And with that, the three women stood in silence waiting for Binder’s arrival; each lost in her own thoughts while gazing down at the hog tied and motionless body of Linda Gentry. It was after that moment of reflection that one by one, each looked up and back over to where Mark Porter stood; each appraising him for various reasons. As for him, clueless, he still hadn’t an inkling of what had occurred. He looked back at them content to sip deeply on the laced drink he nursed when looking over at the three surmising “… my aunt’s happy? Why’s she smiling when everyone else ain’t and why’s that lady…Ms. Gentry…on the floor? Wonder what happened to her? But whoa…both mom’n the deputy don’t look too happy to see me right now. Maybe I better stay where I am right now.” He was right.
It was an accurate assessment at least as far as appearances were concerned that of the three Mangiano was far more than pleased. Looking at her nephew, she concluded that for the moment he was safe and none the worse for wear and that his fertility had officially been confirmed, albeit in a circuitous manner, was all the better. Still, she would deal with him as promised later; after she and the deputy had come to an understanding of her nephew’s status that is. Her immediate thought of Spangler prompted her to take a glance over to where the deputy now stood, reflecting that her selection of Spangler (and Binder) to resolve David Porters death was proving to be more beneficial than she had hoped for and well worth the considerable price she had paid for their combined services.
She mused at the certainty of Spangler becoming Marks first legal suitor, his Domina Prime and approved of the formidable woman who through an act of self-interest in protecting his fertility had further ingratiated herself to the Facilitator of Region III if only because the FDBM&SR had long ago determined that the doc-umented fertility of any male was, at all costs, to be protected and Spangler had been the one who had unknowingly fulfilled the tenant upon which all Facilitators vowed to uphold and in effect maximize. That the male in question also happened to be her nephew was all the better, more so, because it was evident that Spangler was taken with her nephew as he was with her. However, that said Mangiano now paused and considered but a few of her other duties including the particulars concerning the granting of confirmations, or of her twenty four hour accessibility to those in need of enhanced gender specific discipline tutorials (theory vs. practical implementation) in which she specialized; but as she was also the chief code enforcement officer who dealt with those who failed to register with the CBT (Central Bureau of Testing); an adjunct agency of the FDBM&SR, one dealing specifically with male fertility, she now considered the obvious implications.
The events had simplified the matter as natural selection had circ-umvented the required testing period administered through the CBT which held sway over the mandatory pairing of any designated fertile male to an alpha-female of the FDBM&SR’s choice. As for complaints, though they were aired, the CBT most often disregarded the wants and desires of its female selections; whereas in contrast males, being such, were not a thought to be considered. Therefore, for the males, the pairings were traumatic. For her part, Mangiano had often argued among her peers for the implementation of a reasonable transitional period as a means to introduce a fertile male into doc-umented stud service but had, through a majority decision chaired by her self-confessed nemesis, been overruled; and as such, the transitional times which might have in some manner softened the realization of what was to occur were not considered. To that rare individual, it was straight into the bathwater fully immersed. The diktat followed was implemented immediately after the knowledge of a male’s fertility was determined. With but few accepted exceptions, a determination would be predicated upon a males participation in the CBT’s “Compulsory Examination Testing Course.” A stressful week-long compulsory ordeal required of all males reaching the age of fifteen. The CBT’s philosophy on the situation was straight forward. Each male six months prior to his birth date received a pink card stating “Notice, you are hereby ordered to report within three days of attainment date to the CBT Center nearest you. Proof of identity and birth are required. Subsequent to processing and induction, candidate will submit fluid samples and to testing as required every six hours for a period of no less than one week. All living essentials will be supplied. Failure to report promptly will affect the resumption of your otherwise normal activities.”
Normally, compliance was not an issue; males reported as ordered. After all, it was common knowledge that the consequences resulting from a failure to do so resulted with one standing before a Facilitator or her immediate subordinate and receiving uncomfortable instruction on the matter after which the end result had merely been an event postponed. In either case, on arrival at a center and having been genially separated from family, a conscript would courteously be escorted from his vehicle to one of the numerous waiting rooms within the CBT facility. From that moment forward the niceties ceased after entering a room and having the door closed that it immediately locked behind him. Invariably, upon hearing the noise (resembling a hard metallic “klaatch”) the male would turn, look at the door and then peer down to the handle and attempt to open it without success. What would happen next was standard procedure as standing within the room waiting with arms folded for a the arrival were two of the CBT’s most capable and hulking enforcement matrons who took immediate pleasure in divesting the male in question of his garments while at the same time securely fastening around his neck a simple, two inch wide malleable pink submission collar. The tried and true device was such that when prompted once by a hand held device it minutely constricted in diameter. Almost without exception, the object lessons to be learned ended after the third prompt with the inductee on his knees clutching at his neck gasping for breath. From that moment within the CBT’s walls, compliance to all requests, regardless of their nature was not an issue; and as often was the case a brief period of respite ensued.
