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From: Vivian Darkbloom <vdkblm-OBLITERATE-SPAM!@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Jasmin (part IV) {Mg(Fg) scifi oral anal ws in-progress}
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Date: Sun,  5 Sep 2004 17:10:01 -0400
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  If you have been following this series, please note that
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  ~~Vivian

  --------------------------------------------------------




                             Jasmin (part IV)

                          by Vivian Darkbloom

   We were sufficiently within range of Syrene to resume the use of
   propulsion. The cloaking field was effective for preventing
   visual or radar detection of an inert hull, but the intense
   infra-red wavelengths of thruster propulsion were too much for
   the algorithm -- as currently designed -- to handle.

   But it would have to be a pretty cheeky Inquisition ship to risk
   the consequences, both physical and political, of trespassing the
   boundaries of the Syrene starsystem territory. Those who had, had
   swiftly discovered the determination with which the deceptively
   gentle Syrene authorities would seize their ships and cargo upon
   a the slightest hint of Inquisition activities, and there were
   inquisitioners still serving harsh sentences in Syrenian jails.

   The sentences were quite just, given the threats the
   inquisitioners had levied on local citizenry, and no amount of
   petitioning or threats by the Inquisition itself had been
   sufficient to release them. Not that Syrene culture was
   repressive -- quite the reverse. They simply had no tolerance for
   repression imposed by other entities, social, political, or
   religious.

   I figured I'd visit an old pal of mine from college days, my
   friend Xavier Garcia who (last I heard) lived here in a
   spacestation with his fianc�Rosa. I looked him up and, sure
   enough, he was listed right there in the central directory, so I
   gave him a buzz.

   He answered after three rings, and his face popped up on the
   screen, a few more grey hairs, a tad bit more dimpled with age
   than the last time I'd seen him, but looking well enough.

   He burst into a grin when he saw me. "Xithnous, what in the
   galaxy are you doing way the hell out here? It's good to see
   you!"

   "Us X- named people gotta stick together."

   "Well, I wasn't exactly expecting you. Now this is bizarre, I
   have a trigonometric fix on your location, but I can't get a
   visual lock on your ship."

   "Oh right. Here..." I waved away the holo-projected screens my
   PDA had splashed across the air, and brought up the control panel
   for the cloaking application that had been running in the
   background. I twirled my fingers in the air to shut it down.

   A look of astonishment crossed his face as he watched the ship
   appear on screen beside him. "OK dude. Two questions. First, how
   did you come up with a cloaking algorithm and when are you going
   to upload it over to here so I can use it. And Second,..."

   "Actually, that was two questions already."

   He looked suitably annoyed. "OK, wise-guy. See, this is why I
   never have conversations with a mathematician. You know I never
   learned how to count."

   "Dude, did you even graduate?"

   "Look," he protested. "All those rumors about someone hacking
   into the school computer to up my grades so I could graduate...
   all lies. Complete fabrication."

   "Hm. Which would sound plausible to anybody who didn't happen to
   be the person who hacked into the computer to change your grades
   for you."

   "Whoa. Dude, was that you? Boy, that was some rasta-weed we just
   got in here. Steenky kind buds with little red hairs, you know
   the real tight kind. And just a hint of pine in the aroma.
   Mm-mm-good. Speakin' of which, you gotta come by and have a few
   bongloads."

   I laughed. "I think I'll pass on the bongloads, but I'd be glad
   to come by and borrow your dock while I take a ferry to the
   surface."

   "Quicker to just take the elevator, but whatever. Mi casa es
   tuyo, amigo, you're welcome to borrow the space dock anytime.
   Which brings me to my second question..."

   "Third question."

   "Whatever, where in the galaxy did you get that ship?"

   "Oh, just kind of floating around in space," I said.

   "It's mine, actually," piped in Jasmin, who had appeared behind
   me.

   His eyes widened even wider still. "OK, and who are you?"

   "Jasmin McCloud," she said simply.

   Xavier looked off into space thoughtfully. "Name rings a bell,"
   he said. "Isn't there some park somewhere by that name? Anyway,
   charmed and delighted to meet you. So when are you coming by to
   visit?"

   "Would right now be OK? We're trying to get to the surface to
   find a shuttle to replace the one that went missing from the bay
   of this ship."

