He did it that night.
The entering was easy. Boz had supplied him with a lock-knock, an illegal device for knocking out the electronics of locks - the simpler sort found in houses and offices - and Dream Drome emporia. It was ridiculously straightforward.
The files were another matter. They were, of course, password protected. And try as he may, Renton could find no way past the front door of the computer. He applied every known trick he could think of - most of them supplied by Boz as part of his detective tuition - and none of them worked. It was beginning to look as though his brilliant idea was going to fade into the dimness of failure. Then he tried his own password, the password he used to protect all his own stuff from the attention of others. It was, after all, just possible that someone else was just as stupid… He typed in seven zeros. Immediately the words “Dream Drome” appeared on the screen, and below it a menu of options - including a search option.
It then took Renton less than three minutes to establish that his penultimate blonde was a lady by the name of Naira Selva, that she was twenty-five years old, that she was from a planet called Pantana, and that her cabin number was B166.
With this illicit information, he exited the premises without the owner's consent and returned to his own cabin to catch up on a little sleep in what was left of the night.
And when he slept he dreamt. He dreamt of a festival, a huge planet-wide festival, where the revellers were celebrating the founding of their world. It was a world called Pantana. And the symbol of Pantana - which appeared on a million flags and a zillion banners - was what its founding father had first arrived with: a toothbrush!
It had to be an omen. It just had to be an omen!
19.
There was no doubt about it. He was getting bigger. Standing side on to the mirror in his cabin, he couldn't miss it: a distinct mound where once there'd been none at all. It was so inelegant and so… well, so inexcusable. He was an intelligent being. An informed intelligent being - who knew all about calories and all about exercise. And what was he doing? He was insulting his intelligence. That's what he was doing. Pushing all those pizzas down his throat and doing sod-all to burn up all that excess fuel. It was disgusting. He felt ashamed of himself.
But what could he do? If he ate less, he felt woozy and tired, and as often as not he would get a headache as well. And any amount of exercise seemed to do nothing at all. Even if it made him feel good it had absolutely no effect whatsoever on his belly. It was a complete waste of time.
'Maybe,' he thought, 'I should seek out a society that holds big bellies in high esteem, a place where indulging and bulging is what everyone does, where guts get you noticed - and guts get you birds…
'Yeah - but it wouldn't have got me Madeleine. She's from the orthodox school, the one that prefers its men to retain the shape they've been given. And who can blame her? Just look at the thing. It's obscene. It's an affront to my front. And Madeleine would not be impressed. Not in the least… Or, there again, would it really matter? Madeleine doesn't love me for my shape; she loves me for who I am - just as I love her for who she is.'
And this train of thought led him away from his stomach and into his heart. Because he began to think about her and not his inflated self - and about what she might be doing now and how much better it would be if she were here, here on this beastly barge, sharing his quest - and sharing his bed.
To be submerged in sex was one thing. But to have sex with the woman one loved was quite another.
But there was work to be done! So he pulled in the paunch, packed up the pensive, and got on with the now, finishing his ablutions and preparing himself to track down his target for today, a lady by the name of Naira. Fifteen minutes later and he'd started. He had positioned himself just down the corridor from her room, and he was waiting - and trying to look inconspicuous.
He was tragically hopeless at this. And it was just as well that, within only minutes, Miss Selva emerged from her cabin - looking entirely fine. The probes, it appeared, really had done her no harm at all.
Renton was so pleased to see her that he nearly forgot what he was there to do. But, just as she was disappearing from view, he remembered - and he scooted off down the corridor after her. He had started his very first trail as a detective. And, of course, he'd seen it done a million times before, all that clever shadowing without ever being seen, all that looking into shop fronts when the suspect casts a backward glance. And all done at an unhurried pace, nothing rushed and nothing done awkwardly - just discreetly and deftly - and all without fuss.
