by E. O. Costello
A Tale of mad science in six movements, with coda
Movement 1 - Misterioso
Rusty
Haller via: http://www.aceandqueenie.com
Spontoon Island
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Upload 7 December 2008
Art added 19 January 2009 - Art added 3 February 2009
Rusty
Haller via: http://www.aceandqueenie.com
| “Sinnessteuersymphonie”
A tale of mad science in six movements, with coda © E.O. Costello, 2008 *****
MOVEMENT FIRST: Misterioso I had never seen a storm come so fast, so hard…and so black before. I’ve got more than a few thousand hours logged as a pilot, but nothing I had ever experienced could have prepared me for what hit my plane. And judging from the lightning strikes, “what hit my plane” is the right phrase. I had thought: even if I managed to somehow make it through the storm, I had no idea where I was. For all I knew, I had been blown hundreds of miles off course, far from the nearest speck of land that had any water or food. I was nearly blinded by a brilliant flash, which was followed by a brief interval of silence, which meant that I had no power. I had no idea if a controlled crash was possible, but at least the effort had to be made. I knew, when I hit the water with a bone-jarring smash, followed by the rapid influx of water into the plane, that I had failed, and that I was going to die. Which is why, when I woke up in a rather ornate bed, I was completely confused. Checking over my fur, I could feel some small bandages, and a twinge in my ankle when I tried to move it. Which was probably the proof I needed that I was not, in fact, dead.  My unknown benefactor or benefactors had taken care to dress me in a negligee, which I suppose was appropriate, since my luggage was…well, heaven knows where. A rather nice negligee, if I was any judge. It was certainly about two or three grades above what I could afford on my salary. As for the room, this certainly was no flophouse. There was a Turkish carpet on the wood floor, mahogany and brass on the walls, and the window that was letting some milky grey light into the room (through tasteful silk curtains) revealed a rather lush garden. My first thought was appropriate for a femmefur of my age and (precarious and dangerous) employment status: I wonder if he’s married? Getting up proved to be a little less hazardous than I thought; perhaps I had been out for some time. Looking around, I found that the clothes closets and drawers (cedar-lined) were empty, but the bathroom well-stocked. Careful examination revealed a small porcelain bell-push labeled “slave.” Some fur’s idea of odd humour, I suppose. I pushed the button. A minute or so later, I got a violent shock. The door opened, revealing a large bull. His sole item of clothing was a large collar around his neck, and a small brass tag with a number stamped on it. He shuffled into the room, and stood quietly at attention, looking at the floor and not at me. There was silence for a good bit, as I wasn’t quite sure what I was supposed to say, or how I was supposed to act. I decided to take things coolly. It didn’t work. “I…could you, I mean, where can I…the bathroom. I sort of need…well, a bath…and I don’t have any clothes…and…well, who’s your boss, because I really want to…” I was making zero sense, and what’s more, I was hunched over like one of those statues you see in museums, covering myself. I could feel that my whole face was hot, and my ears were burning. After what seemed like an eternity, the bull looked up, gave a brief and solemn nod, and shuffled off to the bathroom. In a few moments, I heard the taps running. He was obviously on the ball far more than I was. He also didn’t seem to notice that I was standing in the light, and my negligee wasn’t that opaque. Well, there’s training for you. He shuffled out of the bathroom after the water was turned off, and bowed to me. I walked in and tested the water. The heating plant was as elaborate as the decoration scheme – the bathwater was nice and warm. I recognized the brand of fur soap as one that was pretty expensive. The assorted fur brushes laid out for me were silver-and-ivory backed. The bather was puzzled and curious. And a little scared of touching anything. You break it, you bought it. So I really didn’t get to enjoy things much (though my ankle got better, and I found I didn’t need the bandages). I did hear some fur in the room moving around, so I stayed put until they were gone. I peeked out (dripping wet), and saw that the bed had been made (that was fast!) and stuff had been laid out for me to wear. Whoever picked out my clothes had a rather prim taste. I’m a lot more used to flying suits