So calmed, the first walk for a conscript was straight out of the room naked with both matrons escorting their charge arm in arm with his feet barely touching the floor, to the evaluation center along with his paperwork in hand and as they walked it was commonplace that each matron to notice the smiles on the preponderance of their counterparts faces who also wended their way, charges in hand, along the same pathway; and as the knowing winks were exchanged, their tight lipped smiles broadened at the open secret of what had begun on another pair of lips, to some extent lower, mere moments prior. Invariably, despite the sniffling and sobs which bounced off of the walls, a complaint was lodged by one of the inductees immediately after reaching the information center: it was summarily dismissed; but not for cause.
Instead the complaint was treated as a necessary provocation serving the CBT’s second object lesson of the day. A prepared denial was piercingly shouted for all to hear and was immediately followed by an instantaneous display of corporal discipline; one which found the plaintiff forcibly bent to the waist and then trundled to a pillory, where after having head, both hands and feet completely immobilized: the process of alternatively being paddled ensued; carried out by the very same two husky matrons against whom the complaint was lodged. It was an oral lesson learned which left a lasting impression on one and all that within the walls of the CBT that not an inductee dare diverge: obedience and silence. It was officially touted that once an inductee had been released and returned to normal activities that with but a few reminders that the behavior modification undergone would lend itself for the betterment of society in general and as such, the CBT’s successes were publicized by its Ministry of Information as foremost in “…the necessary field of progenitor direction.” Unfortunately, it was a direction which found the fertile gene pool diminishing at an increasing rate; moreover it was known within the higher echelons that the “supplies” it maintained were not only insufficient to counter natural attrition but also themselves mysteriously subject to a degree to the same unknown malady from which their donors, in varying gradations, suffered.
Mangiano ruminated that it was from an altruistic inception, that the matrons of the CBT began as a diligent if not impressive force: individually energetic, inimitably attractive and quite dedicated to their cause and if a word could have been used to describe their affects upon young males, to elicit the essence necessary for the propagation of the species, it would be that they meticulously played the role of: sirens; coaxing from each donor the viscid liquid sought. But that was in the past, as over a period of time and with each passing year, it became apparent of what would occur unless a greater solution to the diminishing birth rate could be found. That realization was some sixty years prior and too many it was nothing more than ancient history for each temptress who once walked the halls had been marginalized and then dismissed. Instead now, each was as individually cold, hard and as heartless as their current mentor, Martha M. Maellis who, at the age of fifteen, had been able to supplant her mentor as Facilitator. Martha M. Maellis, Facilitator of Region I, rival and arch-nemesis to Mangiano was still after sixty years the current Chief Administrator for the CBT and had over that period of time personally approved of each and every matron, in each and every CBT facility in all of the fifty seven states. Her legion numbered some five thousand four hundred and twenty seven women who could best be described as her disciples. Their groveling when Maellis appeared to review a facility was legendary; yet their loyalty to the woman was beyond reproach. And of the Five Facilitators who controlled the FDBM&SR she was the most intimidating, unyielding and menacing woman within its entire framework: one who admittedly ruled her domain with an iron hand. To describe the weathered grey haired crone as other than ruthlessly cruel would be an understatement; an example of which the sudden ill health and eventual demise of her mentor was but a precursor to the litany of her many “undertakings.”
It was that cold-heartedness Mangiano remembered when sitting through her counterpart’s summation of the CBT’s tortuous process: incensed at its inequities not to mention outraged as to what, with Maellis’ consent, occurred within its walls. Of course, over years, the stories of what actually happened behind the doors of CBT abounded and for the most were sugar coated for “the benefit of the social network;” a system which was, with rare exception, female dominated. It was under this authority that it operated, answering to no one, virtually omnipotent with respect to its domain and Maellis had made her thoughts perfectly clear on the matter when she stated in referring to those reaching their attainment date that “Of course I favor it…it constructively resembles what was once known as …registering for the draft. Inductees are offered a choice: supply on demand or it will be taken. Regardless.” Mangiano’s immediate opinion, which had she kept to herself was that, “Regardless, has supplanted compassion. It is far from that which it’s foundational premise its originators had envisioned.”