Well, believe it or not, just as with those blasted air-ducts, the fact and fiction of trailing were not even distant relatives. No, they were actually different bloody species.
In the corridors and thoroughfares of the Lollipop, it was simply impossible to keep even a tall blonde in sight all the time without being less than about two metres behind her. She kept disappearing - around corners, and down stairs and into crowds. Renton had to run, stop, retrace his steps and occasionally walk around in circles. And only by adopting this bizarre behaviour, did he manage to stay with her - and manage still to have her in view when she disappeared into a doorway. It was on one of the lower levels of the ship. So now he would have to try to look inconspicuous again while he waited for her to re-appear.
He failed again - more tragically than ever - and she didn't re-appear. Ten minutes had passed, and nothing. She seemed to have gone to ground in that place.
Renton now had to decide whether to wait a while longer or follow her in. Or maybe just take a closer look at where she'd gone. And, of course, it was this last option he chose. It was the compromise, wasn't it? Something between the discomfort of waiting and the anguish of action. And so he moved closer to the doorway through which she'd disappeared. And he saw what it was. It was a doorway into a Bureau de Change.
'Shit,' he thought. 'She must be leaving the ship.'
And certainly, anybody availing herself of currency would probably be preparing to do just that. But then he noticed the frontage of the Bureau. It was decorated with a frieze of naked men and naked women. And as with the representation of all nudity on board this vessel, they were very naked indeed. And lest anyone should doubt just how naked, quite a few of them were bending over or spreading their legs to prove it.
'What,' thought Renton, 'can all that lot have to do with money? And why no rates of exchange anywhere? This all looks a bit peculiar.'
There was only one thing to do. Go in and resolve this new mystery. And maybe even meet Miss Selva in the process. He'd have to do it sooner or later anyway. And it might as well be sooner.
So go on, Tenting. Just effin' do it!
20.
Inside, it was a little like the clinic where he'd met Orphenia. But on the walls there were no posters describing the symptoms of venereal diseases, just paintings of the sort of activities by which one contracted such diseases. And there was a complete absence of anything one would associate with a normal Bureau de Change: no counters, no computer screens, no cashiers. In fact, nothing of that sort at all. But there was a receptionist. And she greeted Renton with a broad smile. Then she spoke.
'Good afternoon, sir. And how may I help you?'
Such an unexpected request caused the inevitable Renton response.
'Errh… errh…,' he mumbled immediately, and followed this up with a gaping stare.
'This is the Bureau de Change, sir,' she assisted. 'I imagine you're here to partake of our service.'
Ah, that sounded like a good lead. It needed not an answer but just a confirmation. He could easily cope with that. And he did so by repeating the 'errh, errh', but this time with a nod of his head.
'That's splendid, sir. And I assume that as you're here on your own, you'll be wanting one of our own girls. Or are you expecting someone to join you?'
'Jesus,' thought Renton, 'it's a bloody brothel! A friggin' brothel. And I've just ordered a helping of how's yer father. My god, what do I do now?
'
Then he had a sudden thought, nothing to do with extracting himself from his predicament, but he'd just made sense of that comment about 'expecting someone to join you'. That was the Bureau de Change bit. Instead of having one of their own ladies (or presumably one of their own men), you could bring-your-own. You could bring someone you'd found yourself - or maybe someone they'd found for you. So it was a bit like a sex-exchange, where you paid the full price for the brothel stuff, a commission on the arranged stuff or just corkage on your own stuff. Amazing!
And as if she was reading his mind, the receptionist then spoke again.
'Oh, and of course there is a young lady here already, sir. And she might be interested. You know, in pairing with you. She's only been here a few minutes. And I know she hasn't started yet. So I could ask her if you want. Shall I do that?'
Miss Selva! It was Miss Selva for sure. And he could have her. Or he could have her au naturel, as it were, with her bosoms exposed. And that would be perfect - even if he had to acknowledge that he wanted to “pair” with her. And what a funny expression to use. A bit odd really - and certainly in a brothel. He didn't know much about the workings of these places, but he thought they might be a bit more subtle in their choice of words. Anyway, that was by the way. What was important was what he'd been offered.
