A Tickle in Time - Chapter 6 (f>f)

[Agent 498]

A Tickle in Time, Chapter VI (to Mr. M, with thanks)

THE FOLLOWING STORY IS INAPPROPRIATE FOR THOSE UNDER THE AGE OF 18. AT
LEAST, THAT'S WHAT IT SAYS HERE IN THE OFFICIAL PC HANDBOOK. IT ALSO SAYS
THAT THIS STORY IS SEXIST, RACIST, HOMOPHOBIC, AND OFFENSIVE TO PEOPLE OF
IRISH DESCENT.

Jessica was tied up. She'd asked Central to send her to the origin of
the vial she'd found in 44, and now she was tied in a chair and sitting in
the dark. "This job is starting to seem like one huge practical joke," she
thought. "At my expense." At least nobody was tickling her. Yet.
The room was lit by a single frosted glass panel in the door.
Backward letters on the glass spelled out MICROBIOLOGY LAB. Jess's body
was female, late thirties, in a blouse and skirt and white lab coat. She
could dimly see the shapes of lab counters, glass-fronted storage racks, a
cabinet full of microscopes, a bulky autoclave in the corner. And two
figures moving about in the darkness, hunched over and speaking in
whispers.

RUTGERS, 41 N, 75 W, 1968 AD

announced the CPS. Jess gave a hopeless tug at her bonds, and was
pleasantly surprised to feel something give near the small of her back.
Maybe this wouldn't degenerate into another ticklefest ... The shadowy
figures were approaching her, and Jess sat up straight, trying to look
appropriately helpless.
Light from the panel washed over the two people. The one in the lead
was a tall, slender black woman in her twenties, wearing a tight T-shirt
whose slogan had faded into unreadability and -- Jess stifled an
inappropriate giggle -- old bell-bottom jeans. Behind her lurked a
smaller, ferrety fellow in a sweater and corduroy pants. His features
seemed vaguely familiar ... another goddamn Lowry. The tickle-viruses he
carried must already have infected this body, which meant she'd be
super-vulnerable to any funny stuff ...
"Well, Dr. Mayfair," the woman announced with a sneer, "this is it.
Half an hour from now, this poison pit will be blown off the face of the
earth -- and you and your germs with it."
This sounded a lot more serious than tickling. Jess twisted in her
seat, feeling the bonds loosen even more.
"You better make your peace now," the woman said, "'cause in a minute
Fred's going to give you a shot to knock you out. And you're never gonna
wake up ... "
"But, Myra," whined Fred Lowry, "I don't wanna kill anyone -- "
"We talked this over!" Myra snapped, wheeling on him. "It's thanks to
her and people like her that the war in Vietnam is continuing. Our
instructions are clear -- "
The moment of distraction gave Jess her chance. She came up off the
chair, shedding ropes like a molting mummy. What happened next was brief
and fairly ugly. Afterward, Jess dusted off her hands, glancing down at
the
bodies on the floor, and went in search of their bomb. It was tucked under
one of the counters, a primitive affair involving dynamite and a $2.98
alarm clock. Strictly amateur night in Dixie. Jess could have disarmed it
with both hands full of Novocaine, and did so.
Safety temporarily assured, she considered her next move. Central
wouldn't have sent her here if there weren't something to learn. Should
she begin searching the cabinets? But what about those two idiots back
there? The black woman had started to say something about instructions.
Instructions from the mysterious bodyjumper who'd been plaguing her all
through this mission? It seemed rather too neat a coincidence that she'd
arrived here helpless and sitting practically atop a bomb. And there was
that Lowry ...
She went back to them and examined their still forms. Fred Lowry had
hit his head on a counter as he fell; though he was in no danger, he
wouldn't wake up for a good long time. Myra, however, was only stunned --
she'd waken soon. But what to do with her? Jess had seen the light of true
fanaticism in her eyes -- she definitely wouldn't cooperate. An
interrogation would take hours, and Jess had no stomach for torture.
Against her will, her gaze went back to Fred. The viruses that were
his genetic heritage had to have infected Myra as well. Which meant ...
"Oh, no, Allard," Jess said aloud to herself. "You've been on this mission
too long if you're thinking that."
"You got a better idea?" she responded. There was no answer.

