“You’re even beginning to talk like Peerloin,” “Fig” told her. “But you’re not the only one with problems.”
“So tell me yours. Maybe it’ll take my mind off mine.”
“I don’t know where to start. Just when I was congratulating myself on solving the problem of how to get micromeasures of the increase in penile circumference at the coronal ridge in total darkness—during both the excitement and plateau phases, mind you—-Woocheck springs another lulu on me.”
“Wait a minute. One at a time. Why do you have to get the measurements in total darkness?”
“Woocheck wants to measure the diflerence in tumescence between when a man is visually stimulated and when the visual stimulation is lacking. I’ve got a photographic measuring device that gives us an accurate measurement based on light refraction from the coronal ridge of the penis, but it’s too delicate to work in the dark. I spent half the day trying it out with infra-red rays, but no go.”
“How could you test it out?” Mercy wondered. “You don’t have a male subject.”
“I experimented on myself.”
“Now that’s what I call dedication to research. But how did you manage to--?”
“I thought of you all the time, baby.” “Fig” leered.
“Skip it.” Mercy was used to his verbal passes. “If infra-red didn’t work, how did you solve the problem?”
“Phosphorescent paint!” “Fig” was triumphant. “We coat the area in advance. It glows in the dark and my gismo picks up the light refraction the same as if it was lit up like a Christmas tree.”
“Now wait a minute.” Mercy was concerned. “Dr. Peerloin is going to want to know what psychological effects this is likely to have on the female subject. It might be frightening. A disembodied male organ coming at a girl in the dark like that.”
“You’re projecting,” “Fig” accused her.
“Maybe I am. But then look at it the other way. It’s so bizarre that it might heighten her excitement phase, or even extend her plateau phase. It could throw all our calculations off.”
“You’re still projecting!”
“I am not!” Mercy was indignant. “I’m just looking at it scientifically.”
“Well, stop looking. You’ll get warts on your eyelids. Anyway, that’s not what’s bugging me now. Woocheck’s come up with a new one that makes that seem like duck soup by comparison. He wants to measure the contractions of the male’s rectal sphincter during the orgasmic phase.”
“Well, that shouldn’t be so tough. Can’t you rig up a small measuring device—a transistor recorder, or something—-that could be inserted prior to the pre-coital phase?”
“Yeah. Except for one thing. Woocheck wants to measure any differences in sphincter response during coitus in the whole gamut of positions. My problem is that every gadget I’ve devised has to protrude a little. Put the male’s weight on it—not to mention the female’s—and what you’ll have is one bed-rabbit all ready for barbecuing. He’ll impale himself!”
“Oh. Well, that is a problem. But you’ll think of something, Fig. Why don’t you just sleep on it.”
“I’d a damn sight rather sleep on your snowy, pillow-like mammaries.”
“Sorry. I’m taking my mammaries home and putting them to bed.”
“Maybe they’d like some company,” he suggested.
“Nope. They keep each other company, thank you. And they need their rest. I’m going to have a busy day tomorrow.”
“What’s up?”
“Going out into the field. I think maybe I can establish more rapport if I meet with the interviewees on their own home grounds. Anyway, I’m going to give it a try.”
'“Well, rotsa ruck.”
“Thanks. I may need it.”
Just how much luck she did need was something Mercy found out the next day. It was mid-morning when she arrived at the downtown brownstone to keep her first appointment. Two flights up she found the door she was seeking, and knocked.
The man who answered was young, barefoot and tan of cheek. He wore very tight chinos and a white T-shirt that bragged about his muscles. He had a lot of them and they seemed to be constantly rippling intimidatingly. His hair was jet-black, straight and rather long. His face was square-cut, clean-cut and cut by a razor while shaving that morning. The cut was covered by a white Band-aid which called attention to the deep tan around it. It was almost as white as his teeth, which were large, even, and formed into a perpetually capped smile. His eyes crinkled with the smile. They were black and flashing and slashed the clothes from Mercy’s body as he greeted her. “Hello there.” His voice was syrupy Tchaikowsky. “Been expecting you. Come on in.”
Mercy entered and he closed the door behind her.
“Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Take off your shoes.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Take off your shoes. Mine are off. See?” He held one foot out towards Mercy and wiggled the toes. “Lets the sole breathe. Go on. Try it.”
“No thank you,” Mercy declined. “Umm, I’m here to see Bunny Dawson. I think she was expecting me.”
“She who?”
“What?”
“Who she?”
“I don’t think I—” Mercy was confused.
“What she?” He explained. “Bunny Dawson’s a he. Me. I’m Bunny Dawson.”
“Oh.” Mercy’s brain whirred to make the adjustment.
“Oh! But I was expecting-—-”
“I know what you’re expecting, lady. Lots of women come up here. Don’t be afraid. They all go away satisfied. Now why don’t you just relax and take off your shoes.”
“I don’t feel like taking off my shoes.”
“Oh.” He considered it. “Well, they wouldn’t hold much anyway. You have pretty small feet, you know. Nice and small and delicate. Patrician. Like royalty.”
“Wouldn’t hold much?”
“Your shoes I mean.”
“Wouldn’t hold much what?”
“Champagne of course. What else would I be drinking from a 1ady’s slipper?”
“It’s not a slipper. It’s an Oxford. Very sturdy. And why on earth would you want to drink champagne out of it?”
“Part of the service. Romantic, you know. But I can see you’re past such foolishness. So be it. Let’s get down to business.” He crossed over to her, pulled her to her feet, caught her in the vise of his arms and started to kiss her.
“No! Wait!” Somehow Mercy managed to push him away.
“All right.” Bunny backed off, obedient, but puzzled.
“Didn’t they tell you why I was coming and who I am?” Mercy asked breathlessly.
“That wouldn’t be ethical. They never give out any personal information about clients.”
“But I’m not a client,” Mercy protested. “I’m here to interview you prior to your participation in a special project being run by the Venus Bio-Erotic Research Observatory. Didn’t they tell you that?”
“No.” Bunny shook his head. “They just said this lady was coming and I should cooperate with whatever she wanted. You mean you don’t want to love it up?”
“I most certainly do not!” Mercy smoothed the jacket to the suit she was wearing. “I just want to get some preliminary data. I have some questions here to ask you.” She took some forms out of her briefcase, sat down and spread them out on her knees. “They’re rather intimate in nature,” she explained. “I hope you won’t mind.”
“Everybody gets their kicks different ways.” Bunny shrugged. “Shoot.”
“Very well. Now, how long have you been engaged in your present occupation?”
“I’ve been a stud about four years.”
" ‘A stud’? Oh, I see. And what is your age?”
Bunny answered that question and the ones which followed with an increasing air of boredom. Mercy’s cool professionalism and noncommittal attitude obviously annoyed him. He wasn’t used to women being indifferent to his charms. Something told him she wasn’t as indifferent as she seemed. Then came the question which opened the way for him to put this feeling to the test.