Chapter 2

Bed and Board

The cast party threatened to spill out of the theater foyer and run riot on the rest of St. Cloud University's campus. A boom box thundered heavy metal out into the hot night Orinda, California, sweltered in its breezeless valley.

Away from the guitar-heavy concussions, Dorothy Til-den sat on a stone bench overlooking the freeway and Bay Area Rapid Transit line that bisected the little community. The still Art Deco lines of the landmark Orinda Theata lay visible in the business district lights.

She tipped the Calvados bottle heavily over Gerry Vestry's glass. "Bracing up for the Fall Semester onslaught?"

The student wrinkled her nose, silver-rimmed glasses edging higher. "It's rough in the summer. Our alumni adviser for Sigma House, Lucretia Sue Merydith, is resting her duff in the sun somewhere with a girl she knew from her time in England."

"Georgia's belated answer to William Tecumseh Sherman lived in Blightie? I'll have to compare notes. I spent some time over there teaching in my salad years."

"As incoming vice-president in charge of pledge training I'm going to be up to my appendix scar in-" Something shattered not too far behind them. Dionysian giggles rolled out the foyer doors.

"Sorority life is taking off again, I imagine." Dorothy Tilden slugged down more apple brandy. "The Ronnie Reagan syndrome, nostalgia for Leave It to Beaver and Dobie Gillis. Army recruiters blossom once more on campus, and Greek life flourishes."

"The clone sororities are booming. Quirky little Sigma Epsilon Xi-" A couple dashed past them. Hurled plastic cups hit the pavement behind the fleeing pair.

"Wasn't that your Antony? Jesus Christ Super-stud?" Gerry Vestry nodded toward the departing footsteps.

"Ron Ladrone, yes. His prowess as God's gift to the stage may be only exceeded by his devotion to little Miss Mona Forbes. Or not so-little-miss if you contemplate her vital statistics . . . and her vitals."

"Mona ... is she on our house bid sheets? Oops." The sorority girl touched fingertips to her lips. "Confidential house business. No can talk."

"If she should pledge to Sigma, count on having Ron ornamenting your social parlor half the day and night." The Drama Department professor chuckled. "I have him slated to tailgate in Hamlet next season. All the blue-rinsed alumnae who creamed their arthritic support pantihose over his Antony will ape out once I have him strutting his stuff as the Dane."

"You almost lost him for your next summertime spectacular. The Ladrones have some relatives in the Caribbean." Gerry Vestry sipped her Calvados. "He was supposed to be heading there in a couple of days with his sister, Jan."

"So Ron told me. I only got his services for School for Scandal because his lady love is taking some summer intra courses here to ease the transition from high school to big-time learning."

Dorothy Tilden cackled, shaking her head. "My budget depends on the turn out and on the endowments the department gets from those panting ladies who form Ron's main rooting section. God, like the days of Toscanini--only one name sells tickets and skims the cream of those alumnae donations."

"I've been dragooned into chaperoning Jan." The Sign vice-president stared off into the night. "Mom and pop want someone to hold her leash. We're flying down to somewhere Monday, then taking a boat. I hate to leave the house, but it's a free ticket, and it's only for a coupled weeks. Have you ever heard of an island called Man! Blanc?"

" 'White Tuesday'? Is that the day before Ash Wednesday? No, wait a minute, that's Fat Tuesday. No. A new holy day of obligation?"

"That's the island we'll be visiting, mostly."

"Better you than Ron. I started a brush fire by rubbing him up against Shandel'la's Cleopatra. The ladies are hoi to trot for Scandal. Without matinee idol Ron, it'd be tried-and-true laugh-an-hour Noel Coward instead of daring, experimental Sheridan."

Gerry Vestry thought. "I saw The Vortex out in Concord recently. Kinda cute, particularly the guy playing the boy, the coke fiend."

"Damn fine production. Pawnie made the show for me." The drama instructor brooded. "Coward can hit greatness with the right cast. Not my clutch of amiable scene-stealers. It becomes just routine wit-fencing.

"Give me a Private Lives with Richard Burton and Marilyn Monroe, and Robert Preston and Dorothy Tutin for support duty."

"They're all dead."

She blinked, upset. "Even Tutin? I used to dream about becoming her. That sexy voice. If I'd been born English... No, not stardom for me, just my whip and chair trying to put leopard-sexy Ron through his paces to fatten the box office so I can produce . . . Damn it, I've forgotten the dream season I wanted once we'd gotten the budget squared away."

Dorothy Tilden laughed hoarsely into the drowsy university town night. The girl at her side splashed some more Calvados into her own glass and slugged down a soul-soothing jolt.

Mona Forbes drifted up the stairs sometime after midnight. Amused, boozed, and carnally used . . . she'd had a glorious evening. Sunday would be a bitch, getting the apartment back in shape to face her drill sergeant cousin.

