Chapter 7

Gray is a color. Or a mood. It's that undefined area between black and white. Gray is nothing. It has no form or substance. It just hangs there, ominous, threatening-above all, depressing. Mark hated gray. He liked everything orderly, definite. Black should be black, otherwise it lacked definition and was disorderly. It was the same with right and wrong, but he wouldn't fight that today. Not after last night. Last night was a time of clutching sheets, searching for a comfortable position, cursing his inability to sleep. Mark was confused; not a new condition for him, but one he absolutely despised. He would never have made a good sailor. He hated to tack, preferring to damn the wind and set a straight course from here to there.

"It must be the weather," he said aloud, although he was alone in his room standing by the window in his robe. It was still outside-and gray, a light charcoal gray. Not a leaf on the jacaranda tree by the window moved. Then, as he watched, the rain began. First a single drop hit the window pane, then another, then several, and soon the entire pane was speckled with tiny dots. He was about to comment on how silent the rain was when a clap of thunder shook the leaves and rattled the window pane. Now the water came down in sheets, a heavy, hard rain. Tree branches, heavy laden with water, bent toward the pound. Puddles formed on the lawn and water began gushing out of the drain pipes. A burst of lightaing, a clap of thunder and more rain. Gray.

Mark shaved, showered and dressed for the day, fighting his gray mood with silent pep-talks and gay whistling. Only once did he think of Jane Horner, alone in the Game Room with the rain beating down on the building, and he pushed that from his mind with a stern warning to himself. "For Christ's sake," he said to no one in particular, "don't worry about her! Worry about yourself, you're the one who's disintegrating! Before you know it, you'll be a dues-paying member of the Establishment."

The rain stopped as quickly as it began, and by the time Mark came downstairs the sun was shining. Knowing it was too wet for the gazebo, Mark headed for the main dining room where he found Gorman and his employer enjoying a cup of coffee.

"Good morning, Mark. How did you like our little shower?"

"Good morning, Senor Guzman-Doctor. Is this the beginning of the rainy season?"

"I wouldn't flunk so," Guzman said with a smile. "I think you could call this just a preview. The season should begin in another two or three weeks."

"Does it rain like this all the time in the rainy season?"

"Every day, but only for an hour or two. Usually in the late afternoons. Some years you can set your watch by the rain. It comes between four and five every afternoon," Gorman replied.

"Sit down and have some coffee, Mark," Senor Guzman said. "I'd like to hear what you've found out on that assignment I gave you."

Mark poured himself a steaming cup of coffee, picked up two sweet rolls and sat down at the table.

"Well, as you know, I put calls in to Pete and Ed the day before yesterday. Then I spent all day yesterday going over some of the files and news clippings we have. I found some interesting things and I put in another call to Pete. He worked some minor miracles and got back to me last night."

"And what's it look like?" Guzman asked, obviously anxious for Mark to come to the point. "Is the news good or bad?"

"That all depends on how you look at it. First of all, the organization is quite informal. Headquarters are in Omaha, and everywhere else it operates out of people's homes-the volunteers'. They don't have regular meetings. Jane Horner and a man named Reverend James tour a number of states making speechs to P.T.A. groups, church groups, and even some civic organizations. The thing that binds them all together is a newsletter put out monthly by the headquarters in Omaha. A woman named Mildred Thatcher writes that.

"It seems the operation centers around the organization putting pressure on civic groups and even law enforcement agencies to crack down on marijuana. This extends to a constant pressure put on congressmen and senators, which I gather is an effort to halt any legalization of marijuana.

"The primary effort, however, is directed at the high school and college level. The organization publishes leaflets and leans pretty heavy on just about everybody...."

"Pardon my interruption, Mark, but don't they claim that pot has contributed to increased sexual activity among the younger generation?" Guzman asked.

"Right! The morality bit is one of their big scenes. Miss Horner seems to believe the entire sexual revolution is a direct result of pot. She claims the minute a kid lights up a stick he gives up morality and immediately becomes a sex maniac. Lately, though, I note that she has soft-pedaled this some. Offhand I'd say the scientific reports showing no relationship between sex and marijuana have armed some of her audiences with questions she couldn't answer. Like all crusaders, she has a deft way of avoiding facts that don't fit the pitch she's pushing."

"You say 'soft-pedaled,' do you mean they've stopped using this particular put-down?" Guzman asked.