   "Sounds like I need to hear this story in person. So drop on by,
   here are the orbital parameters." (he dropped them into the
   hypertext transfer channel, from which they popped up underneath
   the screen displaying his picture) "Whoo boy, a Sabre parked
   outside my place. Are the neighbors going to be jealous or what?
   Now is that a DX or one of the MX series?"

   "DX-42. Top of the line," I boasted.

   He gave a low whistle. "Well, we'll see you shortly."

   "And Xavier,"

   "Yah?"

   "Please don't go around telling a bunch of people we're here. I'd
   like to keep it sort of low-profile."

   "You got it buddy. Mum's the world."

   The screen blinked off, and I sighed.

   Jasmin encircled my shoulders with her arms and gave me a little
   kiss on the cheek.

   "Interesting friend," she said.

   "Suppose he could say the same thing about me." I looked up at
   her, swiveling around so she was in front of me, and she sat on
   my lap facing me. "I suppose I could say the same about you," I
   replied.

   Today she wore what looked like a school uniform, all in white
   with a knee-length pleated dress, neatly creased all around. And
   white knee-socks with black-strap schoolgirl shoes..

   "I'm glad you're my friend," she said.

   "Me too."

   "Glad that you're your own friend?"

   "No, I mean I'm glad you're my friend, you little brat. You knew
   what I meant."

   "So did you really break into the school's computer?"

   "Hey look. It was a long time ago, and all I changed was just one
   `D' he had gotten from a teacher just on account of personality
   conflict, and we all agreed he didn't deserve it. He would have
   graduated anyway. I never should have done it. It was the wrong
   thing to do, but it's too late to go back and change it."

   She blinked at me with waifish anime-wide eyes. "Not even for
   me?"

   "It just wouldn't be right, sweetie."

   She gave a lustful grunt and shifted on my lap. "I love it when
   you talk about doing the right thing, right and wrong, and stuff
   like that."

   "Ethics?"

   "Yeah. I love it when you talk ethics. It makes me all hot."
   Panting softly, she lifted her neatly-creased schoolgirl dress to
   reveal the spot of moisture in the center of her scrunched-up
   panties.

   Before I knew it, she had ripped open the front of my jeans and
   was slobbering all over my rising member.

   I gasped for air, glancing quickly at the comsystem console to be
   sure all outside communications were switched off. Then I gently
   and lovingly cupped her head in my palms as delicately and
   passionately her skillful tongue sent my mind spinning into
   whirls of ecstasy.

   We fucked on the carpeted floor, right there in the bridge. She
   didn't bother taking off any of her clothes, only her panties
   that flew across the room as she looped them over her black dress
   shoes and flung them.

   Her face was flush with passion as she spread her legs up high,
   ankles behind her ears, and I delicately kissed her crimson lips
   as I rammed myself hard into her slimy wet orifice, which was
   invisible beneath the crisply ironed impeccably pressed skirt.
   Again and again I dove into her, eliciting moan after moan of
   blissful excitation.

   Nearly dressed as we were, it was almost like we were just having
   a casual conversation. I could have been the classroom teacher,
   me and the schoolgirl just having a tiny chat, with a special
   little hidden interaction going on under the table, a delightful
   secret that only the two of us shared.

   Her orgasms grew and climaxed, tantalizing and coaxing until
   finally the anticipated release built up steam, and as I drew up
   for the ultimate thrust, she ferociously devoured my lips with
   smacks of loving passion, and nestled so cozily in the intimate
   caverns of her delicate young body, I found my sweet surrender to
   convulsions of careening, satisfying squirting of my slime into
   her slippery chambers.
     ____________________________________________________________

   We decided it would be best to wash the dress, so we tossed it
   into the laundry unit, which correctly identified the nature of
   the substance(s) that had stained it, along with an illuminated
   menu of possible remedies. For a delightful hour or so, she
   pranced about the ship in nothing but her frilly little panties.
   Plus, of course, the knee-high white socks and black schoolgirl
   shoes.

   As we approached Syrene, the comsystem beeped with the an
   autoloaded document it had received, that contained the hundreds
   of pages of pertinent regulations for spacegoing vessels along
   with a five page summary. It required a signature, which I gave,
   and we proceeded on our course to space-station beta, where
   Xavier lived. Ah, bureaucracy.