'Errh, errh…' he said for the third time. 'I, errh… I errh think, I think that sounds fine. Yes, if you could ask her, errh… the young lady, that would be errh… that would be great.'
Miss Selva agreed - and without even seeing Renton. She must be a natural risk-taker, he thought. But that was fine. And so was the bedroom where he'd been left to disrobe, all very art nouveau but quite brightly lit. So he'd have no trouble at all in seeing a toothbrush tattoo - even if it was very small.
Then the door opened and the naked Renton gasped in amazement. It was not Miss Selva. It was a man. And he was dressed as a butler. And in his hand was a tray. And on the tray was a glass, a glass of red liquid.
'Your drink, sir,' announced the man. And as he said this he presented the tray for Renton's attention. It was held just within his reach.
'What the bloody hell's all this?' thought Renton. 'An aperitif? An aphrodisiac? An antiseptic? An antidrooptic?'
Well, whatever it was, he had now learnt that everything on board the Lollipop was as safe as safe could be. And on top of that, he didn't want to appear rude. So he took the glass and he drank the entire contents in one long gulp. And it wasn't an aperitif or an aphrodisiac or an antiseptic or even an antidrooptic; it was an anaesthetic. Within ten seconds he was out like a light.
When he woke up he was lying on his back on a bed. His first view was of the ceiling of a room. It was not the ceiling of the room he'd been in before. It was darker and there was an ornate cornice around its edges, which certainly hadn't been there before. Then he peered to his right. There was an elaborate dresser with carvings on its doors and pieces of china on its top. That was certainly new as well. Then he peered to his left. There was a sort of chaise longue affair with heavily embroidered cushions along its entire length, all very art ancien rather than art nouveau. So there was little doubt about it; he was in another room, a new room.
Then he peered down the bed to where in the first room had been the door. And he saw he was also in a new body. He knew this immediately because down below, obscuring his view, was a pair of large boobs.
'Fuckin' hell fire!' he screamed at the top of his voice. And as he rose to a sitting position, he registered that his male voice had disappeared, and so too had his cock.
'Mother fuckin' Sundays!' screamed the new, squeaky voice. 'What the hell have they done?'
And with wide-eyed disbelief, he stared at herself. Because that was what he now was: a woman! And not a surgically made one, but a real one. Those tits hadn't been sewn on and those dangly bits hadn't been tidied up. No, this was somebody else's body. Some real woman's body. And he was inside it. In some way, his mind had been transplanted into a specimen of the female.
'And my God!' he thought. 'I bet I know who it is. Bureau de Change! Bureau de soddin' Change! It's Miss Selva. It's her body. And we've done a swap. We've “paired”. I'm in her. And Good God, she's in me!'
There now followed a real scramble for priority amongst all the thoughts in Renton's pretty head. Somewhere behind his beautiful blonde locks was a tumult of concerns and confusions. How long would this last? What happened next? What should he do? And Christ, what would she be doing!?
'Oh shit, just think, she'll be looking at that distended belly! She'll be seeing how far it expands. She might be stroking it. Or God, she might be stroking something else. She may even have got excited… Bloody hell, this is… this is… well, this is…'
And now he was off the bed and walking towards a full-length mirror beside the dresser. And then he was facing the mirror.
'Cor!' he said out loud. And her eyes began to scan the reflection in the mirror. Then they saw her hands come up to stroke back her hair, to feel the contours of her face - and then the contours of her body. He couldn't stop himself. He was feeling a woman's body, and at the same time feeling what it was like to be the woman's body that was being felt. It was fantastic. It was an experience he had never imagined in his wildest dreams. And now he was doing it. And this wasn't a dream. It was real. Whatever was in that glass had somehow managed to create this incredible event. And for now and for possibly only a little while longer, he was a woman.