"Not entirely, no. A year or so ago they were leaning hard and heavy on sex and marijuana. Every pot party was an orgy, and they had the P.T.A. and civic groups on the rampage. Business was booming because sex is something everybody can get really whipped up over. Scientists and doctors laughed at this and magazines began printing some of the factual reports.

"Even though Miss Horner's whole concept is based on Bible Belt emotionalism, she felt she had better move to safer ground. So the pitch changed. Right now they harp on marijuana leading to narcotic addiction, anti-social behavior and crime, personality disintegration, and that good old standby, brain damage. The sex bit is still there, but it's no longer the central theme. And personally I think they've lost a lot of steam as a result."

"Do you think legahzation is eminent, Mark?" Gorman asked as he stood up and walked over to pour himself another cup of coffee.

"Hardly, Doctor," replied Guzman. "Politcally, legalization is impossible. The United States is too far committed through the United Nations and all. The point Mark is making is that the public may adopt a more tolerant attitude. Right, Mark?"

"Oh, I think that's already happened! The more the truth is known about pot, the less excited the public is about the whole issue."

"And that's as dangerous for us as legalization," said Guzman.

"Senor Guzman, I wish you'd explain that to me. On the surface it would appear to me that the more tolerant people become toward marijuana, the better our business will be. I need to understand your reasoning if I'm to do a proper job for you."

Senor Guzman leaned back in his chair and gazed steadily into Mark's eyes. Mark had brought this up before, and he knew it was time to educate his youngest staff member. He had to leave for Mexico City shortly, and a conference with Gorman was necessary before he left. So his chat with Mark would just have to wait.

"All in good time, Mark," he said. "We'll have a long strategy meeting this week. Right now, though, what did you find out about staff meetings in Miss Horner's organization?"

"Well, as I said, they don't have regular meetings. The people are all volunteers, non-paid, and scattered over a many-state area. There is a meeting scheduled, though. Twenty women and ten men are due in Omaha next month for a conference. Miss Horner is to give a report on the conference in Mexico City, and the organization is paying the transportation and lodging for those coming in. Without her, I doubt there will be a meeting."

"Hmm!" Guzman said, lost in thought and stroking his chin for a moment. "Are there area meetings?"

"Yes. In most big cities they try to meet on the second Thursday of each month, but these are poorly organized and attendance is not steady. If Miss Horner's in town to address them, they have a good turn-out."

"It might just work, then. Tell you what, Mark. Call Pete and have him find out exactly how many of these meetings there are. I need a fairly accurate count, give or take say ten per cent. Just the major ones, not the one-horse towns. Get the dates they're scheduled to meet next month, and get addresses. Find out where they meet and who's in charge. Okay?"

"I'll get on it right now, if you want."

"Good! I'll be in Mexico City until tomorrow, but let's plan to go over all of this when I get back."

Mark finished the last of his coffee and left for the communications room. Senor Guzman seemed lost in thought for a moment, and Gorman interrupted him with a question.

"Want to tell me what's on your mind?"

"I'm not sure yet. A lot actually depends on you, Doctor."

"Oh?"

"I have several ideas," Guzman continued, becoming very business like. "Their success depends on a good many factors-perhaps too many. A little while ago the senator from Michigan made the statement he had been brainwashed by Washington about conditions in Vietnam...."

"It was the governor, Governor Romney," Gorman interrupted.

"No matter. Because he was running for president, everyone scoffed at this. What I want to know is could it have happened?"

Gorman smiled. His employer, usually so well informed on everything, was definitely leading somewhere with all of this. He pulled a package of Delicados from his pocket, lifted one of the oval-shaped cigarettes from the pack, tapped it against the top of the teak table and lit it. The strong, acrid taste of the cigarette made his mouth rebel for a moment. In all these years he had never become accustomed to Mexican cigarettes. After the first puff he could endure them, but the first puff was always hell.

"Certainly you must realize," he said, "that all of that was politically inspired. What the governor meant was that he had been psychologically conditioned, fed propaganda so that his judgment would be clouded about what he saw."

"I know that, Doctor. What I'm asking is if it's possible to brainwash someone, especially in a relatively short period of time."

Gorman now saw the direction the conversation was taking, but he wanted Guzman to take it there. It was, after all his idea, so let him explore it.

"That depends on a great number of things, the individual, the circumstances, the amount of time and the objective," he replied.

"Given the average person and the average circumstances, what time are we talking about?"