Again, Mangiano knew what immediately happened after the flogging in the Center Room; cynically labeled by the matrons as “The Bisque Quadrille,” that once the form-filling was completed that the true horror would begin. It was then that they were alphabetically called to rank; and in single file, present themselves to be finger printed, optically scanned and then photographed; after which, just below the right ankle of each, their very own indelible uniform parcel code would be imprinted. Once scanned, the imprint immediately afforded any matron in attendance access not only to an inductee’s identity but also the latitude necessary to procedurally review his entire stay at the Center and if necessary amend or alter it.
She remembered, having observed such, that within minutes of the groups processing that the sampling would begin with the sound of a claxon that would reverberate throughout the complex and continue to echo until all inductees had been confirmed as being escorted to Center Room. The Bisque Quadrille proved to be in that first moment pivotal to each inductee as each sample provided, decorously termed a “sample donation,” would become a matter of record and a basis for comparison. Subsequent samples were taken and regardless of circ-umstance spot tested and processed; specifically noting semen count, its condition and longevity and then as to volume, consistency, viscosity and density: so tested, the samples were blended en-masse becoming in part that evening’s food for thought. Over the course of the week, diets for each were summarily changed and irrespective of desire a diverse assortment of chemical supplements or exotic nutrients were introduced along with complex vitamin groups and herbs; which were themselves commingled with a combination of strangely unpalatable potions. Not with standing meals which were barely tolerable each was separately offered via ingestion (forced if necessary) or intravenous feeding (involuntary if necessary) or the forced implantation of a “speedball” (a Berkelium based suppository which after being administered also involved a 24 hour forced retention period; all in hopes of effecting a “holistic change” to the mitochondrial DNA composition of the donor. None succeeded.
The dirty little secret was that in over fifty years not one participant undergoing the processes had been changed or in the least modified except for the worse. Those who were found fertile were immediately identified as such the moment of their first sampling. All else endured was pointless. Moreover, subsequent studies circulated within the CBT revealed that nothing done at the center could or would affect in the least either of the alternatives for which one was tested. On those rare occasions when an inductee first entered and had been found to be fertile, additional tests became a requisite, to which doc-umented recovery time would also factor into determining placement. Continued performance would be rewarded; stamina, however, was considered only in terms of ability to endure frequent and successive donations. Unfortunately, the very same rapidity demanded by the CBT, effectively decreased a donor’s recovery time and the sample’s marginal utility of value; thus, once so marginalized, the diminished samples would all but guarantee the necessity for a cytoplasmic transfer to be performed; a costly and demanding procedure, one which for the most was denied to all females except the most “equal of the equal.”
Equally as unfortunate were those males, who in the main though fertile, were considered by the matrons to be the homeliest, unattractive and by appearance weak. Each found himself categorized as “aesthetically challenged” and immediately went to the DMS’s (Donor Machines Shops). There, during what the Bureau considered his/their “peak years” each would function as an anonymous donor. With little fanfare each would be given a choice: participate willingly or forcibly be attached to a suction device for “Tapping.” Their anonymous donations, would via invitro, become the next generation to those who literally waited in the wings of the CBT petitioning for their rightful gamble at offspring. Again, the dilemma the CBT faced was that the increased tapping itself spurred the infertility.
For the remaining few, those who were more equally blessed with reasonably good looks and fertility, life was none-the-less humiliating as upon confirmation things changed immediately. Obviously their surroundings immediately altered. Customary activities were interrupted. Mother was no more; having been immediately replaced by a Domina who, for many reasons, was all too often cold and cruel to her charge. Mangiano understood that it shouldn’t be that way but until a cure to the pandemic of worldwide infertility could be found it would have to do as there were few fertile males left who walked the face of the earth: such was business of the Facilitators. As much as possible, at all costs, manage an increase in population growth. Looking at her nephew, Mangiano surmised the obvious “Why Gentry, strange, after all, Mark is more her creation than my nieces. Yet, to have one fertile male is wonderful but two, in the same family?”