Tonight, however, had been a dream, a Cinderella fantasy where she'd been to the Prince's ball and then balled her Prince and . . .

"Oh!" Her vivid mauve eyes went wide and faintly panicked. She stood in the doorway, key in the lock, door open. "You."

"You expected, maybe, Sheena, Queen of the Jungle?" Rita Henshaw gestured broadly about their shared living room. "She'd feel perfectly at home. This pit is kissing kin to a rain forest."

Mona shot furtive glances around the room. She had really been going to spend all Sunday cleaning it. Honest. The whole apartment.

"Fortunate that stepmama and I found subjects on which to mutually disagree. Otherwise, I would have been down in Carmel until Monday evening."

The buxom young businesswoman strolled among the tangled copies of People ("Fergie v. Liz: Diet Duel of the 80's"), stained candy box liners, and rumpled heaps of sweat-ripe clothing.

"Judging from the time," Rita consulted her watch, "we may both have planned to come back the same day."

"It's only--" Mona blinked at the happy face mantle clock. The yellow disk had a bizarre blood-like splotch across it and a liquid crystal sweep hand. Her stomach fluttered. "It is kind of 1:30, isn't it?"

"In the inky blackness of morning. Where has Miss Night Owl been 'owling?"

"Ron took me to the cast party."

"Oh, did they finally close that stud show down after three weeks of extensions? How will the coeds and female faculty survive without his come-hither glances to prime their dreams?"

"Uh, Miss Tilden's got him in School for Scandal next and then he's Hamlet in the fall, too."

"Giving private tutoring lessons in scandal just now, was he?" Rita arched an eyebrow. "I seem to recall your weekend curfew chimes at 11:30. Or has the world advanced in the few days I've been away?"

"Um, no, I guess it hasn't." Mona suddenly felt badly in need of a hole to hide in.

"I wondered if you'd sublet the joint in my absence, Some wild gypsies ransacked the kitchen. Butter has formed the cutest design on the table. The jam has some interesting fuzzy things growing, sitting out on the counter with the top off. A biology project, perhaps?"

The corners of Mona's mouth twitched downward painfully.

"Two empty See's boxes had broken loose and roamed across the floor to die," Rita continued. "Fortunately,! know that couldn't have been you, since your candy ration stands at only six pieces a week."

"I got hungry."

"Thank heavens you warded off starvation. May I assume that plate of sandwiches I left got mailed to sub-Saharan famine victims? Since you were weak from calorie malnutrition you couldn't have had any hand in polishing them off."

"They tasted great."

"It's rewarding to have one's skills recognized." She crooked a brightly nailed finger. "Perhaps I can show off other of my talents. Come, little one."

Not so little . . . Mona felt all-too conscious of her round California Girl buttocks. Sharing digs with Rita had seriously painful drawbacks.

In their cozy bedroom something shockingly unpleasant lay on Mona's wadded bedspread. A palm-wide blade two feet long extended from a stubby, friction-taped handle.

"That's a-a paddle!" Under shiny clear varnish ten red capitals floridly advertised: MONA FORBES.

"Maple wood, hand-crafted. No pains spared so that no pain would be spared." Rita circled about the girl with feline grace. "Your uncle has such an inspired way with tools. You can count nineteen tiny holes drilled through the flat, right where they'll do the most good. He'll add one next birthday."

Mona's gluteal flesh twitched frantically. Rita didn't even know she'd put in a bid for three sororities for the fall.

"Be sure to write him a nice, gracious note." The young woman's sharp nails trailed along the polished paddlewood. "Show it to me before you mail it." Mona guessed the penalty for not being gushily appreciative enough. "You're not going to cane me anymore?" Twenty-six inches of English punishment rattan had been the major hazard of her life with Rita to this point. "Such a thought! I wouldn't dream of depriving you. No, that nicely shaped rump Mary See has been padding out with milk chocolate still gets the stick for your curfew violation. Two hours overdue."

Nine, Mona realized dismally. Five for the first hour late, two extra for each additional half-hour. Or fraction thereof. Drat Ron and his utterly irresistible backseat foreplay.

"The maple love-patter will help provide the consequences for the candy, the heathen sty we see around us, and the general aura of carelessness run amok. Anything use seem unfamiliar, aside from your bottom's new playmate?"

Mona glanced about warily. Her used underwear still carpeted the floor in front of her dresser. A faint, cloying scent reminded her to cap her bath cologne sometime soon. The mess seemed pretty much as she'd left it when Ron had honked downstairs.

"My sheets!" Her eyes focused on her bed.

The top blanket, red and bristly, lay directly on a dark brown wool second blanket. No hint of white percale top | or bottom sheet showed.