and khaki things, which sometimes made the laundry bag, and sometimes didn’t. What I saw laid out on the bed was something that I might have worn to visit a stern and cranky old aunt. And none of the boots I normally wear, just a pair of slingbacks. As I was finishing up, there was a knock on the door, and the bull shuffled in again, solemnly holding a silver salver. There was a small envelope on it, as well as a menu. The message was simple. “Miss Hunter – I will ask both your indulgence and your forgiveness of my manners in not greeting you in furson. I have been occupied in the last stages of a research matter today, which cannot possibly be left to conclude on its own. The kitchen will provide you with brunch from the menu, though if there is something you would like that is not on the menu, give Number Four written instructions, and he will convey them. I hope to have the pleasure of meeting you in furson, soon. I am Your obedient servant, L.D. Forrester” Well, this was somefur familiar with his Emily Post. Heavy notepaper, fountain-pen ink (green). The notepaper was embossed at the top with the simple word: “Research.” Number Four, that was the bull, offered the salver again with the other item on it. The menu had a number of appealing things, but I limited myself to a plate of kippers, toast, and a pot of tea with cream. I found it curious that nearly everything on the menu was designed to whet the appetite of a feline like me. The menu, by the way, was on heavy cardstock, with the name “Forrester Research” embossed up top (along with a pair of scales), and today’s date, August 19, 1937, embossed in the lower right corner. I finished dressing and looked in the mirror. Damnit. Stockings were a little crooked in the back-seam. I could never get those to be straight, which is the reason I almost never wear them. That, and I keep getting runs in them. Hopefully, no fur would notice. And it took me three tries to get the ruffles on the shirt to line up like they were supposed to. Another polite knock, and Number Four shuffled into the room with a tray. A small side-table was set with linen, china and silver, and brunch was served. The tea was piping hot, the bread was fresh (and had not been allowed to get cold, like in a lot of hotels that use toast racks), and the kippers were spicy. Whoever Mr. Forrester was, he would get at least a star from the Guide Michelin. I ate while enjoying the scenery. And yes, that did include Number Four, who didn’t appear to take notice that he was being carefully observed. After the tray was cleared, Number Four returned with another note: “If it is convenient for you, can you please allow Number Four to escort you to the Day Room at one in the afternoon? I would be pleased to make your acquaintance then. LDF” Well, my social calendar was a little light that morning, so I indicated to Number Four that I would do so. After a delay, but without a change in expression (or posture), he shuffled off to do my bidding. *****
The mansion (I suppose that is the best way to describe it) had one sensation that I couldn’t put a finger on at first, but after standing still near the window for about half an hour, it came to me. It was very quiet, outside of something that I couldn’t put a claw on right away. I could hear occasional click of claws or hooves in the halls, but aside from that, it could well have been a hospital for all the noise, or lack of it. One thing that struck me was that the room, unlike practically every room I’ve seen in the Pacific, had no ceiling fan, yet the temperature was rather pleasant. And on a mid-August day, too. My window looked out on a garden, a very well-planned one. There were flagstone paths that meandered among circular beds of flowers, and I could see a cast-iron bench that surrounded the base of some kind of massive tree like a clamshell. There were three furs in the garden that I could see, a smallish goat mel, an equally smallish canine mel, and an older ram that was supervising them both. I wasn’t in any particular doubt as to their status, since the only thing that each of them was wearing was a collar, rather like Number Four’s. It made for some pretty interesting scenery. The garden was enclosed by a high stone wall. I was just high enough, from my vantage point, to see that the top of the wall had nothing on it, except for an unusual decorative pattern. Well, that certainly beat shards of broken glass. The vegetation beyond the wall was dark green, dense, and unmoving, even though some of the flowers in the garden stirred in a breeze. I did not know where my watch was, though I imagined it had probably either