   All in all, I'd say it was a pretty smooth border crossing. Some
   of these places they want to board your ship and search the whole
   thing with bio-scanners before you can even establish a sensible
   orbit, but Syrene was know for being cool and collected, and
   promoting an atmosphere of trust. So far it had served them well.

   The spacestation was enormous, one of a dozen or so orbiting the
   planet, home to about a hundred families and individuals who
   resided there for various reasons. Some worked in the shipping
   channels of the interplanetary or intergalactic space, so shaving
   off the extra part of the commute from the planet surface added a
   few hours to one's day.

   Others, like my friend Xavier, simply preferred life in a
   lower-gravity environment, plus all the excitement and culture
   the station drew to it. Indeed, there were some theatrical and
   musical shows that never toured outside the station circuit,
   often taking advantage if the lower gravity for special effects,
   and the space-station show had become a veritable institution and
   subculture of its own with groupies and regulars and
   professionals who devoted their lives to it.

   I wish I could describe the shape of the station better. I'll do
   the best I can: From the distance, it looked sort of like a
   glittering metal, gigantically large, spiked ball. Imagine the
   skyline of an ordinary planet-bound city, with skyscrapers and
   different designs of buildings and such, only that the structures
   all radiated out three-dimensionally from a central point. Then
   you begin to picture what we saw in the viewscreen as we
   approached.

   A key difference between a planet-bound skyscraper and a
   zero-gravity one, is that people are inclined to extend the
   latter in bizarre Escheresque directions, sending a branch at 90
   degrees in an "L" shape, or a T shape, or an X shape (though the
   letters in the Sorlolian alphabet are shaped in ways which lend
   themselves particularly well to architecture, and are often
   applied for such a purpose).

   Given that the orientation can be shifted simply by altering the
   projected gravitational field, the ceiling of one space might be
   the wall of another, two adjacent rooms might be gravitated in
   the exact inverse, one upside-down of the other. In fact, there
   were some who specialized in deliberately replicating the bizarre
   spatial effects of M.C. Escher's engravings.

   As we got closer, we began to grasp the enormity and complexity
   of it, and details of the windows, and people inside the windows,
   and ships twittering about all around, flashing beacon lights,
   the occasional person in a space-suit wandering about. The
   spacestation never sleeps, as they say.

   We entered the coordinates Xavier had given us into the station's
   guidance system, and it proffered a convenient conveyance beam,
   asking us to please shut off all onboard propulsion (which we
   did) so that it could guide us safely and efficiently to our
   destination.

   On all sides, ships buzzed by, huge multi-storied windowed
   buildings loomed ahead of us only to vanish around behind, inside
   the windows we could see a boy watching television here, a
   lesbian couple preparing a salad there, a woman at a computer
   over there, glowing curtains closed on a lot of them to
   concealing the mundane or secret sexual activities going on
   behind.

   Eventually we turned down a deserted orangish-tan alleyway, with
   square bay door, and a glassene kitchen-window above it, with
   white curtains decorated with light-blue trim. The bay door had
   slowly flashing white lights all around it. It was was marked in
   large industrial black letters with a multidigit number (now
   forgotten), above which was a fancy colorful artistically
   handpainted sign, three-dimensional confetti letters done all up
   in garish colors reading "Xavier and Rosa's place."

   As we approached, the bay doors opened diagonally in front of us,
   and lights came on inside to reveal a typical space-garage,
   populated by a funky old two-seated cruiser, plus a ridiculous
   hodge-podge of the sort of junk that accumulates in such places,
   a worn out oil-splattered pump from here, a rust-covered spare
   thruster manifold set from there (just needs a little fixing up!)
   and huge piles of stuff filled with objects whose original
   purpose in life I could only begin to guess, and whose main
   usefulness at this point was to participate in a series of
   bizarre ever-shifting set of sculptures, consisting of odds and
   ends cherished by an eccentric junk collector.

   Xavier's grinning face flashed up on one of the smaller console
   screens. "That old honker of a ship won't fit in my tiny little
   bay, so we'll just anchor it there and I'll send out one of the
   pods. The pod's a bit small, so I hope you all don't mind getting
   a little cozy for a bit." He gave a kind of kinky laugh.

   The anchor cables snaked out from the walls, puzzled for a moment
   over the ancient protocols from several hundred years ago, until
   the Sabre and the spacestation docking system reached a tentative
   accord, and we could hear the faint metallic echoes through the
   hull as the anchors attached and then pulled tight to secured the
   ship in place.