Mangiano continued to smile at her nephew; thought of their mutual arrival at F.E.M.M. and mused of whom actually would wear the pants in the family: not that there was ever a doubt. She mused that “Mark had fallen in line and heeled to Michelle as a well-trained puppy.” For Sylvia the thought was gratifying. She made a mental note to reserve a chair for Spangler when Mark took his first ride on “The Seat of Honor.” “Of course” she thought “…it will be a catered affair.” As for the male, Larry Binder, it was subsequent to her commission of the agency and its agreement to supply him as a resource along with his protégé, that other various offices of the FDBM&SR had also noted that they too were aware of him: but not for his expertise, but rather for “…his precious bodily fluids.” Sylvia had chuckled at the phrase when she first read it and concluded that whoever it was that he would impregnate, the progeny could and would be a product of “a strange love.” More so because the files she read of him were replete; not only of his exploits but also of his varied carnal dalliances which to him were but an adjunct in the performance of his duties. As for his self-avowed and effusive prowess, numerous footnotes emphasized his unaffected and as yet untapped sexual potency: “exhibiting… a libido which is boundless.” It was that, which the FDBM had high hopes. As such had it tracked him with increasing interest noting that “…he remains among the select few males who, remains without a paramour and despite exposure to the elements, remains as a constant: a living ancestral exhibit of man prior to that of “the skies falling.”
Before and after the cataclysmic event it was all there. Each and every assignment had been provided and all concluded with one word “Finalized.” On the surface, in black and white, the various conclusions were manifest for all to read. Additionally however, if one were able to read between the lines there was more. But who would know where or how to look for more, when there was nothing to be seen; not a hint of what actually lay before the reader: who indeed except for the women of power and substance; the Facilitators. There, within the scripts of the numerous common place reports or conversations that passed daily between each was to be found the code-speak of the facilitators: a variation of what was previously known as the “The Ottendorf cypher”*of which only a Facilitator and her trusted subordinate, held the knowledge to break the multifaceted code.
Of “The Chosen Five” Sylvia Mangiano, second among equals, was the prime for whom a final text was directed and when deciphered it read “Domina…agreed…a prospective managed connection between fertile entities is, for the Sisterhood, to be exploited. Proceed.” She was pleased, especially so as Maellis had uncharacteristically lent her support to the endeavor and that alone lent urgency to her professed assessment to “…kill two birds with one stone.” It was Mangiano’s initial musing of “utilizing Binder to the fullest” which had been offered to all as an ad hoc proposition. It was her supposition to all that “Binder…he remains an untapped resource; moreover, if he could actually solve a crime and be of service at the same time why not?” That was her insinuation; however, left unsaid were her additional thoughts where her niece was concerned. “True,” she thought “it was risky proposition…” But then again as her niece had once been so easily played and impregnated under sedation, itself a sobering condition of which she emerged remembering nothing, she had concluded “…why not? Besides if true and so easily affected…then the coupling of the two would be convivial.”
By consent The Sisterhood had decided and it fell to Mangiano to make the arrangements. Prior to David’s death, her selection would have been solely for the benefit of the Sisterhood, but that was not to be; instead with his passing she had lost more than her first favorite; for in part he had, with Gentry’s assistance produced the genetically enhanced offspring she now gazed upon. The Facilitator of Region III had put one and one together surmising that under the right circ-umstances the union between her niece and Binder could be productive: resulting in progeny. Again she mused “A fertile male capable of production is invaluable; but to have two?” Again concluding “Yes, I will have it.”
Dissimilarly, as Mangiano plotted to her benefit…her niece stewed. Shelly was pissed at her aunt for revealing her problems to someone she considered a stranger and more than pissed at Spangler whom she now regarded not only as a personal threat but also as a rival where her son was concerned; it didn’t help that she wanted a drink to calm her nerves. For a variety of reasons she knew she couldn’t have it and now having lost the backing of her aunt as a facilitator who would champion her, it made it all the worse as now the visions of Mark submitting to Spangler’s each and every carnal desire began to wander through her mind. She too looked at her son but with antipathy thinking “I had plans for him. But there are so many things she would do to him” she thought “Maybe I can work something out…but why does it have to be with her? No matter, I’ll make the best of it…always do.” And as for her friend Linda Gentry “Well, if she was really going to do that to Mark I owe her something. I might even have to arrange a tête-à -tête with that little repulsive wimp of a maggot she calls her husband. And then to rub it in I’ll lead him naked to her on a leash just to let her know about it. It’ll be just like the last time.” To her credit she resisted the urge to kick Gentry in the gut while she was down.