been shattered in the crash, or ruined in the water. There was an inset panel in the wall that glowed with a soft pulse, and I could make out that the top half of the pulse was growing smaller, and the bottom half larger. My host had a taste for the abstract that would have made him popular in many cosmopolitan places, though I wondered about his guests. Or his staff, if this theme was carried on throughout the mansion. There was a small metronome on the desk next to the window. For the lack of anything else to do, and to get a little cheerful noise, I started it up. Yep. Only takes a few seconds for my tail to start moving in time. Same thing used to happen as a kitten, when I had piano lessons. It was then that I heard the first really sustained noise since I woke up. It seemed to come from deep within the house, and spread a deep, basso profundo rumble everywhere. It sounded, in a way, like a fur striking notes at random on a huge theatre organ. More abstract art? Perhaps not. The furs in the garden seemed to understand; the noise must have carried outside the house. They stopped work, gathered their tools neatly, and proceeded indoors, somewhere. I tried to get a sense from where the sun was whether it was noon or close to it, but there seemed to be both a haze and a poor angle that prevented me from doing so. And yet, there was sufficient light in the room. Odd. There was a heavy tread outside the door, followed by a gentle knock. “Come in.” I’d like to say I said that crisply, but that would be a lie. It came out in a high squeak. So much for panache, hanh? It was Number Four, again. He held the door open, and stood still. And when I mean still, he hardly even blinked, which was pretty amazing. “Oh!” Damnit, forgotten it. “Is it one o’clock…er, Number Four?” The bull did not answer, but remained at attention. I figured he wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t time for my appointment with my host, so I walked to the door. Number Four slowly turned around, and began to trudge through the hallways. His pace was slow enough that I could get a pretty good look at some of the rooms. Yay for museum-class rubbernecking. I was in what appeared to be a guest wing, as we first passed a few rooms that were similar to mine. At the end of the hallway, we reached the top of a long, curving staircase with marble steps overlaid with a long runner. I could well imagine any kitten worth his or her salt sliding down the invitingly large and slick mahogany banister. Hell, I would have done it, except it would have done for my stockings. I wondered, though, when was the last time there was a kitten, or indeed any small fur, that was in the house. Didn’t have that sense. At the foot of the stairs, once we reached it, there was a large reception area. Directly in front of me, I could see a dining room through a massive pair of French doors. To my right, there was a massive door, which I took to be the front door. To my left, the marble floor continued on. It took a little bit of hustle on my part to catch up with Number Four, who did not seem to notice that I was dawdling. And looking slack-jawed up at the skylights, which let in light all over the hallway. Yeah, real sophisticated. Good thing I didn’t have a camera. There was a slight twang of chlorine as we passed by a large room with a huge pool, done in Roman fashion. A little beyond that, on the opposite side of the hall, was a large library. A very slender Irish setter femme was polishing a large wooden table. Her uniform was different. She was wearing gloves. She took no notice of us as she leaned over the table, buffing an already gleaming table with careful, practiced motions. Ahead of that, once again on the opposite side, was another large room. This one had a few neatly racked musical instruments within sight. I could see a series of slender (and highly polished) brass pipes descending into the floor, which seemed fairly odd for a music room. At the end of the corridor, there was a pair of massive wooden doors that reached to the ceiling. Number Four shambled to a stop, stooped, and reached for a small ivory bell-push. I could hear a faint, rhythmic chime sound, followed by the clicking of the door. Number Four grasped one of the brass handles on the door, and pulled it open. Like the rest of the house, the door was noiseless. I walked through the door, but didn’t get far beyond it. I was dazzled. The walls of the room were made of glass, as was the ceiling. The view from the room of the sea was heart-stopping. This, principally, because the floor was made of glass as well, and we were projected out over a cliff. I was struggling to comprehend this as I looked down, when a voice broke in on my thoughts. “The panels are reversible, Miss Hunter, that is how we clean them.” Which was, in fact, the question that was on my mind. I looked up to find my host striding across the room. “Welcome to Forrester Research, Miss Hunter.”  