Key to Survival

Chapter 12 Weft

Fifth nerved himself, then knocked on the door. This was an anonymous apartment on the lowest floor of Triumph City, solidly working class. Yet it was where he had been told to go.

It opened. There stood Weft in bra and panties, breathtakingly full fleshed. "Fifth!" she exclaimed. "I thought you would be here in another hour. I'm still getting dressed." She swirled her long blond hair. She had affected the Earth style enhancements, using foundation underwear to squeeze and emphasize her breasts and bottom, and makeup to artificially redden her lips. Such unnecessary exaggeration turned him off.

"Apology," he said, embarrassed. "I must have confused the time. I will return later."

"Oh, come off it," she said, laughing. "You know I saw you coming. I just wanted to flash you." She caught his arm and hauled him inside. "Are you angry?"

"Awkward," he said.

"And you know I'm reading your mind. You don't want to tell me that full fleshed women turn you off."

"Agreement," he said, flushing.

"And for a month you'll have to fake it, because now you know exactly how I am." She paused. "Or do you? Let's be sure." She quickly unsnapped her bra and stepped out of her panties. "This is me, in the flesh. My body owes nothing to foundation garments."

"Agreement," he repeated, wishing she would stop teasing him. He looked away from her, his gaze sweeping over the comfortably appointed room. On a shelf lay a trapezoidal shaped stringed device, which he recognized as her hammer dulcimer. She was a songstress, the same as her mother Gale, and played the same musical instrument.

She was reputed to be the finest singer on the planet.

"I prefer to leave that reputation to mom," she said, answering his thought.

"Understanding." The four older children all worshiped their parents, though in truth all four were stronger Glamors than Havoc and Gale. The one he knew least well was Weft, and he wished she would stop trying to vamp him.

"In a moment," she said. "Now strip."

"Negation."

"Requirement." And suddenly his clothing was gone. "Ha! I do turn you on."

For his penis was standing.

"Your flesh forces me," he said. "But it is not the type I prefer."

"You do not wish sex?"

"Not at this time," he said, knowing she would take him into it regardless.

"Curious thing," she remarked as she stepped up to embrace him. "A man can rape an unwilling woman. But a woman is not supposed to be able to rape an unwilling man. Yet I suspect it is possible."

He stood without responding.

"She could tie him down, tease his member to life, and mount him," she said. "Would that be rape?"

"Uncertainty."

"You are being noncommittal. Why?"

He tried to hold back, but couldn't help himself. He exploded. "You are all Glamors toying with a mortal, manipulating and forcing me. Yes, raping me, with your power I can't oppose. I wish I were home with Flame!"

Weft burst into tears.

Fifth stood there, waiting.

Abruptly the tears faded. "It's not working."

"Agreement," he said grimly.

"Where did I go wrong?"

"No comment."

She showed a flash of ire. "Candor."

He had to say it. "I have been with four Glamor women before you, one of them your mother, all of whom had their way freely with me. You are not as cynical as Red, as good an actress as Voila, as compassionate as Gale, or as honest as Flame. You are wrong for me simply because you are not Flame, and no amount of posturing can change that. Apology for putting you in this position."

She froze. She was still holding him, naked; every part of her went rigid. It seemed he had really done it this time. He should have held his temper. How were they ever going to get along now?

She stepped back. "Negation. You have taught me a lessen. I will try to reform. You are a genuinely nice man perhaps unfairly treated. Request: may we start over?"

He wished he could erase the entire sequence. He should simply have accepted her as she presented herself. She was locked into this, just as he was. Once the month was done, he would be free to return to Flame, vindicated. The problem was their association in that month, poisoned by his intemperate outburst. "Wish."

Then he was standing clothed outside her door. She had used her magic on him, to simulate a new beginning.

He sighed inwardly and knocked.

The door opened. Weft stood there, wearing a modest yellow dress, slippers, and a yellow ribbon tying back her long fair hair. "Fifth," she said. "Welcome."

"Appreciation."

"Come in. I expected you."

What could he do? He stepped in.

"Supposition," she said. "That competitive sisters could make a deal to see whether one could take something of value from the other. Such as a mortal boyfriend. That one got too caught up in it and tried to vamp him at the outset, just to prove he could be led around by his penis. That she forgot he was a person in his own right whose feelings deserved respect. That she is mortified and wishes she could erase the whole scene. Is it possible that he would give her another chance?"

This was a side of her he had not appreciated before. "Possible," he agreed guardedly.

"Appreciation. We have work to do, but first I would like to get to know you. Have a seat. Refreshment?"

He spread his hands as he sat on a chair. "Your preference."

She went to her kitchenette and in a moment returned with two tall glasses of purple liquid. "Grape juice, unfermented." She gave him one.

He sipped, half expecting something potent, but it was innocent. "Appreciation."

She sat opposite him. Nothing showed. "Flame fears that it is her Glamor status that attracts you. She is trying to nullify that by exposing you to other Glamors. Is this effective?"

"Affirmation! All of you are like stars, and I am like a dull planet. I could orbit any of you. But I love Flame."

"What does she have that we do not?"

"A lovely lean body."

"Therefore you cling to her?"

"I admit my masculine shallowness. I am turned on by her form. I always liked lean women."

"And if I looked like this, I would appeal similarly to you?" Her body became a mirror of Flame's, with her dress shrinking to fit. It was illusion, of course, but effective.

"Sexually," he agreed uncomfortably. "Not necessarily in other respects."

"So there is something else about Flame."

"She truly cares about me."

"Candor," she said. "I have been with many men. Some are turned on by my Glamor status. All are turned on by my physical appearance. I can take any I choose, within minutes. I wish I could find one who is turned on by me. Who would be as loyal to me as you are to Flame. I do envy her that."

This was candor indeed. She was confessing a private desire. "Appreciation."

"We must engage in a no fault sexual relationship, this month. I must try to win you, and you must try to win me.

But apart from that, I hope we can respect each other. As we are." Her form returned to its original buxom. "I proffer this compromise: we must do it a certain number of times, but I will leave the choosing and manner of them to you. I will neither demand from you nor tempt you. Either by physical exposure or by planting desire in your mind. It has to be your true preference. But I will never deny you. If on the last day it has not happened, then we will have to bite the bullet and do it ten times in succession. In that event I will facilitate your potency. Fair?"

"Fair," he agreed, amazed. Could she really be turning control of the sexual side of their association over completely to him? Only Flame had done that.

"Details," she said. "Do you prefer to sleep together or apart? When there is need to wash or change clothing, may we see each other or avoid it?"

He considered. "In a normal no fault relationship, couples do sleep together, and wash together. While I prefer lean, full female flesh does also turn me on when I am near it. If I sleep next to you, I will want to clasp you. If I see you wash, I will react, just as I did during that other start. I am a garden variety mortal male, chronically stimulated by female flesh. Do you prefer that I suppress such reactions?"

"Negation. If you see me wash, and desire sex, and I oblige it, that's one time, isn't it? If you wake in the night and desire me, and I accept, that's another time. This would make the sex relatively painless. We might fulfill the tally without ever having to force it."

He laughed. "Then let's be together and open with each other. In fact—" He broke off, embarrassed.