"Brilliant deduction, Ms. Watson. You know my methods."

Rita smiled. "Every time you mess our room, you can picture yourself spending all night between those rather coarse comforters-mother naked, need I add? With your hands tied snugly to the headboard.

"Scratching and self-abuse will definitely be out, though I suspect that itching will definitely but positively be IN.

"Rita-!" Mona's deep golden hair framed an oval, woe-struck face in the room's vanity mirror. She realized how vulnerable she looked and shut her mouth.

"Believe me, after a tight tanning, that woolen blanket won't be at all pleasant. So. Shall we test it out?" The woman retrieved the paddle from the rumpled blanket. "Hassock time, dumpling."

"Can't you punish me in the morning-I mean, after we sleep?" Mona stared starkly at her horrid bed. "It's almost 2:00 a.m."

"Whose fault is that, eh? You won't be lacking come sun-up. The curfew caning tomorrow morn should feel really spectacular across paddle-tender sit-upons. You can anticipate it in your innocent and love-tossed dreams. Nine brisk ones, shortly after rising tomorrow."

Mona followed her cousin haplessly into the living room. The too-familiar clawfoot leather hassock awaited. She spread her bare tummy over it too many times while Rita sliced the living Dickens out of her dimpled fanny.

"Suppose you shed that party dress first, hmmm?" The young woman rummaged for some cord in the too suitable Edwardian lowboy near the bedroom door. "Don't be modest. I've closed the blinds."

Thankful for the small favor, Mona wrestled her dress down past her lips. The tiny, apparently ancient biddy on the top floor across the street had been given some rich eyefuls lately.

Rita'd gotten the cute idea of leaving curtains open and blinds up, to give her whippings greater effect. The old busybody'd even taken to using field glasses the past couple of tannings, for a really good look.

Vividly aware of her recent love-making, Mona stood in her lingerie.

"Bra, too, I think," her cousin directed. "Don't pout so. I haven't asked you to lower your panties, have I?"

"No. You like doing that yourself."

The coed unhooked her brassiere, freeing a jouncy 38-inch bust. The blue-veined globes undulated as she breathed. She thanked God that skin didn't take fingerprints, though Ron had done his best to leave some. The kissable dark nipples didn't show any of his teasing little half-bites, either.

"Shoes, too. You can keep the garter belt and nylons. They frame your tender spots so nicely."

The girl cursed her roommate's splendid muscle-tone as she undid her party shoes. Rita's brisk morning exercises kept her arm hard and her own 40-inch dugs firmly up-thrust, despite her prejudice against a bra.

"Over you go." Rita playfully whacked the low hassock. The paddle hit the leather with a deep, bruising sound. "The piper has his bill stamped OVERDUE in big red letters."

The only scarlet letters Mona saw spelled her own name on that maple blade. The cool steerhide upholstery chilled her nearly naked skin. The tiny, delicate briefs scarcely covered essentials.

Her face hovered over the rug. She held out her wrists. Rita bound them efficiently with the ritual twine, then Mona rested them on the carpet.

Teeth locked, fingers folded, and bowels tensed, she tried not to shiver as busy fingers invaded her panties.

The waistband slipped maddeningly across her tingling buttocks. Skin that Ron had cherished and brought to erotic flame crawled with gooseflesh. The sheer nylon whispered down her bottom, dropping the length of her thighs to rest at her knees.

"Don't forget to count."

"How many, please, Rita?" She liked to know so she could pace her endurance.

"I'm not really sure," her cousin chuckled.

The flat maple surface brushed Mona's cleft mounds. She knew that puckering her cheeks only made the sting worse. Still ... the netherglobes squeezed together with apprehension.

S-m-a-c-k! The strange, harsh sound hit her ears. Muscle masses slammed in against her pelvic bones.

"One," the girl gulped, absorbing the rising hurt. Thank you, ma'am."

A second beastly s-p-l-a-t drove her lips hard against the hassock. The nineteen damned holes-each stretched and pinched her skin. Fiery stars twinkled along the broad paddle-sting.

"Two. Thank you, ma'am."

Bitch . . . Three and four had her shoulders shaking, She hurt all down her bottom. White-hot pips burned maddeningly. Damn her inventive uncle!

"How is our newest family member treating you?"

"I think-I know-Rita, I have to go . . ." Damn, why hadn't she begged to visit the bathroom first?

"If you really, really can't hold it in, and aren't just trying to take a breather, I can put you on all fours in the bathtub. We can start all over from swat one, and your bladder can misbehave without fear."

Mona hated that more than having the blinds up in broad daylight. "N-no, not necessary."

The bonfire in her posterior crackled with two loud paddleslaps. She stuttered out lying thanks. Tears began to drift helplessly down her shiny nose.