My host was a whitetail buck. He was dressed in a lab coat that was cut in a way that sort of looked like a hunting jacket, an effect that was emphasized by the cavalry breeches he wore. Everything on him was just so, down to the gleam on the buckle of his Sam Browne belt, and the knot on his tie. The one oddity was that he was wearing a pair of glasses, or rather goggles, with red lenses that wrapped around part of his head. “Oh! I….well…how do you do, Doctor Forrester.” The buck smiled, and bowed. “You are in error, Miss Hunter, though I am deeply flattered by it. I am merely an amateur, engaged in my studies.” “I am sorry I have caused you much trouble, Mr. Forrester. Your note said that you were engaged in an experiment…?” “Which concluded to my satisfaction, thank you for asking. And pray do not mention it. It is my pleasure to be your host.” “How did you know my name?” “Ah! Perceptive. We were able to recover a few small items from the wreck of your craft. I have had Beta bring them here to the Day Room. Beta?” “Master.” This voice came from behind me. I turned around, rather quickly. Beta, as it turned out, was a brown-furred, lepine femme, and there wasn’t any particular question about that. She was wearing something that was like a toga, at least in the way it was wrapped, though the material was very fine and thin. She was a good, stiff breeze away from ending up like the rest of her colleagues. She wore something around her neck, as well: a crimson ribbon from which hung a large, red crystal, engraved with a Greek letter in gold. It went rather well with her hair, which was long, red and flowed down past her shoulders. The only thing out of place was the look she was giving me, and it was not a particularly friendly one. She held out a silver tray in both paws, upon which was a purse. Which, interestingly, matched my outfit. “You will find, Miss Hunter, that we were able to retrieve your log-book and your identification. They were near you when you were found. I regret that the rest of your possessions were swept out to sea in the storm.” I looked at my papers. If you looked closely, you could see a little water damage around the edges, but other than that, they were legible and largely intact. Nothing missing. “I am a collector of manuscripts, Miss Hunter. Document preservation and restoration is thus something quite familiar to me.” “I…well, I’m n-not sure what to say, Mr. Forrester. You…well, you’ve been to an awful lot of trouble, and…oh, I’ve said that, well, I…” Forrester waved a paw dismissively. “A refreshing departure from routine, nothing more. I crave stimulus.” Judging from the way Beta was dressed, I could believe that. “Um. Have you reported the crash, Mr. Forrester?” “Hmmm? Oh, we have no telegraph here, Miss Hunter. And communications with the nearby islands are…erratic. Rest assured, however, that I will take steps appropriate to the situation.” “Thank you.” “Pray think nothing of it.” There was a slightly awkward silence, which I broke with some conversation. “I liked the brunch very much, it was delicious. The chef…well, if you have a chef…of course you must…well… will you give them my thanks?” Forrester bowed. “I will tell Twenty-Seven personally. It pleases me to know that he is up to standard.” There was another small, awkward silence. I shifted my eyes slightly right, and met Beta’s eyes. She was trying, it seemed, to look right through me. Like with a death-ray or something. To the left and behind me, there was a hesitant click of claws. Forrester looked over my shoulder, and scowled. “Omega! Come here!” At first, I thought this was a genuine pet, a non-anthrop, but then I realized what I was seeing was a wolfess crawling on her paws like one. She was wearing a heavy collar, much heavier than the one worn by Number Four, who was bigger. And that, for her, was it. “Omega! COME!” The wolfess slunk forward, her tail between her legs. I shifted my eyes right again, and I could see that Beta had turned her eye-beams on the canine. It’s amazing how much loathing you can express while remaining poker-faced. The wolfess stopped, and leaned down near Forrester’s hooves. He stamped them with irritation. “Never mind that! Who told you to enter the Day Room?! Who gave you leave to do so?!” Omega gave a plaintive whimper. “Do not turn this place into a