"Conjecture," she said. "My courtesy turns you on more than my prior exposure did."

"Agreement. You seem more like a person than a blatant sex symbol."

"But you must ask. That's the new rule."

He licked his lips. "Asked."

Her clothing disappeared. So did his. They rose from their seats and went to the bedroom. He fell on the bed with her, kissing her madly as her full breasts flattened against his chest and her firm legs wrapped around his. In another moment he was entering her and thrusting, climaxing immediately.

"Welcome," she said, smiling as he ebbed and withdrew.

He laughed again. "Accuracy. That was painless."

She got up and went to the bathroom. She got a cloth and washed her breasts and bottom.

He joined her. The sight and proximity of her full body still affected him despite his recent climax.

"In fact—"

She smiled. She hoisted herself up to sit on the sink, and spread her legs. He stepped in, his member rising.

But it was not quite enough, so soon, and he realized that he wouldn't climax. His hardware could not keep pace with his desire.

She knew it too. "Facilitation?"

"Appreciation."

His member swelled and hardened with renewed force, and he thrust and spurted into her. The intensity of it was equal to the first time. This time he felt her responding, internally, and realized that she had not done so before. So she had had reason to facilitate his second effort. But she had played fair, not asking for it. He had turned himself on, seeing her wash her flesh.

"Welcome," he said as her vagina relaxed. Then they both laughed.

"Suspicion," she said, as she got down from the sink. "The problem we anticipated does not exist."

"Agreement! Irony, that all it took to turn me on was your effort not to."

"I think you are not like other men in that respect."

"Uncertainty. Men prefer to make the decision, though it can be facilitated by the women. So a covert peek into cleavage can mean more than a full view of the breasts."

"Interest." She took the cloth and washed him off. Her touch was delicate an pleasurable.

Then he took the cloth and washed her off. And started reacting again. "Impossible," he said ruefully.

"Possible," she said.

"I mean, without enhancement."

"Curiosity."

"Ditto." Suddenly it was vital to know whether he could actually do it again so soon.

"Novelty," she suggested. "May I?"

"Endorsement."

She took his penis and stroked it. She tickled his scrotum. There was some response. She put her face to it and licked the tip. There was more response.

She turned and bent forward over the sink, presenting her posterior to him. He lifted his half-thickened member and put it to her cleft from behind. She was right: the novelty of this standing position stimulated him. He still was not completely stiff, but was able to slide his member in. Then he reached around her to take hold of her dangling breasts, and felt another measure of expansion.

"Pleasure," she said, tensing her plush buttocks against him.

That did it. He thrust, and thrust again, feeling the slow climax building. She synchronized her squeezes, enhancing the process, and her breathing made her breasts seem to expand and contract in his hands. Finally, with repeated thrusts, he generated a slow but breathtakingly intense climax. She joined him, squeezing his member and relaxing in time with the thrusts.

"Satiation!" he gasped, half collapsing against her back as his limp member dropped out.

"And I did not boost you, this time," she said.

"Not magically," he agreed. "Oh, Weft—I want to hold you!"

"Hold me," she agreed, turning to face him. They stood tightly embraced.

Then he kissed her, passionately. "I know it's just the hormones," he said. "It happens after sex. But right now I think I love you."

"Understanding." Then, after a pause: "Confession."

"Question?"

"I think I enhanced you too much, for the second effort. Some may have carried through, causing you to react more than you might otherwise have, when we washed the second time. So maybe I did push you, when I said I wouldn't."

"Forgiven. It was a great experience."

"Appreciation. I will be more careful next time."

In due course they separated again, and washed again. This time they made it back into their clothing.

"Here is the situation," Weft said. "An outfit is collecting memories."

"Question?"

"Concurrence. They are offering prizes for people who provide them with the best memories for their collection. It might be harmless diversion, but they are evidently serious, and we think the machines are behind it."

Fifth shook his head ruefully. "The machines seem to be behind everything, these days."

"They do seem to have considerably resources, and they don't take halfway measures. So we need to know what they're up to, and why. What do they care about individual memories, when they mean to destroy us all anyway?"

"Could they be seeking some easier way to conquer us? By studying us, fathoming our weaknesses?"

"Possibly. All the more reason for us to be abreast of it." She glanced down at her breasts. "So to speak."

"What do you have in mind?"

"To participate." She smiled. "Not as a Glamor. As an ordinary girl with a memory eager for the prize."

"Prize?"

"They offer physical health and appeal to those who present the best memories. An ugly girl might become attractive. A weak man might become strong. Independent of illusion; they offer real enhancements."

"That would be tempting for many" he agreed. "How did you learn of this?"

"Surprise: they actually printed ads in books. Slips of paper providing details and news of prizes. They have been at it several months, and their prizes seem valid."

"Ugly girls, weak men?"

"Are becoming pretty and strong. So there is getting to be a fair response, and we suspect they are gathering many memories. Harmless, so far. Not centered on planetary weaknesses; they take different types. So, again, why?"

"We need to know," he agreed. "How am I to help? I am not sure my memories of sexy Glamors should be shared."

"Agreement!" she said, laughing. "I will be the one to share a memory."

"As an anonymous girl," he agreed.

"Who travels no fault with a protective man. His object, apart from getting into her pants, will be to see that she is not abused or cheated. The proprietors actually encourage the presence of such advocates. They want everyone to know they are legitimate."

"And I will be that man."

"Confirmation. I expect you to take good care of that girl."

Now he saw their two glasses of grape juice, half finished, set aside when they broke for the first bout of sex. "I have an evil thought," he said, annoyed with himself.

"You are a marvel of imagination," she said, reading it.

"You are not disgusted?" For Flame would have been revolted. Sometimes he had rogue ideas that had to be suppressed.

"Negation. Intrigued. It may be my fault anyway, if the enhancement still lingers."

"Something about seeing the glasses in this context. I am ashamed."

She put her hands on his shoulders and looked into his face. "Fifth, this about that: I am not suggesting things to you, but I am amenable to whatever you suggest. I never thought of this before, but what you envision is naughtily exciting. Please don't tease me further. Let's do it."

She was accepting his dark male fantasy. That was an exciting surprise. "Agreement."

She went to her cupboard and got a small funnel. "Who first?"

"Me, I thought of it, and if you change your mind, that's fair."

"You are a fair man. I like that."

They undressed again, then took the funnel and the two drinks to the bathroom. Fifth lay on the floor and drew his knees up to his chin so that his butt lifted. He put his hands to his hips to raise his butt further, pointing it at the ceiling. Weft rubbed the tip of the funnel against her cleft, wetting it with her slippery moisture. She also rubbed her forefinger there. Then she got down and carefully inserted her finger into his anus. At first it resisted, but then it relaxed, and she got her finger in. It felt like sexual penetration, and he wondered whether this was what sex felt like for the woman. She worked it around, making sure the hole was well lubricated, then brought down the funnel and touched it to the same aperture. Using the fingers of one hand to spread the sphincter somewhat, she worked the tip of the funnel in. Watching and feeling this strengthened the erection he had developed.

When the funnel was firmly embedded, its tip past the sphincter, she took one glass and slowly poured the remaining grape juice into the cone. He felt its coolth entering his rectum. When it backed up in the funnel, she glanced at his face. "Inhale."