"Nine . . . thank you ... ten . . ."

Her rear made theatrical leaps as the wood walloped it She could imagine the cool toilet seat soothing the blazing skin.

"Fourteen . . . fif-fifteen . . . Christ, Rita!"

She bawled unashamedly over the creaking leather hassock as her lips squirmed. Somehow . . . someway ... no more swats fell. She slowly realized that as her head pounded with an ache that failed to mask the agonized throbs in her behind.

"I think dad deserved those woodworking trophies he keeps in his workshop. Though I doubt that the judges quite had this tail-warmer in mind." Rita leaned down to untie Mona's wrists. "Well-scoot! Pick up your mess in the morning. Or should I occupy the bathroom ahead of you?"

Mona strained to push herself upright. Her panties flopped flimsily at her stockinged feet. She stepped free with a mincing skip.

Her hindquarters protested as she hurried to the can. "Don't forget to pop your technicolor rump di-RECTLY after brushing your teeth," Rita called after her. "No nightie. Make it quick. Remember, I have to tie you in for the night."

The bathroom door banged sharply. Mona stared a moment at her tear-wet face in the slightly distorted medicine cabinet mirror.

She had to pledge to some sorority-she just had to! It was the only way her parents would let her live apart from Rita.

Her thighs quivered like rubbery things as she made a pained squat. Her paddle-hot flesh hovered just over the urgently needed comode's seat. She tried to pee without setting her abused bottom down, She failed, and fresh tears dripped from her chin.

Stiff, prickly wool on all sides set Mona's whole body horribly a-squirm immediately. That soon settled down in favor of local outbreaks of maddening irritation, She hadn't expected the heat radiating from her backside to make her sweat. Stretched on her tummy, hands helplessly trussed to her headboard, she slowly roasted, A river of sweat ran down her spine, pooling stickily at the small of her back. Her breasts sopped and itched. The salty, scratchy worse spot of all drove her nearly frantic.

That was the same place Rita had thoughtfully clipped short the previous week.

Mona had been forced to stand on a stool, her eyes watching the shaming process in a cheval mirror. She had been palely, utterly nude. The living room curtains stayed open and the blinds had been pulled high so that the tiny lady across the way could enjoy the spectacle to the hilt.

Rita had trimmed and groomed the shaggy Venus mound down to a fine bristly stubble.

Mona had given Ron some stupid story about staying cool in the summer. He'd complained about her close, prickly growth during their hot-blooded trysts.

She now knew why. The stabbing wool, the salt sweat, the mounting heat all worked at the tender apex of her thighs. Her own little stubby hairs prodded back at her flesh as she writhed.

Her hands tugged at the square-knotted cord lashing her to the headboard. She couldn't do a thing to soothe the rasping itch. Nothing at all.

Her shoulders jerked once, twice. A violent twitching ran up her left leg. She moved her face to try and find a cool spot on the damp pillow as she prayed for dawn.

12,000 miles away, the clear Persian Gulf sun illuminated the afternoon. Prison walls glowed a blinding white. The camel's hide whip showed pure snakish black.

The wielder posed, arm high, lash at the ready, giving onlookers their fill. Low, respectful suspirations voices their appreciation of its length, its stiffness, and its patent educational virtues.

The crowd watched eagerly.

The flogger stood-a dark statue in red-striped breed clout one moment, a striking serpent the next. His arm sent the leather crisply sinking across the creamy buttocks bound before him.

Strapped helplessly to the whipping triangle, the woman screamed. Her raw sound ripped through a mouth-muffling gag. The lash peeled away to show a ruby-bright welt that writhed across her full posterior like a severed reptile as broad cleft opened and closed, As consul, the Honorable Richard Mellroot stood to attention, apart from the main crowd. The local heathen could thus contemplate the Commonwealth's ensign of indefatigable alertness.

The American slouched beside him. He nodded as the second whistling stroke provoked more desperate ophidian motion.

"Not very wholesome," Richard observed languidly. "I mean, that bally Frenchwoman is practically flaunting her cunt at that gaggle of young boys." The native onlookers included women veiled into obscurity, save for eyes and hands. Older, bearded men ruminatively enjoyed the spectacle. Young males from schoolroom to university age all but drooled.

"Indecent coquette," Richard expostulated as the lash scalded spasming undercheeks. The Frenchwoman did, indeed, wiggle her lips in vivid coital motion. The triangle spread her buttocks sufficiently to demonstrate a rich love grove at each backward buck. "It's the boss." As CIA circuit rider along that area of Gulf, the American had been pressed into service to meet protocol's demands for the punishment of a foreigner, He explained, "That frame has a cross beam with a raised ridge on it-catches 'em right across the . . . Well, that boss is padded with unshaved elephant hide. I traveled with a circus as a kid. We used to blow-torch jumbo to get his skin smooth enough to ride on in the parade around the "Those hairs'll peel the shell off a walnut, and I don't think the brass studs nailing the hide to the wood are too pleasant, either. Mam'selle l'Orange should be feeling it pretty nastily right about now. Smarts in two spots, I'd "You're rather up on all this." Richard smiled pleasantly. "Can you give an idea what that sign they've hung her back means?"