And it was to that prone form of Gentry to which Spangler too had eyes for. Michelle allowed herself a moment and internalized the immediate situation, concluding that once Gentry awoke that aside from having a terrifically god-awful headache…“she would at best become be a liability; and as such presented an imminent threat to the success of the mission.” Methodically she silently appraised the alternatives afforded her in succession: “One, I can allow her to wake, which will be in approximately fifteen minutes and then be burdened with the inevitable barrage of lethargically slurred questions which would follow: not to mention the attitude which typically follows drug induced sedation: unbridled hostility. I have little time for such nonsense…or…two…” and here she lingered upon the thought, “alternatively, a second amount would delay the onset of her waking at least for an additional twenty minutes, perhaps more…but then again…if the situation remains….she would be additionally troublesome: ?? ?????? ???? ??????? (that is unfortunate) it too endangers the mission. Yes, unfortunate.”
It was the last unfortunate thought, the third, that she confronted, that now troubled her the most; for it would solve the problem immediately: the summary execution of Linda Gentry. It could and would be justified. As for questions…there would none; other than those which were necessarily contained within the required report. It all would be entirely pro-forma. She mentally reviewed the “Code of Conduct…Standing order Number One.”” “It is unequivocal …if in doubt, all obstacles are to be eliminated with prejudice.” True, Gentry had become a doc-umented obstacle; as reported, the woman herself had been compromised. But as far as the mission was concerned was that alone sufficient grounds for her termination? Stalina resolved the dilemma with “??, ??, ????? ?? ???????????? ????? ???????... ??? ??????????? ???? ???????. (Da, yes, the sow would have irreparably harmed the boy…she deserves to die” and amplified her thoughts to where in the desert, her father’s uncompromising words of “???????... ?????... ????????? ?????? ?????????? (Theodora…here…survival trumps civility) and remembered what was expected of her: simply that if hostility existed or was in some form conveyed by another towards her (and now by extension towards the paramore she had chosen) it was to be immediately expunged. The uncompromising lesson learned in the field had made Mstislav Stalina every bit as hard and unforgiving as her father had ever been and if compared vis-à -vis to her late father, if only in age terms, she would be of the two the far deadlier. She took solace in knowing that in that respectful reminiscence only her immediate superior surpassed her…and that, as it should have, comforted her. So hardened, she was not in the least bit shy of administering what she considered to be her most tender mercy; in fact, she had often mused if she would ever again sense the familiar ripples of satisfaction which had often coursed through her; remembering the occasions when she looked into her victim’s eyes and administered the coup de grâce. It was that moment she relished; the one when the final sting of understanding that one’s sense of mortally confronts one’s eminent demise. It was then, when rooted, that she would look upon her victim’s face and her ssssssmile would be the last thing seen. By her own count, the baker’s dozen she had gladly sent to meet their virgins were in their own right monsters and Stalina had treated each and every one of them as such. Yet, summary execution, despite its benefits, was not her cup of tea. It was however, a useful tool, one which when employed, offered amazing results; when life or certain death hung in the balance; but that was the problem. Under other circ-umstances its use by her was an object lesson upon others never lost.
Yet, by her own admission, the measure by which she would now judge Gentry would be less than creditable as Gentry had offered little in the form of hostility and if one was to speak obliquely in Gentry’s behalf, her act or acts of antagonism were woefully if not perfunctorily inept at best. Yet the fact remained that she had been compromised. And still the last thought of ineptitude lingered, a fact which concerned her more so now than it had previously. Disconcerting as that was it immediately paled with the disquieting voice she heard via her LTM; it was “his” voice she heard which now gently prodded her sensibilities by whispering to her “???????? ????????” She knew his voice, it was unmistakable. It was impossible but here and now, his voice was the same as she remembered; possessing that beckoning tone in which her father gently spoke to wake her by whispering to her her name. In the past, after her mother’s death, his was the voice easing her to waken from the usual nightmare which was often but an overture to another dawns ferocious light. But to hear him again, here and now, was impossible; yet the voice was just as she remembered: exactly the same; just as soothing to her as when she had been wakened by his concern for her.