house of lies!” Another, higher-pitched whimper. “Enough! Beta. Take care of Omega.” “Master.” Beta carried out this order on the double. In two strides, she had Omega by the collar, and was dragging her rapidly across the glass floor. The doors, which had been open, closed behind them, and a few seconds later, there was a high-pitched pair of yelps that cut off suddenly. “My apologies, Miss Hunter. What was I going to…ah, yes. Dinner will be at eight, this evening. I trust you can attend?” I blinked for a moment. The question was pretty strange. I mean, it wasn’t as if I could see a Horn & Hardart down the street. “But I’d be putting you out, I…” Forrester resumed his good humour. “No, certainly not. Far from it. I will have Number Four escort you to the fitting room.” “Wait, what…fitting room?” “Why, yes. Number Eleven and his assistants are working on some things for you, both for tonight, and for the party tomorrow night.” Now I really blinked. “Party?” Lovely impression I was making. Only thing that would make it worse is if I were a blonde. Forrester seemed to ignore the fact that even if I wasn’t a blonde, I was acting like one. “But naturally. There is an invitation in your room. You may respondez s’il vous plait at dinner. But Number Eleven does need to refine a few things to ensure a proper fit. He made that outfit for you that you are presently wearing.” I looked down. The outfit, with tailoring, would have run me at least nine months’ salary, if I could have even gotten through the doors of a place that did such work, and if I had recognized quality material. My stuff usually came from Bullock’s, and on sale at that. “Forgive the liberty. While you were being treated, we took measurements.” I wasn’t quite sure how to take that bit of news, but it did explain why my negligee fit so well. “Oh, well…that’s quite all right.” “Splendid, splendid. I will have Thirty-Six bring you a selection from the library, as well. Or perhaps you would like to visit it?” “Was that the room I saw on the way here?” “What an observant young lady you are. Yes. I will tell her that you are permitted to browse. Will there be anything else?” “No…no, Mr. Forrester, thank you.” “Splendid. Cocktails are at seven-thirty in the library. I shall see you then.” He walked over to a small glass table, and pressed a button. The doors clicked open, and Number Four stood in the hallway. I suppose with his weight, he might have gone through the glass floor. “Escort Miss Hunter to Number Eleven. I shall give Number Eleven instructions, myself.” Forrester bowed to me. I bowed back, thanked him, and followed Number Four through the hallways. Forrester himself strode at a rapid pace, and entered the music room. We were nearly at the stairs when a staccato series of notes could be heard echoing throughout the house. There was no tune to them, but there was a certain pattern that I could detect. But that was about all I could get out of it. ***** Number Four led me at his usual (or so it seemed to me) lugubrious pace. This part of the mansion was rather more functional, with the floors made of linoleum and the walls of a cheaper wood. For all that, it was completely spotless. Antiseptic, even. I was led into a small room. Well, it seemed small, because there must have been dozens of bolts of all kinds of fabric, from the thickest woolen to bolts of silk fabric that you could have passed through a wedding ring. The bolts were on shelves stacked to the ceiling, with ladders on wheels circling the room. Furs of various species were climbing up and down the ladders, and feeding material to a bank of yet more furs working sewing machines. A beaver, wearing only a collar with a brass tag reading “11,” marched stiffly toward me. With a motion like a toy puppet, he pointed at a circular pedestal raised a little off the floor, surrounded on three sides by full-length mirrors. I was pondering what was going to happen next, when what happened next, happened. Five sets of paws reached out, and in a twinkling my jacket was off, my skirt was down around my ankles, and my blouse was open and sliding off. Well, if that was the way it was going to be, I thought, they were going to have to pay quite a price, and I bared my claws. Which was easy to do, as my blouse was carried away, along with my jacket. A smallish mouse stood by with an armful of silk swatches, and the beaver began holding them up against me, one by one. He took no notice of the fact that my tailfur was bottled, or my claws extended. In fact, it seemed I was the only fur in the room who did notice this. Which made it less embarrassing for me to step out of my skirt (which was efficiently carried away), and patiently stand up straight while the beaver checked my colouration. Which was red in quite a few spots. For the next hour or so, I was repeatedly dressed up and stripped down again as different clothes were tried on. Skirts of varying (but tasteful) length, some light cotton blouses, some khaki work-clothes (I wanted to keep those on, but in light of the fact that I was wearing the high heels and stockings from my original outfit, I suppose that would have been silly), and what looked like some rough drafts of evening clothes. The beaver with a small piece of chalk made a number of mysterious markings on each item, and then had his assistants whisk them off me. During a break in the action, I sat down on a chair and looked in the mirrors. I saw a feline, American, in her late 20s, smokey grey fur, nice jet-black head-fur (authentic, thank you very much), and considering at the moment I was in a pair of high heels, black stockings, garter belt and lingerie…well, look, so I’m not Hollywood-class. I’m still a damned good-looking femmefur, and I think any mel (let alone any feline mel) who saw me like this would certainly smile and give me the once-over. Maybe even the twice-over. Some of the assistants were lined up, awaiting orders, staring straight at me. Okeh, boys. Here’s something to stare at. I swished my tail, batted my eyes, and made a few completely unnecessary adjustments to my stocking tops, smoothing out the stockings after that was done. They didn’t move a muscle. Any muscle. It was as if I wasn’t there. I didn’t quite know whether to be creeped out, or bottle-tailfur mad. I kicked the chair aside, and stood up on the platform, pouting. Not that anyfur noticed. What’s the use of having a wardrobe that would have run me a high five figures if it wasn’t going to get a reaction? I wanted to wear the khakis again, and pointed at them repeatedly. Number Eleven kept holding up a skirt-suit and blouse, and eventually I gave up and put them on. It was pretty obvious I wasn’t calling the tune here. I was not in a cheery frame of mind as Number Four began escorting me back up to Marble-and-Mahogany Country again. I didn’t like this Little China Doll garbage one bit, and I wasn’t in any mood for smooth talk from any fur, no matter how good the chat. The bull seemed to be leading me to the library, and if some fur was going to foist Little Women or some old numbers of St. Nicholas on me, there was going to be hell to pay. The librarian turned out to be a mephit femme. And, wouldn’t you know it, she had librarian glasses on. Which was all – ah, hell, you know the drill by now. She gave me a little bow, and indicated a small side-table near a chair. I was about three feet from starting to throw books when I saw what was laid out on the table. Popular Mechanics. Jane’s All the World’s Aircraft. Granted, the other item was a spare-parts catalog from some outfit in San Francisco, but it showed the right spirit. The magazine was even comparatively new, only two months old, and I hadn’t seen it. My blood pressure lowered, especially after the skunkie left a tray of tea and cookies next to me. She wasn’t one of THOSE types of closed-stack dictators, I guess. An hour and a half later, fortified by my afternoon snack, and thinking of the cost of my next plane, when and if the insurance company paid off, I got up to stretch a bit. I strolled over to the bookcases to have a look-see at what Forrester read. It sure as hell wasn’t Snappy Stories, Thrilling Detective, or even the Spontoon Mirror. Some of the books were big enough to have their own telephone exchange, I bet. The big leather-bound ones had titles like “Proceedings of the American Institute of Pathological Psychology,” “Jahrbuch fur Psychoanalytik,” and something that looked pretty promising until I took it down and flipped through a few pages. “The Study of Blood-Stains.” Well, whoever F.J. Stagg was, he sure as hell wasn’t going to get rich from his writing. It needed a grabbing illustration on the cover. Or a femmefur getting grabbed. A few other book-cases had older books. The New-Gate Calendar. Jonathan Wild and His Crimes. Stuff that was in Russian, German and Italian. A whole lot of stuff in French, and I could see some book-marks inserted in those. Well, all work and no play makes Jack a dull buck, and I could see Forrester did, in fact, relax. With a good murder mystery. There was a bookcase from floor to ceiling, about twenty feet up, that I swear must have had every murder mystery put out in the last fifteen years. I’d have borrowed one or two, except I noticed these books were