"To translate literally . . . um, more figuratively I'd say 'Nazrani Nookie' would be closest. It's a bit more detailed, talking about lizards, but that's just poetic license."

"Ah." Richard nodded at the American, though his main attention stayed on the flogging. The whip confined itself to the woman's buttocks. Her bound, upraised hands clawed frantically at the sun.

The consul pointed to long banners sternly draped from the prison walls. "I imagine those say something more ii that vein."

"No, no." The CIA man shaded his eyes. "More like 'Curb Your Lust.' Damn, I wish I had old John Payne's or Sir Richard Burton's gifts. They could really translate Arabic into something lyrical.

"But the patrol-those guys in uniform there, the same ones who nabbed your wife-keeps its eyes out for any signs of . . ."

His voice foundered at a really spectacular shake-rattle-and-roll bottom toss from the welt-streaked victim.

"My! Oh, Prince Daoud mentioned something about the patrol." The English diplomat searched his memory. " 'Any tumescence secondary to a morbid or unhealthful interest in the corporal aspects of judicial punishment merits an appropriate rebuke in the interests of maintaining community standards.' The offenders receive a sharp dressing-down, I do gather."

"Something like that. A large and not very flexible stick along the keister highlights some of the more salient points."

At the thirteenth rump-scoring whipcrack, the woman hung from her wrists. Her legs twitched in feeble fits.

"Do you know what she did?"

"Huh?" The American craned his head. "Did I miss something?"

"Not did just now-I mean before, her crime."

"Oh. She came as a 'traveling companion' to a minor princeling and can't afford a plane ticket home. The French embassy at Damascus wired her the money. You Limeys are lucky to have a legation here. The other countries have it rough. Everything gets routed through Damascus or Cairo or some damn place."

He waved at the triangle. "This just reminds people of the official Qu'imram policy toward deadbeats."

A pencil-mustached medical doctor inspected the leather-seared derriere. With a hearty slap, he pronounced it sound. The woman wept, her sobs choked by the gag.

The executioner beamed, hoisting the lash in triumph.

The crowd disbursed quickly. Two youths and one oldster in a tattered burnoose fell prey to the iron-handed patrol. They marched the protesting malefactors through the small side gate into the prison for appropriate rebuke.

The hot breeze from the barren, oil-heavy desert fulfilled the promise of another hell-bright day. The Englishman and American continued to chat as they drifted toward the ornate, graceful government building adjoining the stark prison.

By contrast with the exterior landscape, the Magistrates Courtyard exhibited the joys of Eden. A vaulting glass ceiling admitted sun. Icy air whisperingly circulated to dispel heat.

Trees actually bowed with garish fruit. Cool, moist garden smells scented the artificial air. Flowers added fragrance and infinitely diverse shades of color to the broad room.

Qu'imram officials lounged on tubular steel and cream vinyl benches. Some wore fully traditional garb, but most of the men favored European side-vented jackets and pleated slacks. All sported sunglasses against the ceiling's glare, and each had his light, purely symbolic burnoose regardless of other apparel.

Again, Richard held himself gratuitously to attention. He'd learned the trick as a guardsman. It gave a chap an automatically commanding presence in gatherings.

The CIA man contemplated a filter-tip cigarette as he spread his weight on a chrome and vinyl settee under a flowering jasmine tree.

"You know, my wife never allows me to smoke indoors." The American turned the cigarette end over end. "I always get sent outside-snow, sleet, lightning.

"I've been in the field for sixteen months now. I'll seen her exactly two weeks in that time, last April in Rome. I still can't light up inside four walls.

"It's like trying to masturbate. All I hear is my mother kneeling beside the tub, telling me never, never rub my doohickey that way. She'd wash it for me, she told me. Handling that was woman's work."

He sighed. "I asked her what would happen when grew up. She said that I'd have a wife to tackle the job.

The honorable consul studied him quizzically. "An interesting problem. Persisted on into adolescence, did it?"

His inner eye saw Nanny Collins, rose-cheeked and solid as the heavy Shropshire earth. "Ooooh, what a spunky monkey you've become!"

His joyous seminal spurts announced emphatically his initiation into the opportunities of puberty.

"Mother made me start taking showers at fifteen," the CIA man confided. "Probably just as well. She lied about a wife doing that. At least every day."