He did, his innards expanded, she wiggled the funnel, and the juice flowed in unobstructed. He watched the procedure, picturing the liquid coursing into his colon. What an infusion! It seemed to flow forever, a dark river finding its nether pool within the receptive living cave. His rigid penis was drooling goo onto his belly. When at last all of the juice was inside, she withdrew the funnel and touched his anus. "Clench." He did, and the purple liquid was locked inside him.

He put down his legs and got to his feet as she rinsed off the funnel. He felt the cold liquid pressing against his tight sphincter. "Illicit excitement."

"Concurrence. Now do me." She got down and adopted a similar posture, her knees to her chin, her hands bracing her hips, her cleft raised to close to level, its lips parting to show everything. Clitoris, urinary slit, vagina now an open hole, puckered anus. He was fascinated by the sight, and his member made a valiant effort to stiffen further, dripping.

He took some of the elixir elongating from the tip of his penis and spread it around the tip of the funnel. He smeared more on his finger. It was quite slippery, surely intended by nature to facilitate exactly such penetration. He put the finger to her anus, rubbing in the gel, then poking the tip slowly in. Her anus gave way after a moment, as his had, and his finger slid smoothly in up to the second knuckle. He flexed it, to spread the lubricant, feeling her rectum closing warmly around it.

"Like a prehensile penis," she said, laughing.

Indeed. This was a new form of sex, another turn-on. He wished he could linger longer, exploring her orifices in this manner at leisure, but maybe that would best be saved for another time.

"Agreement," she said. "I did not before fully appreciate the pleasure of such variations. Reading your mind makes it worse."

He put the tip of the funnel there and nudged it in, seeing it slowly penetrate until all of the narrow spout section was within her body, her anus stretched around it. This act stiffened his penis to maximum. He poured in the juice, and watched it swirl down and through, making its way inside her rectum. What an emission!

"Agreement," she murmured.

When the last of it disappeared, he pulled out the funnel. Her anus closed with minimal leakage. She was filled.

"You're right," she said. "It feels like a huge cold ejaculation, or an enema. Either will do." She flexed her thighs, visibly tightening her sphincter.

"Weft," he said with sudden urgency.

"Acquiescence," she said, maintaining her position. "But I want to—"

"Do it!" She was still reading his mind and not revolted, amazingly. She was a different creature from her sisters.

He got down on hands and feet, placed his turgid member at her anus, and pushed it in slowly past the sphincter.

When he felt the swollen head of his penis in the looser flesh beyond her anus, he let himself go and rammed it home, straight down, like a brigand rape. He felt the cool grape juice around him. He didn't even need to thrust again; he spurted instantly. It was like injecting water at high pressure into a deep well.

She joined him, her sphincter clenching rhythmically on the base of his member, her belly convulsing. "Oh what a feeling," she gasped. "Yours and mine. Kiss me!" She let go of her hips and descended, and he followed her down, still jetting.

He got his face in place and kissed her mouth. Their tongues met as their twin orgasms faded. Then he collapsed on her, spent in more than one sense.

After a time, they resumed awareness of their surroundings. "I think we are leaking," Weft said.

He got up. Purple juice had squeezed out around his penis where it distended her anus, and more was dribbling from the hole as she let it go. Juice was staining his groin and legs; he had jetted some out of his own hole while locked in the throes of sex. He sat quickly on the toilet and let more flow out. What an experience!

"Concurrence," she said. She got up, found a cup, and held it to her anus, catching the continuing flow. "I have had a lot of experience, of considerable variety, but this is a first time."

He had to laugh. "Gratitude for not being revolted."

"Needless. That was fun. We must do it again, with another flavor and full glasses."

He shook his head, bemused. Even in his state of sexual exhaustion, this was tempting. "I thought you were just another Glamor. I was mistaken."

"I thought you were just another man. Ditto."

The bathroom floor was soaking in juice. Weft fetched a map and cleaned it up as she set the tub to filling. Then they took a joint bath, washing each other and kissing repeatedly. He loved her full wet breasts! Her plush bottom.

Her lithe torso. He couldn't get enough of her.

"About the memory girl," she said, resuming her discussion of the mission.

"But if she is really you—"

"I can't allow my memories to become part of this. I will have to bury my nature in a cellar. You know the concept?"

"Flame acquainted me," he agreed. "A hidden section of the mind that can't be fathomed by mind readers. It seems not even to be there."

"Correct. While I am that girl, I will have no power over her decisions and actions. I will dare not express myself, lest I give away my nature. So you will support the role, treating her as she seems to be. This is why I want the company of someone I can trust."

"But we have no long acquaintance."

"I trust my sister's judgment. She trusts you. So can I."

"Appreciation," he said weakly. "But there is something. Voila says I am a nexus. We don't know in what manner. That may complicate trust."

"Being a nexus means you're important. It is irrelevant to trust."

"Not if what I know or learn becomes relevant to the war with the machines."

She smiled. "I'll risk it."

"I will do my best. What kind of girl will you become?"

"Unknown."

"Question?"

"I am about to find out. I will locate a prospect with a suitable memory, and then approach her."

They wound up having sex yet again, with her lying on him, facing up, their point of connection under the water.

This time he was unable to complete it on his own, and accepted her enhancement. She gave him a lesser dose, so that they were able to lie connected for fifteen minutes before climaxing. There was a special delight in that conjoined relaxation. The climax itself was weaker, for him, but still highly satisfying. At least this time he wouldn't be eager for sex again in five minutes.

"Is that five in succession?" he asked, amazed.

She lifted her hands and counted or her fingers. "On the bed. On the sink. From behind. With the grape juice. In the tub. We have made half our quota already."

"And you never forced me."

"You are quite a man, Fifth. For a mortal."

He laughed, knowing it was literal: what had taken him two hours a Glamor could have done in ten minutes. "Appreciation."

"But we really must get to work, between sexual sessions."

"Affirmation," he agreed gladly. "When and where is the memory collection?"

"The one I want is in a distant Black Chroma zone, tomorrow."

"Tomorrow! But if you have yet to find a girl—"

"I will search for her now. If I seem slightly distracted, it is because my mind is reaching out to locate a suitable prospect."

"I will let you alone, then."

"Negation. The mental search is dull. You may entertain me with your presence."

"Question?"

"Sex." She went nude to the bed and lay down.

"You want me to—after all we have already—"

"Apology. I'm supposed to leave it to you."

"Too late," he said ruefully. "The thought has been introduced to my crude male mind." He joined her on the bed.

"You may sleep if you prefer. I just wanted you to know that it is no rejection of you if I seem less than completely responsive. But I will appreciate whatever you initiate. It will help keep me awake for my search."

"Understanding."

Thus commenced a remarkable night, following a remarkable afternoon. He fell asleep while kissing her breasts, got a nocturnal erection, woke, and entered her, she sighing absent-mindedly. Then he slept again, but later woke again, finding her turned around, and entered her from behind. She cooperated, but relatively passively.

Yet she appeared genuinely appreciative of his efforts. It seemed she had meant it when she said they helped keep her awake.

"Confirmation," she said. "When I nod off, you tackle me again, and that wakes me. Gratitude."