   I'll spare you the details of my conversation with Xavier. Rosa
   was smart. She greeted us, smiling, then promptly left to go off
   and do something worthwhile. Within a few minutes, Jasmin began
   fidgeting, yawning, and drumming her fingers, and she eagerly
   followed my suggestion to locate Rosa and see if she couldn't
   find something they could do together.

   Being men, Xavier and I of course did not discuss anything of
   genuine emotional import. The closest we got was a brief
   investigation of the relative merits of various female body
   parts, but that awkward topic soon passed and we got onto safe,
   manly matters, such as the current political situation with the
   Inquisition, and the status of various advances in the current
   technology.

   The conversation was regularly punctuated with the sound of him
   taking bong hits, and though I did not indulge, the musky
   second-hand smoke made my head swim a little. At regular
   intervals, a topic of discussion would trigger some memory of an
   event we had both witnessed or mischief we had both participated
   in, which would yield minutes lost in reminiscences and fond
   retelling of the old myths.

   He was curious about my cloaking algorithm, so I let him download
   it and we chattered about installing it in his cruiser, but of
   course didn't get around to actually doing it. We discussed the
   best way to find a shuttle craft with which to populate the bay
   of the Sabre, and he knew somebody that was selling one, but it
   needed a new infra-ray transformer.

   I talked half-heartedly of needing a new ship for myself, and he
   offered similarly useful information. I thought (but did not
   share with him) that perhaps it was time to seek a quiet,
   planet-bound lifestyle for awhile, to settle down and relinquish
   all the excitement of space-travel.

   We then spent a significant amount of time speculating about what
   would be the best transport route (within the spacestation) to
   get to the surface-to-orbit elevator, and arrived at a perfect
   solution. Unfortunately, it turned out to be completely
   fallacious when Rosa returned (with Jasmin) and, pulling out a
   nearby drawer, produced an actual map and schedule of the
   transport shuttles. After glancing at it for a few seconds, she
   underlined with her thumb the optimal route to our destination,
   the elevator that would land on the planet's surface adjacent to
   the H.G. Wells Spaceport.

   "Why are you heading way the hell out there?" demanded Xavier.
   "They only just built it, so there's nothin' there really. Other
   than rolling green hills and a bunch of farms and orchards."

   "Call it a hunch," I replied, trading glances with Jasmin.

   Rosa gazed lovingly at Jasmin, with wisdom and kindness. "I do
   wish you the best and most gracious speed in finding your mother
   and father."

   "Thanks," she whispered back, shyly.

   "It must be a terrible feeling to experience such a loss, but I
   know they loved you very much."

   Jasmin had a tear in the corner of her eye.

   Rosa took Jasmin into her arms as she wept silently.

   Now it was Xavier's turn to fidget, yawn, and drum his fingers.

   "If they loved me, then why didn't they come looking for me?"
   Jasmin demanded quietly.

   "I'm sure they did," said Rosa. "The thing about space is, there
   is a lot of it. It's impossible to search everywhere, dear. It
   simply can't be done."
     ____________________________________________________________

   The descent in the space elevator is a spectacular experience.
   First there is the elevator itself, resembling in decor a giant
   version of the art-nouveau glass-windowed elevators in one of
   those fancy hotels with enormous interior courtyards.

   The obvious design would have been for an anchor point in
   geostationary orbit. Unfortunately, given a planet such as Syrene
   with approximately the same mass as the Earth, this would have
   called for about 35,000 kilometres of cabling.

   Fortunately, by strategically altering the gravitational
   spacetime characteristics by proper application of the G-field,
   and incorporating a series of mathematical manipulations of
   complexity beyond the scope of the current document, the
   engineers of today have achieved the ability to maintain
   stationary orbits at a much closer radius. On Syrene, the
   spacestation and the anchor-point of the elevators hangs out at
   about 330 km from the surface.

   Intimate awareness of the construction of the cables would be a
   bit disconcerting to the average tourist, given that the main
   weight-bearing portion is only a millimetre or so in diameter,
   consisting of specially fabricated microlinked steel particles
   manufactured using a relatively new technique.