flagged, too, with various colour-coded slips. I checked one book. Nope, wasn’t the type to write whodunit on the first page. He was the type, though, to write lots of comments in the margins. I wondered if this was relaxation or more of the same. He certainly seemed to have a nose for crime. The other super-tall bookcase held a lot of sheet music. No swing stuff. All Opus this, and Opus that. Sure, I could read it, but it had been a pretty long time since my last recital. Probably could play some of this stuff, given a bit of warm-up. Like, say, a week. There was a metronome in here, and it was ticking away happily. There’s a reason my blood pressure was down. The skunkie returned, with a few slim paper-bound books in her paw. P.G. Wodechuck. A little light-hearted country house reading. I thanked the mephitess. She blinked slowly, and then bowed. Slightly faster on the uptake that ol’ Number Four. I rang the slave bell (running gag?) on the main table. While I waited for my escort, I had a look at a newspaper that was on the table. Well, I’m not sure it was a newspaper. It was four pages, printed on very glossy paper stock, and had a few photos where the register seemed to be off, like they had printed a colour image three times. The text was in some sort of type font I didn’t recognize, either. Puzzle paper? Maybe, but that did look like Forrester on one of the pages. Probably a crossword maven. Number Four led me back to my room in the guest wing. Sure enough, on the desk was a sealed envelope, stuck with a heavy red seal on the back (a set of scales). Contents: “The pleasure of your company is requested for a dinner to be held at Forrester Research at eight o’clock in the evening on August 20, 1937. Formal attire, to the extent consistent with mechanical impediments or supervening orders, is required. Please respondez s’il vous plait by letter, messenger or telepathic service by August 19, 1937. L.D. Forrester and Beta” I’m not sure what the hell telepathic service meant – probably some kind of typo or weird in-joke – but I was raised by my Mom to write letters. Somefur had filled the stationery rack, and there was even pen and ink (expensive gold-tipped Parker) provided. “Mr. Forrester: I have received your invitation to dinner on the night of the 20th, and I would be pleased to come. Sincerely yours, Alatheia Hunter” All right, L.D. Forrester and Beta, two (three?) can play the High Society Game. Having sent Number Four to rumble along and deliver the letter to his master, I then proceeded to try to figure out that stupid clock-like thing in the wall. Doing the old “One Mississippi” thing (which was damned stupid, since I had the metronome handy, and I’d forgotten that) showed that the pulses were one second apart, and by marking off the panel on a sheet of paper, and watching for about ten minutes, I could make a By Guess and By God calculation as to what the time was, based on the arrangement of light. Abstract version of a sand-timer, is all. Time for a few chapters of light-hearted English writing, and then maybe a bath. Both of which were under my control. *****
The house was still very quiet, though after a while, I did detect something I hadn’t noticed before, a very faint noise that was repeated in a cycle. It actually was quite pleasant – I found that my heartbeat, and not just my tail, synced up to it in no time. I was also reading a bit faster, too. Occasionally, this background music would be overridden by the rumbling of the organ. Some of the opening notes were the same, others different. I recognized the same opening that Forrester had played as I was going down to the tailor’s workshop. I’d read for about an hour (I was getting better at reading that whacky panel) when there was a soft tapping at the door. Now, I could have gotten up, but luxury is a bit infectious, so I stayed on the bed. “Come on in.” I was tempted to add “I command it,” but I held off. Joking only goes so far. Number Four was outside, hefting a number of draped hangars. He lumbered in, followed by a pair of Irish setters, one of whom I’m sure was the one I saw earlier. They padded softly in, carrying a large trunk between them, on top of which rested an (empty) leather overnight bag. The furs who whine over their teacups that “it’s so hard to get good help nowadays” would drop their multiple chins at what I saw. Drawers, armoires and shoe-trees were opened or extended, and quick as a blink, I saw dresses, shirts, stockings, high-heels and under-things being put away. Even little hanging sachets were installed. It would have taken me hours to do the same, and I’d have gotten everything in