He kissed her, bemused. She was thanking him for continually rousing her from sleep.

By morning they had done it five more times. Fifth, who had never really been turned before by full fleshed women, somehow found Weft phenomenally sexy.

"Done," she said brightly.

"Regret."

She looked at him.

"Negation; I did not mean that the sex was finished. You can have it a hundred times if you wish. I meant that I have found the girl." Oh. "Good news."

"She is Page, an assistant librarian in a Black Chroma zone. She has memories of secret sex."

"Coincidence?"

"Negation. I looked for a Black Chroma person, so she could travel no fault with you without attracting attention, and for secret sex, because that is the category that remains open."

She smiled. "I can't think why folk are reluctant to advertise their most secret trysts."

He had to smile. "What we did yesterday—the grape juice—Flame would never have countenanced. I am amazed that you did. I would not have been surprised if you had berated me for my filthy mind."

"I am more adventurous than my sister. She is the conservative member of the family, especially sexually. In five years she has touched no one but you. When I encounter something really wild, I like to try it. The grape juice was wild." She kissed him. "I wonder what you will come up with next?"

"Warning: don't start me thinking. You need to catch up on your sleep, and we have a mission to do today."

"Glamors can get by without sleep when necessary. I got sleepy not because I needed sleep, but because of the boredom of the mental quest across thousands of dull minds. You helped abate that."

"Male fantasy. You let me believe that you are constantly eager for my touch."

"Agreement. But I read your mind. That made it novel, because I am not male."

Something about that phenomenal understatement got to him, and he started laughing uncontrollably.

"By your leave," she said, and kissed him and clasped him, taking him in. He was still laughing helplessly as he jetted into her, for the eleventh time.

"Now," she said, as they lay in ebbing embrace. "The sex will stop for a while, because I will assume the identity of the librarian Page and she will not know you well enough at first. I hope I have enabled you to tide through for a few hours."

"Hope," he agreed.

"Eat." A full breakfast appeared on the table. Had they eaten the night before? He didn't remember.

They ate. Weft fetched a jug of juice, then put it back unpoured. "No time," she said regretfully.

That threatened to set him off again, but he managed to get by with only a choke or two. What a girl!

When they were done, she took his hand, and they were suddenly in a Black Chroma zone, standing before a village library. "Wait here," she said. "The one who emerges next will be me in my impersonation, physical and mental. Page. A full imprint. She will not know she isn't real. Take her to Village Nondescript, across this zone, and set up in an inn, the two of you. Attend the memory quest in early afternoon, today, tomorrow, and the day after. Then escort her back here. Never refer to me; try not even to think of me. Stay out of her mind; it must be pristine in this respect, and the balance must not be disturbed. We do not know how carefully the machine agents watch."

He was alarmed. "She won't know?"

"The imprint won't. The original Page will remain here, unchanged. I will make her a deal to make it worth her while. She is good at keeping secrets."

"Understanding."

She entered the library. About half an hour later a different woman emerged. She was Black Chroma, short thin and plain, in her mid twenties, with a severe knot binding back her hair.

He stepped up. "Page? I was told to meet you here."

"Fifth? I was told you would escort me, no fault."

"We are introduced," he said, smiling. "Shall we go directly to Village Nondescript?"

"Agreed. Appreciation for enabling me to go there for this occasion."

"I appreciate having my curiosity about this project satisfied."

The took hands, and conjured themselves across the zone. Fifth liked being able to do full magic again; he had been long out of Chroma, reduced to nonChroma status. Yet when it came to a choice between his home Chroma and Flame, Flame banished all else.

They were at the edge of the village. They walked in and registered at the local inn as Fifth and Page. No further identification was needed; they were obviously traveling together no fault.

In their room, Page hesitated. "You know I am married, with three children."

"I am committed also. No fault does not mean travelers have to have sex. Just that we share accommodation and responsibilities."

"Actually, I will be looking for a fourth. That's why I agreed to travel at this time." She paused, evidently nerving herself. "I know I am not pretty."

He had misunderstood her hesitation. "I like them lean. But it will be your choice."

"Appreciation."

They had a token meal, and she washed and changed, preparing for the event to come. She was also showing him her body, in tacit invitation. She was indeed lean. He could make it with her, if she chose.

Then they went out to the memory project. There was a small group of people clustered there. "Greeting," the Black Chroma proprietor said. "Supe here, local collector for the memory archives."

"Page. I have come to compete for a prize."

"Regret: you should have come earlier. All our categories but one are filled."

"Secret sex."

He nodded. "That's the one. No one else seems interested." He gazed at her appraisingly. "Are you sure?"

"Privacy is maintained?"

"Affirmation. Only your companion will see it, for your protection."

"Understanding."

"If your memory is the best in its category—which seems likely, considering the absence of competition—you will receive a prize of significant physical enhancement, and may return tomorrow for another memory and prize."

"Understanding."

"This way." He led them into a marked circle.

A translucent wall rose up, shielding them from the other people. The others became vague forms, no details apparent. Presumably it shielded those inside the circle similarly. Supe and Fifth took seats at the edge of the circle, just inside the shield. Page stood in the center.

"Rehearse it in your mind," Supe said. "It will animate."

It did. There was a young Page, perhaps thirteen, avidly reading a book. The elderly proprietor came to the desk she sat at. "Closing time."

She looked up. "Please, Librarian Booker. This is so interesting. Can I take it home?"

"Negation. It is a valuable history that must remain in the library, lest it be damaged or lost. You can take another book, if you wish. We have a number pitched to your age."

"Children's books!" she said with disdain.

"Affirmation. You are a child."

Page paused, studying the man. He was old, perhaps seventy, a widower. The village provided for him because it valued the library and he took good care of it. As he was doing now. "How can I get to borrow this book tonight?"

He smiled benevolently. "You can return to read it here tomorrow. It is good that you like advanced reading."

"Serious."

"Page, it is not authorized. You can't take the book."

She stood up. "I am not wholly a child. I have breasts." She opened her shirt.

"Dismay!" he said, startled. "Cover yourself."

"I can keep a secret. Can you?"

"Confusion."

"I have seen boys with pretty girls. I am not pretty, but I can do what they do. I know you have no woman. Let me borrow the book. I promise to take excellent care of it, and return it tomorrow. Please." She removed her shirt entirely, and drew down her skirt.

Booker stared at her. "They would banish me."

"They will never know. I promise."

"You truly mean this? You understand it is a violation? An adult with a child?"

"No one will know." She glanced down at her small breasts and narrow hips. "I know I am not much, but it is all I have. Please." Booker shook his head. "I am old, and lonely. What am I really risking? But I do not wish to hurt you."

"Just do what you wish with me, and tell me how to help. And keep my secret."

"Agreement!"

He led her to the library's old couch. She lay on it, on her back, her legs spread. That was as far as she knew what to do.

He opened his trousers to reveal a standing member. "Are you sure?"

"Affirmation." Actually the size of it alarmed her, but she was determined to accomplish her commitment.

He got on her. "Do you mind if I kiss you first?"

"Welcome."

He brought his face down and kissed her on the mouth. It surely wasn't much of a kiss, but she thrilled to it, because it was truly a man/woman contact.