   The cable is surrounded, however, in opaque black
   ultra-strengthened plastic, several centimetres thick. This is
   for a couple of reasons. One is simply the visually reassuring
   effect to the rider. The other is that the tiny support cable,
   possessing such an unexpected strength given its near
   invisibility, would act like a razor-edged blade to any object
   coming close to it. Any ship that attempted to plough through it
   would be sheared in two, and for that reason the whole length of
   it was decorated with glittering lights and radio beacons to warn
   all who approached of the danger.

   Once you step in, it is like a cross between being in the quietly
   hushed, richly carpeted hotel room, and gazing out the window of
   a ski-resort gondola, only much higher up.

   My twinge of financial anxiety began to surface as we stood at
   the door, waiting to board the elevator. The gentleman in a blue
   conductor's uniform and glasses and a salt-and-pepper moustache
   was checking peoples' identification as they boarded. "Syrene ID
   card? Thank you. ID please? Thank you."

   We were in the front of the line. "Syrene ID?"

   "Um, we're travelers, not residents."

   "That will be three drotchklings. And the young miss? Are you
   under twelve?"

   "Yes," I answered for her.

   "No charge, then."

   She gave me a dirty look. "That's not quite being honest," she
   said. "If you go by my birthday, I'm 212."

   The conductor looked at her curiously. "And you don't look a day
   over 211."

   "I was in cryo-stasis," she explained.

   "Ah. Well in that case, you qualify for our senior discount,
   meaning that, there is no charge."

   I set down my luggage, and reached into my pocket to dig out the
   three drotchklings to pay him, then followed her to a seat by the
   window.

   "What was that all about?" I asked, as we wheeled our luggage on
   board and found a couple of adjacent cushioned velvet seats.

   "It isn't right to lie," she insisted.

   "Well it's not entirely a lie. It's more a question of meaning."

   "Right."

   "No, seriously. If you look at the intention, the spirit of the
   law, which is to provide assistance to those less able to afford
   the fare, then you're justified in accepting the waiver of fees
   which, you'll note, the conductor agreed with to." Her pelvis
   squirmed. She leaned over and whispered in my ear: "I love it
   when you talk ethics," then leaned back smiling.

   That gave me a tingle in the right place.

   "Besides, dear, I have to be careful with spending. I only have a
   thousand or so drotchklings in my bank account."

   Her smile faded. I don't think she had ever needed to worry about
   money.

   The elevator door closed, and we began our descent.
     ____________________________________________________________

   Once I had the privilege of taking a flight in an refurbished
   antique 20th century aircraft, a Boeing 747 I believe it was. I
   have no idea how people could stand being cooped up in one of
   these primitive things for hours on end. Amazing what human
   beings can adapt to.

   For some odd reason, the descent to Syrene reminded me of that
   flight's landing, by way of stark contrast. First, compared with
   the terrible racket of the airplane flight, there was the silence
   of the elevator. The elevator had quietly sumptuous music
   playing, one of the glorious 22nd-century symphonie-electronique,
   I couldn't identify the composer. The perfect backdrop, at once
   mysterious, sublime, powerful, and humorous.

   Then, the view. Who could believe those ancient airliners only
   had tiny little windows to peek out of? Compared with being
   surrounded with clear glassene, which auto-adjusted its tinting
   to compensate for the harmful UV rays of the outer atmosphere. A
   full 360-degree view, just like being in the gondola of an even
   older hot-air balloon, only much higher up in the air.

   How can I describe the refreshing mist of the atmosphere as the
   late-morning sun refracted and reflected through clear,
   microscopic particles. The aura of life surrounding the planet,
   clinging to it, rising like subtle vapor.

   Then there is the simple drama of proximity, the simplicity of
   concealment and emergence, not from behind or through anything,
   but with the straightforward act of being closer or farther away.

   The spacestation that had seemed so huge receded above us until
   it was the size of a head, then a hand, then the tip of a finger,
   then a speck of grey barely visible. And meanwhile, the contours
   of the planet below us revealed the plenitude of its details as
   we drew closer. Embracing us, reaching out to us, offering us
   life as we returned from the emptiness of the void to the
   surroundedness of glittering enormous turquoise-aquamarine oceans
   looking like living, moving cake frosting, of mountains looking
   like gingerbread dusted with powdered sugar, of green forests
   frozen in boiling dances across rolling hills, dotted with
   shining mirror lakes of different shapes and sizes like writing
   in a foreign language.