This must be the ultimate experience the Lollipop had to offer.
But, of course, it wasn't. Renton knew this when Miss Selva walked into his room - in his body. The ultimate experience was just about to begin.
In Renton's defence, he did remember to notice that there wasn't a toothbrush tattoo on his right tit - when they were doing it. And eventually he did confess to Madeleine that they'd done it - although to nobody else. And he always believed that it would have taken a saint to refuse it. Who, after all, would spurn a sexual encounter where each party to the encounter is intimately aware of what the other party wants, what the other party wants to experience and to feel, and is therefore in a position to provide the ultimate satisfaction for that other - and the best damn shag in the history of shags?
It was sublime. Although in the interests of continued relationships, Renton never made this observation to Madeleine. Instead he used the word “interesting” a lot.
He never met Miss Selva when she was herself. That was the way they did things at the Bureau. And it was right. Renton knew he'd have been acutely uncomfortable with such a re-encounter. Furthermore, he didn't need to. Without the required tattooed titty, she was no longer “wanted on voyage”, and he could now turn his attention to a new blonde, to the last one in his small photo-file of suspects.
But he never forgot her. He never forgot what it was like to be pretty, to have hair that was lovely, to have a crutch that wasn't encumbered - and, of course, the ultimate: what it was like to be bonked. Oh and yes, what it was like to have a chest that stuck out and a belly that didn't! Yes, that was neat. That was particularly neat!
21.
Just a few yards away, reflected in the river's surface, was a mat of green. It was a small patch of water hyacinth. And it was moving. It was swinging backwards and forwards. But very slowly, the water's surface not even crimped by its action. Somewhere beneath the surface, it must have found an anchor for its roots. Probably a sunken bough. And its swinging motion first revealed - and then concealed - a single flower, a modest cluster of lilac saucers glowing in the morning sun. And beyond this floating island was a vast expanse of glistening flatness, a huge sheet of liquid silver: the wonderful Rio Florenta.
It looked more like a lake than a river, a lake bounded by great walls of green: the green of the trees that lined its edges and the trees beyond these. Only a slight movement in the distance betrayed its real nature. There were some rapids up there, some rather slow rapids where the river water flowed with a crumpled
surface between slabs of smoothened stone. But it was gentle. It was all very leisurely. There was nothing urgent about it. Indeed, there was nothing that could be accused of undue haste anywhere at all. Why, even the sky was at ease; a few fluffy white clouds inching their way through the blue. But unhurried - as though they were too early for an appointment and they needed to dawdle on their way.
There was certainly no wind. The foliage in the trees was still, still enough to make one doubt that the trees were real. But they were. They were as real as can be. And they were magnificent.
As well as being dressed in every shade of green, they were built to every size… Small shrub-like trees stood in the water itself. Larger ones, held aloft by hidden woodwork, towered over these. And amidst and behind these minor players stood the giants, the principals in this gathering of sylvan wonders.
They were also built to every shape… There were great mop-headed trees, dark green trees with vines trailing from their boughs. There were tall light-barked trees, their foliage more sparse, as if designed to show off their fine timber. And there were yellow crested giants, their canopies festooned with masses of sulphur blooms.
And together, all these trees blended into a oneness, a living green cushion that bordered the river. Here and there a pale grey trunk stood out from this green mass, but only to accentuate its depth - and its antiquity. And to highlight its scale. They were just creases in the river's drapes, in that living curtain of green grandi-flora that swept down its sides.
Suddenly there was a new movement in the scene. It was across the river where the water met the green. It was a swirl. Then another. And then a head broke through the surface, a glossy head with two bright eyes and a rounded snout. Then there were two snouts; another head had joined the first. And now they were both yawning, their gaping red mouths lined with scary white teeth. They were giant river otters, four feet or more in length. And they were out for a morning swim.
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