By the time Myra revived, Jess had hauled her onto one of the black
slate lab counters. There was nothing sturdy enough to serve as an anchor,
so Jess had tied the woman's wrists to her ankles in a simple hogtie. She
hoped this wouldn't take long -- it looked uncomfortable.
"Oh ... " the black woman moaned, looking around dizzily, then
focused
on Jess. "What the hell? "
"Who sent you here?" Jess asked, stepping up to the counter.
Myra's gaze was flat and unfriendly. "The will of the people."
"Uh-huh. Name some."
"Wha -- eeeeek!" Myra squealed and bounced as Jess abruptly poked her
in the ribs. Her legs and arms worked as she became aware of the bonds.
"I know how ticklish you are, dear," Jess said, "so I advise you to
lay off the slogans and tell me what I want to know. Or else -- " She
burrowed her fingers into Myra's ribs again. Though Myra was more prepared
this time, she still squirmed wildly, her face contorting as her body
half-rose from the counter. Her struggles pulled the hem of her T-shirt
out
of the waistband of her jeans, revealing a contrasting crescent of
dark-brown tummy between the white shirt and faded jeans. To this, Jess's
other hand was drawn as if by magnets, and Myra flipped over on her side
at
the first touch, her teeth gleaming white in the dark room as a broad,
helpless grin spread over her face. The firm, flat belly beneath Jess's
hand was alive with swallowed laughter, and Myra's flailing feet kicked an
empty flask off the counter, smashing it on the floor. Jess ignored it.
"Ease up, Allard," she told herself. "You're supposed to be asking
questions, remember?" Reluctantly she let go of Myra. It was surprisingly
fun, being on the giving end for once. Could the Lowry virus also make its
victims enjoy tickling others?
Myra's eyes were tightly shut, and the sound of her breathing was
loud
in the quiet room. "Just like an Establishment type," she managed,
"treating me like I was a Vietcong soldier. You ain't getting nothing.
I'm
loyal to the revolution."
"Well, Myra," Jess said with mock politeness, "you're welcome to
hold
out all you want." She took hold of the other woman's ankles, pulling her
back onto her stomach. "And when you're done, you can answer my question.
Who are you working for?" Myra was wearing sandals -- of _course_ -- and
Jess inserted a teasing finger between one sandal's tough leather sole and
the pink, vulnerable sole below it. "Does this make you feel heroic?" she
inquired, stroking up and down. Myra's legs jolted so hard that Jess was
forced to climb halfway up onto the counter herself to hold her still, but
her finger never stopped its delicate exploration. "Or does it just, I
don't know, _tickle_?" Myra was beyond answering; she wiggled and twisted
and, when the rest of Jess's hand joined her finger to play over the sole,
she let out a frantic scream of laughter that quickly built into a
full-throated howling.
"eeeeeeeeEEEEEEEHAHAHAHAHAHA! NO! NO! MERCY! DOhohohohohohohhh --
don't!"
Whatever their value as a fashion statement, the sandals were
absolutely no protection against tickling. Jess had a field day with them,
scratching her nails all over Myra's soles, caressing the tops of her
feet,
driving her insane with dainty little touches between the toes. As the
piece de resistance, she pulled off the sandals one after the other and,
cradling Myra's feet in one arm, gave the soles a gentle scrubbing with a
test tube brush she'd seen hanging on the rack nearby. The feel of the
stiff bristles scraping over her already sensitized flesh produced the
most
astonishing sounds and contortions from Myra. And again, Jess was having
so
much fun that she all but forgot her concerns -- it was Myra herself who
reminded her:
"I can't tell youheeheeheehee! Please! You -- noooooohahahaha -- you
-- gotta believe me! You'd think I was crazy!"
Jess released the feet and turned the laughter-weakened Myra over.
Hopping onto the counter herself, Jess straddled the other woman's prone
form, casually yanking up her skirt. What did she care about modesty -- it
wasn't even her own body. Holding Myra in place with her knees, she
grinned
down into her face, which now gleamed like polished mahogany in the dim
light. "Well, so much for being a Vietcong soldier! And I'll tell you
this, honey: if you don't speak up, you _will_ be crazy when I'm through
with you." Deliberately, she took hold of the hem of Myra's shirt and
folded it up to expose all of the belly and ribs, then extended her arms
out in front of her, wiggling her fingers in the manner of a concert
pianist warming up.
"I really am a Communist," Myra said rapidly, unable to look away
from
Jess's slowly descending hands. "The KGB is paying me to wreck your
research." Jess's fingers curved into rib-grasping claws. "That's the
truth!" Jess's fingers came to rest on the target ribs, nails barely
denting the soft brown skin.
Jess shook her head. The ring of truth wasn't there -- the woman was
saying what she thought Jess wanted to hear. A mischievous thought
struck
her as she recalled the last time she had been on the giving end of a
tickle, in 1954. "You know, that was a really stupid thing to say. Maybe
you're a bit too young to remember what we used to do to Communists?" She
demonstrated, fingers skipping mercilessly up and down Myra's sides,
digging deep into the hidden underarms. Myra let out a screech that by
some
miracle didn't break every glass vessel in the room and bucked under Jess
like a horse who had just heard of the concept of "tame" and didn't like
it
much. Her full breasts bounced under the thin T-shirt with the vehemence
of
her laughter. "Well, maybe you _are_ Red," Jess laughed, tracing a finger
in spiral patterns over Myra's warm and trembling belly. "You're certainly
ticklish enough. Now, are you going to tell me honestly why you came here
-- or would you rather I try and play the Internationale on those
sensitive
ribbies of yours?" She patted Myra's flank. "I'm a lousy musician -- it
could take me a while to get all the way through."
"I swear -- "
"Arise, ye pris'ners of ... " Jess sang off-key, pumping her fingers
against Myra's ribs in time with the words. Myra's voice dissolved into a
high shriek, and Jess stopped to look down at her with mock exasperation.
"No! B flat! From the top, and try to stay in tune this time!"
"You -- you're crazy," Myra gasped. In truth, Jess wondered a bit at
her own behavior. But it'd been a long and frustrating mission, and she
had
to work it off somehow. And this woman _had_ been ready to kill her ...
She put on a ferocious expression. "Maybe -- but I'd rather be crazy
than ticklish any day. Wouldn't you agree, little tickle toy? Say, I
think it's time I had another look at those pretty toes of yours ... "
"STOP! STOP!" Myra practically screamed as Jess slid to the floor.
"I'll tell you! Just don't tickle me any more!"
Jess smiled. "Too late." She made as if to turn away, then turned
back, grinning at Myra's shriek of dismay. "Okay, how about this: you tell
me now, and I'll only tickle you a _little_ more. Girl scout's honor."
Myra looked at her suspiciously. "Not on the feet, okay?"
"You know," Jess said to the air, "that's about the worst bargaining
position I ever saw anyone in." She reached for the other woman's tummy.
"Okay! Okay! Anything!" Myra said hastily.
"Reason at last. I'm all ears." Jess leaned forward, planting her
elbows in the soft flesh of Myra's tummy and propping her chin on her
hands.
The woman took a deep breath. "There was this guy who came to Fred
and
me. He told us that what you were making in here was endangering the
future, and he offered us ... well, a lot of money ... if we'd blow it
up."