Then he put his member to her cleft and pushed it in. There was resistance, and he pushed harder; then there came sharp pain. She clenched her teeth, making no sound, forcing herself to breathe evenly.

Then he was all the way inside her, thrusting repeatedly. It smarted horribly. After several times he shuddered, made a small moan, and relaxed.

In a moment he got off her. He looked down and saw the blood. "You're a virgin!"

"Not any more," she said, forcing a smile.

"Oh, Page, I didn't know! I assumed—games with boys your age, peek and poke—"

"I'm not pretty," she reminded him.

"I would never have done it, if—" He shook his head. "But I did. I'm guilty. My fate is in your hands."

"Is there a washcloth?" she asked.

Hurriedly, he fetched one. She mopped herself up. There was blood at her cleft, and some thick liquid inside, but actually not a lot of either. When she was satisfied that she would not drip, she dressed, took the book, and departed.

Booker just looked helpless.

At home she covertly applied salve. She was healing nicely. It really was no worse than a bad scratch. What was important was that she had found a way to get the book.

It was a marvelous book, every bit as informative as she had thought. But there was a lot more if it left. She read as late as she could, then brought it back to the library in the morning. "Appreciation," she said to Booker. Then she went on to school.

That afternoon she returned to the library and resumed reading the book. The librarian left her strictly alone.

The closing time came. Booker approached her table. She got up, went to the couch, removed her clothing, and lay down. He brought out his member again, kissed her, and put it into her. This time it smarted much less. No words were exchanged. They both knew that what they were doing should not be spoken.

So it continued for two years. Not every night, but regularly. Word never circulated. The secret was being kept on both sides. Each had something of value to the other. Neither pretended to have any emotional involvement; this was a business transaction. But sometimes the kisses became more ardent. They were coming to like each other, in their separate fashions. This, too, could not be spoken.

Then Booker died. Her glorious period of reading was abruptly ended. So was her memory. Page stood there in the center of the circle, the image of the library dissipating around her.

"This will do," Supe said. "It is a fine contribution to the archives." He came to Page, put his hand on her forehead, and exerted magical force. He evidently had a Chroma stone.

She became prettier. She remained fully recognizable, but her features evened somewhat, and reset themselves to be slightly more aesthetic. Her body, too, developed a bit, her bosom swelling, her hips widening, her waist narrowing. Only slightly, but it made a difference.

He brought her a mirror. "Satisfied?"

"Agreement!" she said, startled.

"Return tomorrow if you have another memory of this type. This was a worthy insight into a private aspect of village life."

"Agreement."

She had more? Fifth was surprised. He knew that things went on in villages that no one talked about, and that deals between men and woman were common and not limited to no fault traveling. But this had seemed to be a one of a kind deal. He suspected that if any other villagers had caught on to the arrangement, they would have had the sense to remain silent. It was a consensual tryst, doing no harm to anyone else, but if it had been publicized, they would have had to banish the old man and send the girl to a restrictive school. It was better for all that the secret be kept.

Now, of course, it no longer mattered. The widower librarian was long dead, and Page was of age.

Back at the inn, Fifth and Page had an evening meal and prepared to retire.

"As with the librarian," she said, removing her shirt.

"I make no demands," he said quickly.

"I want a forth."

That request could not ethically be declined. "Confession," he said. "Seeing your memory excited me. I am given to illicit arousal."

She removed her skirt. "Welcome."

She was significantly prettier than she had been. It showed in every part of her body.

He stripped and joined her on the bed. He knew she was an emulation rather than the real Page, but it was easy to accept her as she seemed to be, and indeed, he was supposed to do that. "May I kiss you?"

She laughed. "Welcome."

He kissed her. "I feel like a librarian."

"He was a good man. He was gentle with me, and he kept the secret. I liked him, and was sorry when he died."

"But he always did it the same way."

"I did not mind. It was familiar."

"Question: did you ever share the feeling? Achieving your own climax?"

"Sometimes. Toward the end he slowed, and that gave me more time. But I did not make anything of it. I was doing it for the book. As long as he was satisfied, so was I."

"Do you wish me to be slow?"

"Negation. I just want my fourth."

Clear enough. She did not know that this was academic, because she did not really exist in this situation. Women seeking their fourths were notoriously businesslike, taking in penises, pumping them, and ejecting them when their payload was delivered.

She was not pretty, despite her recent enhancement, but there was something about her. He could appreciate how the old librarian had accepted her solicitation.

He entered her, pumped, and delivered. Then they separated and slept apart.

Next day they returned to the memory circle. This time Page's memory was of the woman who took over the library after Booker died. Her name was Bookend. She was his daughter, of middle age, married with her four children birthed, and businesslike.

But Page still devoured educational books. They still were not supposed to be lent out overnight. Not the special ones. What was she to do? She was only fifteen, too young to do anything adult. Theoretically.

Desperation lent her courage. She approached Bookend. "I really, really like to read the special books. May I take one home evenings?"

"This is not authorized."

Just so. "Sometimes Booker let me take one home."

"Doubt."

"I—made a deal with him. No fault."

Bookend stared at her. "You were the one? We knew he was seeing someone, these last two years. His whole outlook improved. We did not inquire. But you're underage."

"It was a secret. I am good at secrets. So was he."

"It shall remain so. Our family history must not be sullied. This is a moral village."

"Accepted. But if I could possibly make any deal with you, I would do it with similar secrecy."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Village rumor says you are cold to your husband. Would you prefer a woman?" Page removed her shirt. Her breasts had filled out in the interim, but remained modest.

"You are bold," Bookend said severely.

"Desperate. I would do anything to get to read those precious books."

Bookend considered. "You can keep a secret," she said. "My father was never embarrassed by any rumors."

Page waited.

"But surely your preference is not for women."

"I am still learning. Booker was nice, but I did it for the books, not for itself. You could be nice too."

Bookend made a decision. "One time. Then we'll see."

They made lesbian love, and Page found it not only instructive but stimulating. Bookend saw to it that they both had good climaxes.

Then Page took the book home for the night. She returned it next morning, in good condition.

It continued. Page really liked the sessions, because they made her body sing. But she never forgot why she was doing it, and made sure always to cater to the other woman's preference. Village rumors were that Bookend became kinder to her husband, as if some unmet need was being satisfied.

In three years Page married an indifferent man, being realistic about her prospects. Sex was like that she had had with Booker; her husband was not much aware of female needs. The secret affair continued, even during her pregnancies, complementing the emotionless sex of marriage. There was never any scandal. In fact Page trained in as an assistant librarian, accounting for the time they spent together. She loved books.

Until family circumstances required Bookend to move with her family to another village. Then the affair was over, and her access to special books was cut off.

The memory faded. It has been as detailed at the prior one, and Supe was satisfied. He touched Page again, and she became another stage prettier.

Back at the inn, Fifth remarked on it. "Yesterday you were one third pretty. Today you are two thirds pretty. If you achieve another enhancement, you will be a beauty. Are you ready for that?"

"Negation. I have never been beautiful. But it will please my husband. He is routine about sex, but he's a good man." She glanced sidelong at him. "No need to hurry our connection."

"You said you just wanted your fourth from me."

"Shifting. Now I would like sex with you. If you are willing."