He crushed the filter-tip into dried bits. He sniffed the ruin, then emptied his hand carefully into his jacket pocket "These people sure do have a different philosophy."

Nanny Collins had introduced Richard to the new upstairs maid on his twelfth birthday. "She's a willing work specially chosen for her skill at doing for a young man all busy growing up."

He'd choked down tears when the familiar playroom connected with his bedchamber had been converted into the new maid's room. The sorrow for lost childhood had passed. The familiar, inviting refuge had stayed a playroom, a loving retreat on his holidays from Eton and Oxford.

"Excuse me, excuse me, good gentlemen." My Lord the Magistrate Ishmael Mohammed ibn Qu'imram waved his hand in delicate supplication as he entered. "A thousand forgivenesses for all our delay."

A circlet of simple obsidian lozenges alternating with thumb-sized brass skulls secured his headcloth about his temples, above his two-toned Foster-Grants and his blue blazer.

Cambridge blue, Richard observed sadly. The Arab's tie also spoke of sandstone halls whose wisdom was still young when the Islamic world's academies had achieved ancient age.

"I have just been informed that Sir Rupert Murdoch has definitely radiogrammed his regrets that he cannot attend our ceremonies." My Lord Ishmael sat upon a Bedwani campstool draped in cloth of gold.

Court now in session, the CIA man stood quickly.

The coffee-skinned magistrate smiled at the Westerners. "We are a tiny emirate, a small protectorate-this week the ward of our powerful friend, who protects us from last week's not-as-powerful friend."

He lifted his shoulders. "We desire no coarse unfortunate publicity, no half-truths coursing like maggots through the pages of the world press-no lamentable snuff films covertly shot in parking lots.

"All is open, free for world scrutiny and, of a certainty, for that world's comment. If the eyes of that greater world do not choose to attend-well, I thank you gentlemen for your presence and your kind attention to our judicial proceedings."

His sun glasses seemed to aim at the British consul, around tie clasp level. "An excellent school, sir, they inform me, though Professor Tolkien had, perhaps, a less contemporary outlook than our own Professor Lewis. Both estimable men, assuredly."

The Arab appeared to survey the American's black bolo tie with its Navaho silver and veined turquoise slide. "Always a pleasure to receive a guest from . . . Mr. L'Amour's neck of the woods, is it not? A wild land so very similar to our own, with desolate sands, wandering peoples, and a sufficiency of oil for rudimentary comforts."

"Uh, New Hampshire." The CIA agent bobbed his head encouragingly.

"Very good. I most enjoyed your primary election on television. So energetic, so decisive. In our poor tradition-bound lands, we inefficient peoples occupy decades in the task of paring down the many contenders for power.

"Unimpaired by antiquated thought, you brisk, young countries topple the challengers for office in mere weeks-in hours-in the course of but a single decisive telecast." j He shook his head admiringly. "Ah, well, on to our slower business today, hampered as we are by habits of deliberation, counsel, and the rigors of learning in our justice.

"I wish to dispose of some purely local cases to display to you, and to any of Sir Rupert's representatives who may inquire later, that no special prejudice adheres to the handling of the most truly honorable Mrs. Mellroot and the esteemed Miss Merydith, merely because their origins lie in the West.

"The even gaze of the Compassionate shines upon Believer and unbeliever-upon the Elect as upon the pale races-upon that hand which raises itself in supplication to Heaven as surely as upon that fist knotted to strike at Divinity's dictates."

He lifted his own hand toward a venerable greybeard seated cross-legged upon a dark maroon rug. That worthy began to read sonorously from a parchment scroll, his Arabic words flowing like prayer chants.

"A moment." My Lord the Magistrate stayed the recitation. "In the interests of full disclosure before our distinguished visitors and representatives of our firm allies-of this season, we are at least sure-greater expedience dictates translating the proceedings directly into English."

He glanced toward the CIA man. "Would you also care for a translation into American?"

"Uh, I can muddle along, thanks."

The ancient functionary upon the rug raised his voice. "Excellency! My Lord the Magistrate, the medium through whom the benedictions and right proper severities of justice flow to our darkened minds as light is arrayed upon the earth through the blessings of the sun! My Lord, I present for your wisest judgment . . .

"Oh hear the shame of a married woman, condemned by the righteousness of your hand Thursday this last, attainted of having in her possession a most obscene, decayed-permit my failing tongue to read that as decadent, oh My Lord-and too-insidious book traded among the unbelieving nations under the unnatural title of The Women's Men's Room- "Or so one must judge from its most salacious and deceiving cover. This filth of the press passed from the hand of that married woman so disgraced by its contact, passed from her hand into the keeping of My Noble Lady-"

"In the interests of brevity, we shall omit that illustrious name and associated details."

The CIA man murmured, "The magistrate's sister."