"Why, you little capitalist!" Jess teased, but already her more
rational side was taking over. Could the "guy" have been the 'jumper? If
so, what did he want destroyed here? She cast a speculative eye over the
cabinets. "Did this guy have a name?"
"Yeah. He called himself Martin."
Jess straightened, staring blankly down at Myra, who cringed. "It's
the truth, I swear! You promised!"
Martin Galloway. It had to have been him. Could _he_ be the 'jumper?
Jess didn't think so. She knew his pattern well. And what Myra had said
about "endangering the future" -- had Martin been here doing Central's
work? In which case, she, Jess, had just screwed it up for him ...
Without another word, she turned away from Myra and began going through
the
cabinets. It took her a mere ten minutes to find: an innocuous metal box
that contained six small vials of red-gold liquid, identical to the empty
vial she'd picked up in 44. The 'jumper had apparently arranged to have a
stock of his witch's brew stored here, for what purpose she couldn't
guess.
All that mattered was that this was the next step on her journey: the
vibrations of the liquid itself would allow Central to trace a path
through time to its origin.
"You know what?" she said, replacing the box in the cabinet and
turning back to Myra. "You're right. We ought to blow this place up. It
_is_ pretty disgusting, don't you think?" Myra goggled at Jess as she
began to undo the ropes. "Tell you what. I'll just leave, and you can put
your bomb back together, and it'll be our little secret, okay? She
couldn't
resist a final poke in the ribs as the last ropes came away, and Myra
twisted and yelped satisfyingly. But there was a strange look in her eye,
and Jess moved quickly to the door, stepping over Fred's slumped form,
lest
she find herself bound again and on the receiving end of the younger
woman's fury. After all, this body was Lowry-infected too, and at least as
ticklish as Myra's ...
"Bye," Jess said, opening the door. "Come on up and see me sometime
... " And she stepped out -- and into the megaflow.
"Central?" she thought immediately.
There was a pause, disconcertingly long, before the machine
answered,
"Present."
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"I am functioning adequately."
That was hardly reassuring, but she pressed on. "I recently handled
an
out-of-time item. Please send me to its origin."
The megaflow accelerated around her -- and then twisted and writhed
like a rubber roller coaster. Jess, even in her bodiless state, perceived
the motion as sickening. There was a terrible feeling of compression,
straining, tearing, worse even than when the 'jumper had forced her to
Vienna, pulling at the very fabric of her mind ... Jess had time for one
soundless yell before she vanished into the depths of the flow.

NEXT: Just Another Day in the Neighborhood, or O Brave New World!