For a fleeting moment she dismissed the episode outright as some form of PTSD and set about the task of again priming her Gom Jabbar for its impending insertion. Readying it was relatively easy to manage; requiring but a quarter turn of it's face to the right, an act which would both fully charge the vials release mechanism and reset its stinger. In seconds the task was done, but no sooner than having completed the process she heard his voice again, though this time the tone of concern it held for her was firmer nature, sounding far closer than previously, almost shouting. It was the same as he used to warn her. Crisp. Clear and concise she heard the words “???????! ???????? (Feodora Listen).” Again, disbelieving it was her father’s voice she shook her head; instead finding what she had heard would not shake free. Again, she remembered him and his caring voice. The voice she could never forget and its irreplaceable qualities of being unmistakably gruff though soothing; throaty while concerned; immediate yet nonetheless thoughtful; demanding respect simply by speaking. Remembering, she paused in disbelief and out of deference allowed her sage her undivided attention when it again called to her yet again by name. “???????” she soothingly heard it hum once, then pausing momentarily, gasping as if to gather breathe and then to then continue in earnest with “??????? ??????????, ???????? (Feodora. Please listen). ????????? (Stop). ?? ??????? ????? (Don’t do it). ???????? (Listen to me). ?????????? ?????? ????????. Please, just listen. ?????? ???????? ???? (Just listen to me). ?? ??????? ????? (Don’t do it). ???????. ??? ????? ???? ???????????! (She’s nothing but a red herring!) ?????????. ?????????. ?????????. (Wait. Wait. Wait.)
Colonel Mstislav Stalina paused to consider the voices admonition pondering the obvious: incontrovertibly her father was long dead; buried in the desert sand half way around the world, the voice could not be his. Yet she knew the voice she heard, impossible as it was, was his. Alternatively, she dismissed the obvious standing across the room: one, Mark Porter; a male, who besides being immature, to her knowledge and Adam’s, spoke no other language. As for her immediate superior, the voice she heard could not be his and was not. True, he spoke the language however it was learned; lacking in articulation, not to mention syntax. The voice she heard was from a Transianka Russian male who happened to be her father, who also delighted in humor, especially in the direst of circ-umstances: “Red herring” indeed.””
She would have taken the matter further, would have dissected each consonant phoneme with its accompanying palatal secondary articulation or would have noted the emphasis in the reduction of the unstressed vowels where stress is noted as being unpredictable. She would have but didn’t; not because she didn’t want to, but because her LTM suddenly voiced its disapproval of her daydreaming in a most emphatic manner beginning with “Michelle, come back…what in the hell are you doing? Hells bells girl I’ve been trying to get you for the last two minutes or so and all I get back from you is static! Listen up close…r u okay?”
Binder waited for his counterpart’s distinctive reply of “??????? ??????” to his question but heard instead “I hear. It is your voice but no. I cannot explain but I think something has happened. Hurry?” Binder had never heard his partner plead for his assistance; but he knew that her reply to him was an aberrant scream for help. He thought about giving her the third degree, after all, she was his partner and knew better. Instead he thought about what it was that had spooked her; and if truth be known, right now, he too thought that something was out of the ordinary. It was the uneasy feeling he had, a sense, of impending trouble, that often alerted him to take care; but this was different as it not only made his skin craw but made every hair on his neck and arms stand on end: it was the thought of knowing that you’re being watched by no one. It took all of two steps to think of every word of what it might take to help her out of whatever it was that was spooking her. It was on the third step that he spoke to her. “Michelle? I understand. Listen up, what I got to say to you is on the q.t. so from here on out until I get to ya we’ll go native. ??????? ?? ???????? ?? ????? ?? ????, ??? ? ??????, ???????? ??? ??????. (The boy doesn’t understand a single word of what I’m telling you so listen close). ???????, ??? ???? ???? ? ?? ???, ? ????, ??? ?? ??????? (Remember, even if I’m not there, I know what you’re thinking). ? ???? ?????? ??? ? ???? ??????, ???? ??, ?????? ?????? ????; ? Feddy, ??? ??????, ?? red herring ??? ????? ????, ??? ?? ????? ?? ??? ???????? ?????? ?? ???????. (I’ll see you in a couple of seconds, until then, just sit tight; and Feddy, she’s nothing but a red herring so sheath the stinger, she doesn’t know it but she’s got answers to questions).
_______________________________
*The Ottendorf cypher…a numeric substitution cypher such as used in “National Treasure” where…11-9-1 means eleventh paragraph, ninth line, first character.
Betty Pearl's Sissy Stories 20.1
Topic: R & D at F.E.M.M. (Read 69493 times)