   Scratchings in the dust became roads, dots became squares became
   the roofs of houses, grains of sand became boulders became
   mountains, and magically we arrived with a swirl of chatter and
   smiles of awe and wonder.

   Gently the elevator set down, the doors slid open with a
   pneumatic `hiss,' and we whisked out of the compartment with the
   rush of the crowd, wheeling our suitcases down the aisle of the
   terminus (following the holo-signs that guided us) onboard the
   monorail car.

   Here, there was no dispensation for the under-12 (or over 65),
   but a flat 4-drotchkling fee for each of us. I noticed that
   residents seemed to be able to ride for free, simply by
   presenting their identification card for visual examination.

   The railway cars were clean and modern. Soon, we found ourselves
   staring out at the lush green landscape gliding effortlessly by,
   on the way to the H.G. Wells airport.

   I asked a lady sitting by us the story on riding for free, and
   she cheerfully explained how on Syrene, all citizens are
   guaranteed housing, sustenance, transportation and medical care,
   but can earn extra buying credits by taking on work -- but only
   in a field which they enjoy. There was a strict battery of
   psychological tests to ensure that people would only work at jobs
   that gave them satisfaction and a sense of fulfillment and
   self-worth.

   It sounded unrealistically utopian to me, but in the course of my
   skeptical questioning I started to understand how it had
   resoundingly succeeded for several centuries.

   "You should become a citizen," she said. "What is your
   profession, if I may ask?"

   "Oh, I'm a mathematician," I said.

   Jasmin surprised me by whispering under her breath: "He's truly
   amazing."

   The lady smiled. "You would have no trouble at all finding things
   to do. You'll find that around here, people who make a positive
   difference are generously rewarded."

   She stood up, as her stop was coming up. "You seem like nice
   people," she said. "I hope you think about it!"

   By the time we got to our stop, the H.G. Wells Spaceport, there
   was nobody else on board the train.

   When the door opened, I almost didn't want to get off. We were
   greeted by warm tropical air, and the rambunctious chatter of
   insects and amphibians invisible in the trees and foliage that
   surrounded us. Carting her luggage behind her, she plunged ahead
   of me, and vacantly on autopilot, I followed.

   The train departed in a mechanistic `whoosh,' without pausing to
   ask if this were really where we wanted to be, or did we wish to
   reconsider? No, the dutifully streamlined iron horse had
   schedules to keep, and better places to be.

   I looked around the platform. Not much variety, just trees and
   shrubs, with all sizes of leaves ranging from enormous to tiny
   needles, exotic flowers in several different colors and shades,
   pink, purple, yellow, and orange, and a combination of black and
   red that with a sort of marble stripe through it. There must have
   been a dozen birds (or some similar animal) within earshot, and
   the sound of each individual call was astoundingly rich and
   complex, to say nothing of the astonishing effect of hearing them
   all together in different parts of the space everywhere around
   us.

   The only sign of civilization was a dirt road that led away from
   the platform, so wordlessly, we followed it, each of us with
   suitcase wheels bumping along the rocks and pits in the dust.
   Making me wish I had sprung a few extra drotchklings for the
   model with smooth-ride G-field antigravity support.

   I began to wonder if we could just catch the next train back, to
   wonder if we had even correctly heard the words on the videotaped
   message her mother had left, that had flown by so swiftly. Had we
   even gone back and listened again to make sure of what she had
   said? I don't think we had, but I couldn't distinctly remember in
   this heat, as I loosened my outer shirt and finally took it off
   and tied the sleeves around my waist.

   After awhile on the dusty road, we came to an fork leading off
   into two directions, with a sign indicating the direction of each
   fork. The sign was handpainted, neatly, and (I noted with a small
   measure of relief) did not seem to contain spelling errors.

   The arrow to the right said "H.G.Wells Spaceport 15 km" and to
   the left: "Old New Oldtown 1 km."

   As we stopped to consider, I put in my vote by pointing to the
   left. "Maybe we can find some sort of vehicle to take us to the
   spaceport."

   She looked up with a glint of defiance.

   "Sweetheart, I'm not about to walk 15 kilometres in this heat.
   Don't be ridiculous."

   She shrugged, but gave in, and we proceeded down the twisting and
   winding road to the left. It got better a little ways up, with
   something actually resembling pavement, and therefore a smoother
   surface for the suitcase wheels to roll upon.