"Willing," he agreed. He understood what she meant: the prior night had been pure injection of semen for a purpose, rather than real sex. Again, he found there was something about her that made her desirable apart from her appearance, improved as that was. This time he made love to her, kissing her mouth, and her fuller breasts, and stroking her improved bottom. He stimulated her, so that by the time he entered, she was eager for the culmination.

They climaxed together.

"Wonder," she breathed, after. "I did not know a man could do that to me too." She had achieved mutual fulfillment many times with another woman, of course.

"A caring man can." This night he remained with her, sleeping beside her.

He woke in the night, finding her awake, gazing at him in the partial light. He understood why: he had given her a new experience, and she hankered for more of it. He had experienced that often enough with the several Glamors. It was part curiosity, part novelty, part evoked desire. He pulled her onto him, kissed her, stroked her, licked her, and brought her to another orgasm.

"Delight!" she said, and fell asleep against him.

Yet he felt guilty. This was supposed to be the real Page, and was wasted on the imprint Page. Was he cruelly teasing a nonexistent person?

The third day Page produced another memory. The new proprietors of the library were a young couple, Record and Writ. They had discovered each other in a library. But their marriage was not perfect; rumors were that they were sexually incompatible. Obviously they could perform with each other, as they had their three plus one. They took turns traveling, one remaining home with the children and the library. That was indicative.

"I am devoted to special books," Page told them when there were no others present. "I know they aren't supposed to leave the library, but my time away from home is limited and I much prefer to read at home. I proffer a trade for the right to borrow them."

"Obscurity," Writ said sharply.

"If there is something lacking in your marriage, perhaps I can provide it."

"Interest," Record said, through his wife glared.

"Demonstration." Page removed her clothing. Then she embraced and kissed Writ, standing, while presenting her bottom to Record. This was a singularly bold move, but she had learned that boldness had its place.

Writ kissed back, discovering interest of her own. Record unlimbered his member and slid it into Page from behind. She wiggled, facilitating his entry to the proper aperture. While the two women continued their deep kiss, he quickly jetted inside Page.

Writ, aware of this, reacted. She flung off her own clothing and embraced Page again, naked. Record also stripped and put his arms around both, kissing their necks. Before long his member recovered. This time he inserted it into Writ's cleft. His climax was slower, and he had to work at it for a while. Page went down to her knees and licked the woman's cleft from in front. Soon she came to climax, together with her husband.

Page had not climaxed, but that was not the point of this exercise. She was trying to make the couple's sex life interesting, for a price.

They washed together. Then, wordlessly, Writ handed Page the book.

Thereafter the partners stopped traveling alone. They seemed to be satisfied with life at home. Again, there was no scandal; no one said anything about any non-library business. There were some considerable sessions, and often Page did achieve gratification too. Simultaneous sex with male and female—that could be fulfilling.

But in time the couple moved to another village, and a new librarian came. Page was qualified, but by this time there was a muted suspicion, and the village elders did not allow her to take over. So now she was looking for a more liberal village. For she had come to like different sex, and did not want to give it up.

That was her present situation. The memory faded.

"It will do," Supe said, and put his hands on her again. This time she became all the way beautiful. There had been no competition, but her memories surely would have won the prizes regardless.

"Confession," Fifth said back at the inn.

"Turn-on," Page agreed. "For me too."

They came together and had urgent mutual fulfillment. It wasn't just that she had become beautiful, or that she now trusted him, or that they were trying to implant her fourth. It was that they had discovered a mutual taste for wild sex.

Fifth made a decision. "When we return to your home, there is something I must do."

She did not question this. Deep down, she knew and understood, and perhaps approved.

Next day they conjured themselves back to her home. Fifth wasn't sure of the protocol for the reverse exchange, so let the woman handle it.

She knocked on the door. It opened, to reveal the original Page, unbeautiful. "I will take your place for three days," the lovely one said. "Go with this man. He will explain."

"Confusion."

"And this is your prize." Suddenly the other Page was beautiful, while Weft was the plain version. "Make the most of it." She handed Fifth a small mirror and entered the house.

"Confusion," the real Page repeated.

"Your imprint shared her memories and won beauty," he said. "See your reflection." He gave her the mirror.

She looked at herself. "Oh!"

"I have agreed to sire your fourth," he said. "Where can we be private?"

She was quick to reorient. "I know where. A friend is away this week."

They went there, and Fifth explained what had happened. He detailed enough of the library memories so that she knew he was not guessing. As he talked, he found that Weft had correctly reflected the real Page; she had intense sex appeal when she was turned on. Fifth understood how others had yielded to her approach, whether old, female, or a couple.

They had a satisfying three days enjoying their mutual taste for wild sex. By the end, Page was sure she had conceived her fourth. "Appreciation," she said. "For everything."

"Mutual," he said.

They returned to her house, where she swapped quickly with Weft, who returned to her own form. Page had not been missed; Weft was competent in such emulations. She also, it turned out, was competent in transferring the enhancements of appearance; Page remained lovely as they parted. Her sex life with her husband was about to improve considerably.

Fifth and Weft returned to her apartment in Triumph City. "I have lined up our next memory quest," she said.

He was not even really surprised. Of course a single memory event was not enough; she was trying to fathom the real motive behind the collections.

The memories continued. All were in Black Chroma zones, to enable him to be himself. They were widely varied; it seemed the machines were interested in many types. But why?

He also found himself steadily emotionally closer to Weft. She was lovely and talented, yes, and considerate of his needs and limitations, and the sex was great, but she was also competent and serious about her mission. She arranged to pay for every memory she borrowed, leaving a trail of well satisfied people who otherwise would have had no break in their indifferent existences. As a person she was in no way inferior to her siblings.

"I have a special one," she said, after one of her searches. "Not a memory; I discovered it when questioning for memories. A Black/White romance."

"Question?"

"A Black Chroma zone lies adjacent to a White Chroma zone. They have periodic gatherings, social events, dances, where they two meet, trying to maintain relations."

"Familiar," he said. "It is best to get along with one's neighbors. Typically they make people dance only with those of the other Chroma. Sometimes they get interested in each other, for the novelty, but it's pretty much no fault. I dated a Red Chroma girl once, after such a dance, but we both knew there was no future in it, because neither could desert the home Chroma."

"Exactly. It is to the king's interest to facilitate trade and prosperity for all, to the extent feasible. So I checked with dad, and he said, sure, take care of it, honey."

Fifth remembered that Weft's ultimate romantic interest was the one man she couldn't have, her father Havoc.

Havoc played along with it, pretending that he would marry Weft if he were free to do so. It was a safe game, because Havoc truly loved Gale, and she would not be passing from the scene. But there was a suspicion that it was more than a game to Weft. "Affirmation," Weft agreed. He was startled to see a tear in her eye.

"Affirmation," she said again. "I have loved him since I was a baby, and always knew it was doomed.

Because I love mom too."

"Inadequacy," Fifth said, unable to make any relevant comment. Weft was more woman than any he had encountered except Gale. It was ironic that Weft had oriented this way.

"Flame calls me Electra. I call her hothead. She is more accurate."

"She is only teasing."

"She is not a tease."