"Again, it'd depend on a number of factors. The North Koreans, in their little skirmish with the Americans in the fifties, had some amazing successes. In some cases they achieved their goals in from three to six months. I'd say the average would take closer to a year, though. I'm assuming that you're talking about working against the individual's will and making a complete transformation with absolute reversal of attitude."

"Let's stop fencing, Doctor. I'm talking about Jane Horner. How long would it take you to turn her into a completely sensual person, something perhaps just a shade shy of a nymphomaniac?"

Gorman got up and walked to the window. He'd been expecting this, of course, and the idea of turning that luscious blonde into a sex machine appealed to him, excited him. He would have to handle Guzman with care so that he would not change his mind.

"That's a tall order, Avillo," he said. "It means a complete reversal of character."

"You saw her respond to Paco's tongue and prick as well as I did," Guzman said, his voice becoming slightly impatient and crisp.

"Admittedly that was a good sign. It showed that she is capable of responding to erotic stimulation, but that's only part of the story, you know. It's possible I could bring her around in six months, but I'd say it might be closer to a year."

"How about ten days?"

Gorman swung around to face his employer. His first reaction was that he must be joking, but he saw that Guzman's face was perfectly serious. The eyes were set in a cold stare, and not even a trace of a smile was on his lips.

"Impossible!"

"Why?"

"Look, I can see you're quite serious, but so am I. It just can't be done, not even with physical torture."

"Her body must not be marked!"

"It can't be done in under six months! Probably longer." Gorman began pacing the area in front of the window, trying to consider every aspect of the problem his employer had presented him. "Electric shock. Yes, I suppose I could use shock; find her current attitudes, begin indoctrinating her with new ideas, enforce the indoctrination with various forms of punishment, set up a concentrated schedule...."

"How far would you be in say two weeks?"

"I might have her to the sex slave stage, maybe even demanding it."

"Would she do anything and everything?"

"Perhaps."

"Even participate in an orgy?"

"Yes, I think so. I'm not sure, you understand. I have no idea how she'll react or the problems I'll encounter. Whatever it was, we'd have to contain everything here. She couldn't be sent outside, if that's what you're thinking. No matter how much I accomplished, it wouldn't be firmly enough established in two weeks. She very well might rebel the moment she was away from me."

"Well, that answers my next question. Doctor, let's make sure we understand one another. I don't want Jane Homer to be an automaton, a zombie who goes through various acts like a trained seal. She must look and act normal. I want her to put on a sex circus like it was the most natural, and the most enjoyable, thing in the world for her. Her body must not be marked in any way, is that clear?"

"Perfectly clear." The Doctor's answer was automatic. His mind was already racing through the myriad of problems he would have to overcome to accomplish this feat. He knew it could be done, but the time element bothered him. "I only hope you know just how difficult this'll be. Why must it be in two weeks? Can't we take several months and do it right?"

"Because, my dear Doctor, whatever we do with Miss Homer must be done soon if we are to benefit by it. Right now we have the advantage. Nobody knows she's missing. Once they do, a great part of our advantage is missing. The critical time comes with the conference in Mexico City, and I'll have to come up with something to deal with that. Whatever I do can only buy us a very short amount of time-a week to ten days at best. And there'll be some mechanical problems, which I suspect with take a good part of that time."

"Avillo, just what are we going to do with Miss Homer?"

Before Guzman could reply, Consuela walked into the dining room. She was wearing a bright green bikini, as if she was headed for the swimming pool, but she went directly to the sideboard and poured herself a cup of coffee. Her large ripe breasts were barely contained in the thin piece of material, the nipples clearly defined as they pressed out. Her luxurious growth of pubic hair padded the bright V the material made between her thighs, and hairs stuck out on each side. A bright green ribbon held her hair back, and her high heel shoes were dyed to match her suit. The color of green made a startling contrast to her olive skin.

"Am I interrupting something?" she asked.

"No," Guzman replied, standing and preparing to leave. "We were finished for now. I have to go to the city today and I'm late now. Going for a swim?"

"Perhaps. I thought it might be nice after the rain. By the way, do you think the Horner girl is recovered enough for me to have a little session with her? I haven't had a blonde like that in a long while."

"Doctor?" Guzman said, turning to Gorman.

"Yes. Yes, definitely. I think it'd be an excellent overture! Don't be the least bit gentle with her, Consuela. I think she should be tied down for you."

"That suits me just fine. In fact, that was just what I was thinking. I doubt she'd stand still for some of the things I have in mind."

"Again," Guzman interjected, "I must warn both of you. Miss. Horner's body is not to be marked!"