Richard tilted his chin minusculely in acknowledgement.

"-following her detainment the condemned did in willful malice toward both the state and higher virtue refuse to disclose the circumstances under which she obtained so catastrophic an infamous book."

"Just so." My Lord Ishmael tilted his head back, as if searching the skies for guidance. "I have meditated upon this crime. May I observe to our guests that the circulation of a proscribed manuscript, however corrupt, cannot injure the close-woven fabric of a community of ideas to the degree possible when there is clear importation of unknown numbers of volumes so rightfully stigmatized in their own lands as 'mass paperbacks.' "Where unguessed numbers of mischievious books may be transmitted among corruptable parties, grave risk exists for harm to the treasured and proven ideals which have sustained a people in its pursuit of Heaven's own enlightenment."

He raised a silver-chased camel's hair fly whisk. ' my word that it may find obedience.

"The creature guilty of this offense and twice-more guilty in her contumacy shall this day be flogged by ninety lashes-to be equally distributed along her back, her buttocks, and the reverse of her thighs, all such named parts to be exposed for the purpose of her punishment."

The whisk lowered. "That is, I must assure our guests, she shall receive ten strokes of the nine-tailed whip. Three shall be apportioned to each region mentioned. By esteemed tradition, the tenth is applied at the discretion of the executioner to such part of the body as he deems most worthy."

Richard recalled Daoud's explanation. "And any stray leftovers generally get awarded where the lady needs them most, you might say, old lad. The triangle presents them most adequately for the purpose. No amorous leave-takings for you should the whip catch her where she lives, I fear, Dickie."

The whisk rose again in majesty. "Such execution shall be accomplished in the customary place of public contrition as expiation for possession of so unruly a book as has been described."

The CIA man looked startled.

"Following that punishment," My Lord Ishmael further dictated. Scribes on either side of the garden-like chamber wrote furiously upon parchment in liquid Arabic script "The condemned shall be confined for a period of no less than 90 days, in solitude, in a room to contain appropriate bedding, one full-length mirror, one wardrobe-contents to be specified-and shelves supplied with ample provision of Harlequin romance novels.

"She shall, in the course of each day, be visited no less than three times, but not to exceed six, by members of the Protectorate Unified Armed Force, who shall enjoy her attentions freely- "Saving the stipulation that at the time of the lunar month determined by competent medical authority, she shall have her coynt reserved from use."

"You know, Dickie-bird," Prince Daoud had once drawled as they watched three coin-spangled dancers writhe skillfully through a Lesbian display, ' 7 never realized until I read Chaucer that our ladies had coynts. Our humble, untutored people always say 'the vale of greatest delights' or 'the smiling lily' or 'the welcoming grotto,' unlike your great poet and your celebrated translators. For such blunt speech I needed Oxford."

My Lord the Magistrate continued his sentencing. "At the end of each week, she shall be examined by 2000-word essay upon her reading matter. The grades of A, B, C, and No Credit shall be awarded by a competent professor of the Islamic School faculty.

"The mark of A shall merit three briskly applied taps of the cane upon the revealed buttocks, in the privacy of the prison warder's punishment room.

"The grade of B shall earn three strokes, to be applied as before but with vigor, plus three well-laid on strokes upon the uncovered reverse of the thighs, in the warder's punishment room, with full staff in attendance.

"The discreditable mark of C shall be punished with three strokes to the buttocks, stiffly applied, three strokes to the reverse of the thighs, and three most soundly delivered strokes upon the soles of the feet. The prisoner shall receive these in nakedness, before staff and inmates in the prison courtyard."

Pens decorated the scrolls as he spoke.

"A No Credit grade shall result in a provisional penalty of twelve full strokes, most soundly applied to the visible buttocks in the quadrangle of the Islamic School, staff and students in attendance.

"Such provisional punishment shall be followed by reexamination within three days, to be repeated until a credit grade is earned.

"Each credit grade of B or better shall be rewarded by one Georgette Heyer Regency novel." He nodded in the consul's direction. "Superior scholarship, as judged by three examiners in consultation, shall be repaid by one additional Barbara Cartland novel.

"Sustained superior scholarship of at least three weeks duration shall bring the supplement of one Rosemary Rogers novel to all the aforesaid."

Solemnly approving looks flashed from nut-brown face to nut-brown face.

"Except for the times of examination and those periods of physical conversation with the members of the Protectorate Unified Armed Force, the condemned shall remain in solitude.

"Her wardrobe shall be furnished with one cocktail dress, one European-styled wedding gown, and one Fredericks of Hollywood Ooo-La-La French domestic's attire, with footgear and underclothing appropriate to each.

"No other garment shall be permitted, save that sustained superior carnal performance-as evaluated by officers of the Unified Armed Force above the rank of lieutenant-shall supplement the above provisions by the addition of one Desmond of Bond Street Naughty Darling's Delight sleeping costume.