He had to yield the point. When it came to the social graces, Flame was not in the same class as Weft.

"Understanding," he said. "If there is one other than Flame I love, it is your mother, Gale. She was kind to me, and she understands me. I can relate to the way you feel about the prime man in your life."

She gazed at him with honest appreciation. "I need to find another man."

"That might ease the situation," he agreed.

"Unless I took Flame's."

He froze. He had thought there could be no other woman for him than Flame, but now he knew that Weft was that other. Suddenly he was in the middle of a potential quarrel between Glamors. "Inadequacy," he repeated.

Weft returned to business. "A White Chroma girl loves a Black Chroma man, but his family stifled their romance."

"Families do, if they are otherChroma romances."

"We are going to have to try to shame them into acceptance."

Fifth shook his head. "Unlikely, unless you mess with their minds. What is it about this particular romance that makes it relevant to the king's interest?"

"There is a passion flower bed in need of exploitation."

"That would do it," he agreed.

They went to the Black Chroma Village the morning before the dance. Fifth remained at the inn while Weft conjured herself across to the White village to talk with the girl. Soon she returned. "She has agreed, of course."

"And his family?"

"I will need your help."

He knew from her mind what she wanted. He was not fully pleased with it, as there was an element of coercion, but did want to facilitate her mission. "Agreement."

The young man was Carl, seventeen. His parents were Carver and Cassie, the Village elders. Form was very important, for this was a Moral Village. That was why Carl had been required to break off the relationship; too intimate an association with an otherChroma girl was too irregular.

The parents liked to take daily walks to a private place where they had rendezvoused when young. It was a shell; the romance was long since gone from their relationship, but still they went. As a matter of form.

Fifth and Weft intercepted them there. "Greeting," Weft said. "I am the king's daughter Weft, and this is my no fault friend Fifth. We have an interest in your son's prospects for marriage."

"The king's daughter is a Glamor!" Cassie protested. "Take my hand."

The woman took her hand. "You are she! Apology for doubting."

"Needless. This is a special situation. I wish to impress upon you and your husband some tolerance for inter-Chroma romance."

"That White Chroma girl!" he said angrily.

"Hussy" his wife echoed.

"When they trysted," Weft said evenly "before you made your son back off, they discovered the reason for their attraction. They were near a patch of passion flowers."

"Mythology," Carver snorted.

"Reality," Weft said. She produced a large flower. "Here is one. Cut, its potency will fade in hours, but if you smell it you will appreciate its power." She proffered it to Carver. "Aversion!" he said, backing away.

"What harm can it do, if it is mythological?" Weft asked.

Reluctantly he accepted the flower and sniffed it. His eyes dilated.

"What's this?" Cassie demanded. She took the flower from her husband's flaccid fingers and sniffed it. "Oh!"

The two moved into a clinch. Then, embarrassed, they broke apart.

"Carl and Jasmine were just walking together, honoring the two-villages protocol," Weft said.

"They did not know of the flower bed, which formed only recently. Now perhaps you can appreciate what happened."

"Our poor son!" Cassie said.

"Loving a girl he can't marry," Weft said. "Required to marry another girl he will never love. This is certainly unkind."

Cassie still held the flower. She and her husband were moving together again. Realizing, they jerked away again. Cassie threw away the flower.

"Consider," Weft continued. "Such flowers are so rare as to be considered mythological. The village that farms such a flower bed could profit handsomely from trade with other villages. The bed is in the small shade-of-gray overlapping between the two Chroma zones; either zone might claim it. The White Chroma village is more liberal; it is surely better to let it have it."

"Jezebel!" Carver snapped.

"Or perhaps it could be shared. But who could be trusted to supervise such a property without being overcome either by greed or lust?"

"A married interChroma couple," Fifth said on cue. "Neither would care to cheat the other."

The expressions on the faces of the Village elder and his wife were pained. They wanted the profit, and did not want it lost to a rival village. But they would have to make a moral sacrifice, by their definition.

"Tomorrow at the dance Fifth and I will dance and sing, telling the story of this flower bed," Weft said. "I suspect both villages will see the fairness in what we propose. All you need to do is nod. Your village will appreciate your personal sacrifice in the interest of benefiting it. Your son will surely do his part."

"Jezebel!" Carver repeated. He and his wife departed.

Weft smiled. "They will make love in the middle of the day. Highly irregular. They haven't done that for decades."

"I gather you don't approve of moral villages."

"They're entitled. But a girl like me would never fit in."

"Agreement!"

That night in the inn they made love as usual, which meant the unusual, using a bottle of berry juice and several orifices. Fifth had never before had such delight in such varied sex. Anything he could imagine, Weft could and would do with joyful abandon.

"It's a pleasure being with you," she said, responding to his thought as she rode his stained but standing member.

"You're not jaded the way Glamor men are. Your feelings are open and honest, and your delight in sex becomes mine.

You are realistic about my nature. You make a nice plaything."

"Appreciation," he said wryly, though he knew what she meant.

"Clarification: when I said I might take you, I did not mean by force. I would not do that to my sister even if I could. It would have to be your choice."

"But this is merely a month long affair with a natural end scheduled. You have no obligation to continue the game beyond that."

"It is not a game to me any more."

He paused, still deep within her. She was not playing a game with Havoc. Now she was not playing a game with Fifth. "Question?"

"I would accept you, if you chose me. You would never be the first man in my fancy but you could be my husband and father of three of my children. You would never lack for attention or support. Or sex. I do not use the word love now, but it would come if I let it. And I would. You understand the constraints."

"Wonder," he said. She was serious.

"I have spoken my piece. There is no deadline, no coercion. I will not expire in grief if you choose Flame, though I would like to think we could still have no fault trysts. I will know when you decide, and accept it, either way." She looked down, and changed the subject. "But no more dead stick. Perform." Her vagina squeezed his member like a hungry mouth, rousing it after its prior performance in the juice.

He tried to tease her, at least in this manner, by remaining passive, but her hot flesh massaged his penis as she lifted and descended, letting it almost escape, then plunging down again to measure the full depth, repeatedly, forcing his repeat orgasm. Then she lay on him and kissed him.

"I will consider," he said. Had he had to decide at this moment, he would have committed to her. But he knew she wanted him to weigh his options carefully, just as Flame had, so that he could decide what he truly wanted.

"Nu-uh," she said, frowning prettily. "You can't marry us both."

He laughed, but his secret wish remained. How could he choose between them?

Next day was the dance. Fifth and Weft were given a place on the schedule before the couples paired off. They had a presentation to make.

He was a Black Chroma man, an easy role. Weft was a White Chroma woman, her hair and skin becoming completely white along with her clothing. That did not conceal her beauty, which was outstanding; Weft was actually one of the loveliest women on the planet. She did the narration.

"It was the interChroma dance. Every couple had to be two Chroma. They could change partners, but only among the other Chroma, whether they danced, snacked, conversed, or walked. So it happened that a sixteen year old White Chroma girl danced with a seventeen year old Black Chroma boy."

She moved to Fifth, and they danced together, while the village musicians played their instruments, black and white. They made a handsome mixed Chroma couple, Black and White. Fifth was an excellent dancer, and so was Weft; they did a marvelously sophisticated number that had the villagers, black and white, applauding.