   In a little ways, we began to see signs of human incursion on the
   landscape, in the form of surprisingly modern-looking buildings
   neatly arranged on either side of the road, that seemed totally
   out of place in the middle of such unkempt wilderness.

   We walked up to the first one, which seemed to be a general
   store, and pushing through the pressure-sealed tinted glass door,
   found ourselves in a refreshingly air-cooled shop, populated by a
   lone attendant, a girl maybe 15 years old with neatly combed hair
   in a ponytail, dressed in athletic-style clothing, intently lost
   in a dramatic TV show playing on a moderately sized screen above
   her.

   We looked around a bit, and Jasmin wandered impulsively over to
   the display of candy bars and jellybeans, right in front of the
   cooler full of soda pop.

   I approached cleared my throat several times before attaining an
   audience, but finally the girl looked up and said "Yes, hello.
   May I help you?"

   "I was wondering, is there a motel nearby?"

   "Uh, yeah. There's only one around here, and it's up the street
   on the left." I could sense her attention being magnetized back
   to the magical screen of drama above her, when a grinning Jasmin
   plunked down a pile of assorted candies and chocolates onto the
   counter.

   "Please?" she begged me.

   "What are you trying to do, love? Break the bank?" She looked so
   disappointed. "Look, five drotchklings worth. That's it. We're
   about to get lunch, anyway. Which reminds me," I turned back to
   the girl behind the counter, who was staring at the screen again,
   "Is there a restaurant nearby?"

   "One in the hotel," she said, eyes still glued to the screen,
   "and another one around the corner. Chinese, I think. It keeps
   changing"

   Jasmin was performing triage on the assortment of sweets, and
   finally, with reluctance, pushed a much-abridged edition of the
   selection towards the girl to ring up.

   As she was flashing all the items in front of the scanner, I
   asked Jasmin, "Now, would your mom and dad really have let you
   buy all that?"

   She gave a comically absurd "No."

   Sighing, I handed over the drotchklings, which soon disappeared
   into the cash-register, as the candy deftly disappeared into a
   carrying bag, save a transparent, radioactively luminescent
   orange bar, which she quickly tore open and began sucking on. I
   did not want to even begin to imagine what it tasted like.

   With the other hand, Jasmin started to pick up the orphaned
   sweets to reshelve, but the other girl said laughingly "Oh never
   mind. I'll put them back."

   We left the refreshingly cool air to plunge back out into the
   searing heat, down a few doors to another spiffy modern building,
   marked "Old New Oldtown Hotel." It towered three floors above us,
   and as we stepped through the pressurized door we once again
   found ourselves inside an aircooled room.

   This time, the person behind the desk was an older woman, hair
   full-headed grey. She sat on a stool, straight-backed, and hands
   spread across a book she was reading that lay on the wood-grained
   desk in front of her.

   She looked up curiously as we entered. "Room for two?" she asked.

   "Yes," I said.

   "Syrene ID?"

   "Um, no. We're just passing through."

   "Mmm. You do have ID, though?"

   "Sure," I fumbled with my things."

   "I have a double room for 50 drotchklings a night,"

   "Oh, we don't need two beds," said Jasmin, through the crackling
   wrapper of the sucker in her mouth.

   I looked at her with alarm. She looked back at me sheepishly,
   "Just trying to save money," she said.

   "How much is the single?" I asked.

   "35..."

   "He can sleep on the floor," Jasmin continued.

   "Beg pardon?" I said.

   "I can wheel in a roll-away for another 5 drotchklings," said the
   lady behind the desk.

   "No, it's OK. She likes to sleep on the floor."

   "Hey!" protested Jasmin.

   The lady took down a key and slid it across the counter as she
   completed the paperwork. "Just let me know if you need anything."
   She seemed to enjoy the relationship between Jasmin and me.

   As she accepted my money, she said "You should really consider
   becoming a citizen, you know. We need more free-thinking people
   around here."

   "Thanks. So, out of curiosity, is there anything to see in this
   town?"

   "Aside from the institute, there's a park beyond the plaza at the
   end of this street."

   "Thanks."
     ____________________________________________________________

   The relief of setting down and opening the suitcases inside our
   newly found abode, opening the curtains for a scenic view, from
   the third floor.

   "What next?" she asked.

   I shrugged. "A stroll in the park?"
     ____________________________________________________________



  -------------------------------------------------------


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