose from her mouth. Her
fingers tore at her nostrils and there was a sudden, brief pain as the devices
were pulled free and fell, twinkling down from her hand. "I would rather die
first," she said with the last of her air.
With a gurgling woosh the pool emptied and they sat on the damp sand below.
"Woman of will," Ron said, handing her an acre-sized white towel, "I do love
you. Now we shall dance, a gavotte; you will enjoy that. There is a string
quartet and we will wear the costume of the proper time, you gorgeous in high
white wig and low, wide decolletage . . . .
"No. I'm going home. She shivered and wrapped the towel tighter about her
body.
"Of course. Dancing would be too commonplace for you. Instead we will . . . .
"No. My clothes. I'm going. You cannot stop me.
He bowed, graceful as always, and gestured her toward a door that had opened
in the wall. "Dress yourself; I said violence was not for you. Violence is not
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your excuse.
"I h-have no excuse," she said through chattering teeth, and wondered why she
shivered since she was so warm.
The little maid was waiting and stripped her down and dried her while a
miraculous machine did her hair in seconds, though, in all truth, Beatrice was
not aware of this, or even aware of being unaware, as her thoughts darted and
spun like maddened butterflies. Only when the maid offered her a dress did she
order her thoughts, push it away, push aside the closets of awe-inspiring
garments, all her size, to find a simple black suit buried in the back. It had
a curve-hugging and breathless simplicity, but it was the best she could do.
Powdered, manicured, made up, she had no awareness of it or of the passing of
time until, born anew, she stood before him in a chaste and oak-paneled room.
"A last drink," he said, nodding at the Napoleon brandy on the table.
"I'm going," she shouted, because for some reason she wanted to stay. Hurling
herself past him she tore open the door on the far wall and slammed it behind
her. A stairway stretched up and down and she ran down it, flight after
flight, gasping for breath, until she could run no more. For a moment she
rested against the wall, then straightened and touched her hair, opened the
door and stepped through into the same room she had left high above.
"A last drink," he said, lifting the bottle.
Speechless this time, she ran, closed the door, climbed upwards, higher, until
her strength was gone and the stairs ended with a dusty fire door leading to
the roof. Opening it she threw herself through into the same room she had left
far below.
"A last drink," he said, decanting the golden drops, then glancing up to
notice how her eyes flew to the other doors around the room. "All doors, all
halls, all stairs, lead back here," he said, not unkindly. "You must have this
drink. Sit. Rest. Drink. A toast. Here's to love, my darling.
Exhausted, she held the glass in both hands, warming it with the heat of her
body, then drank. It was heavenly and his face was close beside hers and his
lips were whistling in her ear.
"Would you believe," the hushed sibilants sounded, "would you believe that
this brandy contains a drug that destroys your will to say no? Resistance is
useless, you are mine.
"No, no . . . her lips said, while her arms said yes, yes, and pulled her to
him. No, no, never, never, and darkness descended.
"Drugs, mind-destroying drugs," she said later, in the warm darkness, their
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