"It was the last dance before a break," Weft continued. "So by custom those partners remained together; only when the dancing resumed could they change partners again. They were stuck with each other." She made a face, and there was laughter. Many forced temporary couples were reluctant, but this pair was obviously compatible.

"So they took a walk between the Chroma zones, holding hands, a pretty girl and a handsome man. Naturally once they were out of sight of others, they let go; neither was participating by preference.

"Then something happened. They did not know they were passing a newly-sprung bed of passion flowers. All they knew was that suddenly they had passion for each other that would not be denied."

Fifth and Weft embraced and kissed, evincing that passion. They remained close for long enough to signal to the audience that more than a kiss was occurring. Such subtle signals became important when Moral Villagers were watching.

"Then they separated. 'This can't be,' the girl said. 'We are of different Chroma.'

"'InterChroma marriage is known,' he said.

"'Then perhaps there is hope. But best that this be secret, for now.'

"'Best,' he agreed.

"They agreed to meet at the same place two days thence. The girl longed for the tryst, for she had fallen in love with Carl. She consoled herself in the interim by singing a song."

Now Weft brought out her hammer dulcimer and donned the finger hammers. She played her own accompaniment as she sang the old Earth folk song "To the Woodland".

Fifth saw the villagers abruptly mesmerized. Weft was one of the most beautiful women of the planet, but she was the best singer. Every nuance was apt and compelling. The simple melody became heart-warmingly evocative in her rendition.

She repeated the refrain, and Fifth, prompted by her thought to him, stepped into a bright patch of sunlight. At that moment he was illuminated, a handsome Black Chroma man being serenaded by a breathtakingly beautiful woman.

There was something about the inflections as she played and sang that was utterly charming. Fifth had known she was expert, but not how moving her song could be. He saw the villagers responding, sharing her sheer joy of anticipation.

"But when she went there, he did not appear." Weft paused. "She did not know that he had gone to his father, to ask permission to marry her. Instead his father had forbidden him to see the girl again. The boy dared not disobey. So he had come, but remained out of her sight, suffering. He heard her song of anguish."

Now she sang again, playing her dulcimer, while Fifth stood a little apart, facing away from her. He was being out of sight. It was the song "Waly Waly," familiar to the villagers, but not when sung as passionately as this.

And of course that would be never. Weft hung her head, evincing grief, while Fifth stood shaking with mirrored grief. It was heart-rending lost love, made more poignant by the stunning loveliness of the mourner.

Some of the village women were wiping away tears, and some children were crying. And Fifth, playing a part, nevertheless felt the impact of the sorrowful song.

He knew he loved Weft.

Then Weft stood and addressed the people of the two villages directly. "This story is true. Two of your number did encounter a bed of passion flowers and were swept into love. I have brought one of the flowers as proof." She set a cut flower in a vase on the joint table. "Do not approach it too closely; its fumes could affect you."

There were a few chuckles. Then the villagers realized that this was not a joke. Some edged away from the flower; others edged toward it. Regardless, its subtle fragrance was infusing the air, making everyone increasingly passionate. Not by a lot, not intense, but enough to turn thoughts to romance. Fifth felt it himself.

"The girl is Jasmine of the White Chroma village. The boy is Carl, son of the Village Elder of the Black Chroma village." Suddenly all eyes turned to the two, who until this moment had been anonymous. "They are in love, but can't see each other. Soon Carl will turn eighteen and have to marry a Black Chroma girl he will never love, and next year Jasmine will face similar grief with a White Chroma boy. It seems a shame, for them and for their partners, who will be blameless."

The villagers nodded with understanding. Wouldn't it make sense for an exception to be made?

Weft faced Carver, the Black Village Elder. "Did you know they trysted, that first time? They couldn't help it; no one could. How do you feel about that?"

And it was a Moral Village. Sex outside of marriage was forbidden.

"They trysted?" Carver frowned. He knew he had to reverse himself, lest there be serious discord in both villages. Fortunately there was a face-saving way. "Then they must marry. Soon."

Jasmine and Carl stared at him. Then they moved together as the villagers applauded.

"The flower bed must be cared for," Weft continued. "Those passion flowers are singularly rare and valuable.

There will be enormous demand for cuttings elsewhere. But how can fairness in their handling be assured? I suggest that each village will have to assign a representative to reside at the site, to ensure that proper care is taken, that brigands do not steal them, and that the proceeds are evenly divided between the villages. But anyone going there will soon be overcome by passion. Do we have any volunteers?"

There was silence. A cut flower was one thing; being chronically immersed in the fumes was another. This would be extremely hard on morality.

"I suggest that the Village Elders assign their representatives," Weft continued. "Carl and Jasmine, who have already been overcome by the ambiance of the flowers. They have nothing more to lose, and much to gain. For themselves and their villages. Surely you can trust them."

The two Village Elders exchanged a look. They nodded, yielding to community pressure. It did make sense. The villagers applauded. The decision had been set up by Weft's meetings with the Elders the day before, but it seemed spontaneous. Everyone would profit.

Now the dance commenced, the lead-in for a rapid wedding. Fifth and Weft danced together, then were taken by eager villagers. Fifth danced with many White Chroma girls, and Weft with Black Chroma boys.

The girls flirted shamelessly with him, offering no fault trysts. But he had an answer: "My love is taken," as he glanced Weft's way. "How could I ever be no fault with anyone but her?" And of course Weft was responding similarly to the boys. It was a deft mutual convenience that happened to have considerable substance.

Through it all, Fifth's mind was reeling. Weft used her organization and persuasion to benefit the planet, two villages, and a young couple in love. What a woman she was! Of course he knew that she had used her awareness of the near future paths to guide her to the successful course; that was why things had worked out so neatly. Still, it was impressive. Not only had she accomplished her spot mission of getting the passion flower trade established, she had done it in such a way as to enable young love to flourish. She was, beneath her awesome powers, a nice person.

He loved her. But he also loved Flame. What was he to do?

That night at the inn, intoxicated by the vaporous elixir of the flower and by Weft's embrace, he suffered a revelation. "The memory project!" he exclaimed. "I think I know why the machines are doing it."

She paused. "Question?"

"They are looking for something. They are following multiple avenues, such as Mino who came here over a thousand years ago, and the fifths who started a generation ago, the robot Shee, the survival contest Flame participated in, and now the memory collections for their archives. All may be overtly for other reasons, but underlying it is this common thread. The search."

"What are they looking for?"

"It's not a specific thing so much as a pattern. I don't know what it is, but they will know it when they find it. So will I. I think that's what makes me a nexus. I will discover what the machines truly want."

"How do you know this?"

"I don't know, but somehow I do know. Read my mind."

"Verified." She made a moue. "I am holding you close, and your mind is on something else."

He winced. "Apology."

She laughed. "Teasing. You are lending meaning to my quest. But what pattern could be so important that the machines are putting such an enormous amount of energy into their search for it?"

"I think if we can fathom that, we will gain a significant advantage."

"I have advised Voila and Idyll. Appreciation, Fifth."

"Welcome." He focused on her. "Now let's make wild passionate romantic sexual love."

"I thought you'd never think of it," she said as their clothing dissolved.