a mess. There wasn’t a wrinkle to be seen. Number Four, and the Numbers Thirty-Five A and Thirty-Five B, after their performance (and that’s what it was, and bravura, too), lined up next to the door. This time, I got up, and bowed to each of them. I went over to the stationery rack, and dashed off a quick note of praise to Forrester, and handed it to Number Four. “I am very pleased by your work. I have written your master to tell him so. You are dismissed.” I have no idea where those words came from. They just popped out. The servants, if they were surprised, didn’t show it. Number Four bowed back (he was getting faster on the uptake with me), and took the envelope. The twin canines gave a curtsey, swished their tails, and padded off, followed by the bull. I admired the view as the duo walked down the hall. I’ve been told about a place on Casino Island where femmefurs of That Type hang their hat (and other things), and what I saw would have pleased them. Actually, that did strike me. Those were very healthy furs. In fact, all of the slaves I’d seen were fit and healthy. Well, there was Omega. But even she only looked a little underfed, and the way she slunk around didn’t help much for her looks. I went back, and looked through the closets and drawers, trying not to wrinkle and muss things up. No question about it: this stuff would have cost eyes out of the head, even if I knew where I could get it. There was a lot there, too. I wondered about the laundry, or even if a laundry was needed, with all that material present downstairs. Even if there wasn’t one, Forrester had set me up for a few weeks, without even the need to wear anything twice. Was I going to get off the island later, rather than sooner? *****
A short while later, I rang the “slave” bell again. The setter lasses returned, and gave me the curtsey thing again. One of them handed me a note. “Miss Hunter – Your note afforded me great pleasure. I have taken the liberty of assigning you Thirty-Five A and Thirty-Five B as your personal maids for your stay, in light of your praise of their skill. They will be staying in the connecting room, so they will be close to paw. They have been given instructions…” Yeah, that would be right. I’d heard them, not long after they left, probably when the note was delivered. “…in how to attend to your needs. They are trained in fur and claw care, and know how to look after your clothes. If you need your headfur done, please advise Number Four, and suitable arrangements will be made. Your obedient servant, LDF.” Not one, but two personal maids. If only my mother could see me now. She said being a plane jockey would never get me anywhere. “Thirty-Five A, lay out the white silk dress with the long sleeves and…those shoes right there. I’ll also need the usual stockings and undergarments. Thirty-Five B, draw my bath for me, and also look after my paw and toe claws while I’m in the tub.” There was a brief pause, and both of the canines gave me a curtsey. Hee! Take that, Mom! It was a good, long, delicious soak in a hot bath. The luxury of having my claws done made it even better. And Thirty-Five B did a very good job of it, too. You’d never have thought that a week before, those nails had been caked with gummed-up engine oil, and scratched up from being used as screwdrivers and tweezers. Getting rubbed down with extra-thick towels, and then having my fur brushed to a gleam was the topper, and purr-inducing. Well, if I was only going to be here for a few days, might as well get my money’s worth, so to speak. Some flowers had arrived while I was in the bath, and Thirty-Five A was finishing up the arrangement of them in silver bowls. Orchids of different colours, and of a size and fragrance that would make Nero Wuff seethe with jealousy. My (!) maid had set aside one of them, a pure white specimen, and had tied it with watered ribbon as a corsage. Boy, was I going to HATE having to get up at o-dark-thirty and dress myself by flashlight, a few weeks from now. Getting strapped in, strapped up, strapped down, and zipped in by two pairs of practiced paws? A girl can get used to that. A bit worrying, that thought, but I put it out of mind. Live for the moment. Thirty-Five B wheeled in a full-length mirror, and I gave myself a leisurely once-over. I wish I’d looked like this on prom night, I’d have had more fun. The only comparison was that I was just as nervous now as I was then. A glance at the panel showed it was just a few minutes short of cocktail time. I checked my head-fur one last time, and walked at a measured pace to the grand staircase. *****
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