"Performance shall be evaluated by exit poll. This grant shall not exceed one garment per week. Color may be specified by the prisoner.

"All afore-cited corporal punishment shall be applied with the flexible 30" Indonesian bamboo cane or with the flexible 36" Indonesian bamboo, upon selection by the Islamic School examiner.

"No use shall be made of the regulation public school Malaysian rattan cane, unless so elected by the chosen examiner following three consecutive No Credit grades."

The judicial whisk fell limply. My Lord the Magistrate favored the Westerners with a tired grimace.

"Our aim is not the backward follies of the zealots so distressfully rampant in the land of our never-to-be-sufficiently-execrated enemy of this week.

"Rather, we seek to fully incorporate the very considerable advances, artistic as well as technological, which the 20th Century has bounteously provided. Naturally, in such co-mingling of diverse cultures we must guard against any lasting pollution of those timeless wellsprings of strength, health, and piety bestowed by the All-Highest upon our humble people."

My Lord Ishmael grew confidential in tone. "Do you learned gentlemen realize that the mercies of judicial flagellation were entirely unknown among our unlettered tribesmen until your First World War?

"At that time our noble first protector, the Acting Sergeant Harry Percival Wigcropper, came as emissary of your great Allenby to secure us from interference by the rampaging bandid Saud. As he extended the safeguarding mantle of your allied European nations, the esteemed Act-ling Sergeant in his own right offered the blessings of counsel to our chieftains.

"Rude practices of cicatrization and mutilation by the sword were still routine in the disciplining of errant women until he demonstrated conclusively to the most doubting of our noble forebearers that 'a nice piece of fluff can always benefit from a bit of the stick.' " The magistrate's arms spread wide. "Such truly visionary enlightenment found universal praise among our womenfolk, you may be assured.

"Further, the customary rites of clitorectemy and infibulation at puberty were forever stamped out in our land The Acting Sergeant Wigcropper cogently and vividly displayed for all to appreciate that such practices played sticky with a rather choice morsel.' "Although infibulation still surfaces in debates on suitable treatment for female unpleasantness, the utter revolution in the physical relations between a man and his wives has ended any thought of clitoral interference." "If you stuff 'em to the gills, it'll eventually stop their mouths-is that it?" The British consul's entire frame ached for a brandy and ginger beer. "Quite so, sir, I applaud the acumen you have acquired and the pith with which it finds expression-doubtless a heritage of my respected opposite number college. We must have luncheon at some soon point."

"Perhaps after you've deported my wife," Richard suggested wearily.

"Ah, yes, a sensitive point of protocol, to be sure."

The elder functionary upon the rug once again began his appointed say.

"My Lord the Magistrate, right hand in defense of the Faith and bulwark of the realm, I now present for your final and unreproachable judgement a matter of slander uttered in common hearing by three women, so forgetting, their gender's modesty as to use-" The honorable consul's drifting mind summoned for the ten thousandth time that so-efficient upstairs girl her youth. Anne Gambol. . . Annie, he called her, and Nan when Nanny Collins wasn't about . . . and he called her often.

More frequently he simply surprised her at her maiden's disrobing, or while she sponged her moist body in the bath, or while she tidied his bedchamber in the nude-she deeply abhored spotting her uniform with dust.

How she tended for him from that first day ... He a curious twelve and she a willing eighteen. How they comforted one another after his swishings.

Nanny Collins insisted she share his pains so as to understand and better minister to his sorrows. Each correction he endured far below in the sullen print-lined study would be duplicated in the cheery young maid's room.

The muscular Nanny Collins acted the role of his father. Annie impersonated Richard, the stinging cane striping the round, bare Gambol bottom again and again until he quite forgot his own tears in contemplation of hers.

Then the two contrite figures found their solace together ... first with nanny's supervision and thoughtful advice ... then with her speechless, but bountiful collaboration.

How the days at school and University had tediously lingered. How even the hours of the Long Vacation fled by... Ah, home. Nostalgia puffed in his breast. Ah, England.

The pains that service to the Crown entails that never get properly rewarded, he mused. Though he expected an eventual knighthood, he recognized that its day had been pushed into some unglimpseable future by Juliana's silliness. He never should have permitted her whim of toiling those three hours a day at that commercial enterprise.

Yet. her interest in Dillingham Eastern's affairs had definitely left him ample free time to taste the many rewards of his friend Daoud's generous land.

Yasmina . . . Leylah . . . desert doves shivering so trustingly in his virile grasp. He feared that Juliana's indiscretion might alienate them from him. So sensitive, these Orientals.

He meditated upon those stark privations demanded by Mam. the Queen, and St. George.