Security Check

From where they stopped the plane it was obvious to Martin that something unusual was going on - something to do with security.

They parked inside a hanger, hundreds of meters from any gate. The passengers, with all their hand-luggage, clambered down an old-fashioned ramp, were led through a tight cordon of terminal security people to a large bullpen-like room, almost another baby hanger. It was set with long rows of big, numbered folding tables; the tables were separated by vertical plywood panels to provide a bit of pseudo-privacy. All checked luggage was quickly off-loaded and arrayed before the puzzled and upset passengers, who had to claim all their luggage, pile it in front of themselves with their carry-ons, and wait. There was, of course, no seating. Passengers --with luggage- were led individually to tables -- each passenger separately. Good European style security -- post flight!

Martin sighed internally and tried to stay calm -- getting upset simply was the wrong thing to do at this point. Fortunately, he was in no hurry -- it was mid-morning, the rest of his day was free, his first lecture was the day after tomorrow, and early next week he was to rendezvous with his long-term paramour for a couple of days of high-intensity bed-games. Also fortunately, he was one of the first to alight, and easily found his lone checked bag. He caught the eye of the agent who was directing traffic, and was pointed to table number 13.

Martin trundled over: behind the desk was a single security employee, a blond young woman of perhaps twenty-eight or so. She was, he thought fleetingly, rather pretty -- too bad the god-awful uniforms were so genuinely god-awful! At least, she'd taken pains to wear it neatly. She had the usual un-readable-at-a-distance identification card on a neck-cord, plus a badge and a simple nametag reading "Marsha". She had a subtle air of competence and intelligence about her that was so sadly lacking in 99% of her security compadres.

She motioned him to put his bags on the table. Before doing anything else, she wiped the bag with a cotton swab, then said "Your hands too, please, palms up." He complied. The swab sampled both palms, then disappeared into the tabletop mass spectrometer.

Martin smiled at her and said "No nitrates on me, Marsha. Guaranteed!" Nitrates being the primary ingredient of most high-level explosives, that was what the machine was checking for. Somebody must have called in a bomb threat. She said nothing, glanced at him, then at the machine. A green light lit up, apparently signaling "clean".

She looked back up at him, made solid "Inspecting you now!" eye contact, and said quietly with a significant and very pleasant British accent, "Sorry about the uproar and delay today, Sir. We'll get you through as quickly as we can."

Martin nodded, said "No problem -- good security is a fine idea. Take as long as you wish -- I'm just going to my hotel and have nothing special scheduled tonight. Or all day tomorrow, for that matter. No hurry."

She nodded, very neutral and professional. "Thank you for feeling that way, Sir. A great many passengers do not. And some are quite vocal about it, too. May I see your boarding pass stub and some good ID please?" Martin produced his passport and the requisite stub. "Any other connecting flights for you today, Sir?" she asked. He shook his head no as she compared the passport photo with his face. "Born where?" she asked, as she flipped expertly and rapidly through the visas section. He told her, she nodded, then asked "Not a local resident -- have you any documentation as to where you will be staying?" He produced a paper copy of an e-mail confirming his reservation at a good local hotel, which she scanned as if committing it to memory, then returned. "So why use a passport on a domestic flight, Sir? Not your typical American's habit, is it?"

He shrugged, said "Universally accepted ID, more impressive to some folks than is a mere driver's license. That can be helpful sometimes. It's a good all-purpose document."

She handed it back and said "Lots of foreign travel in there."

He volunteered "Yeah, I like to travel, but most of that is really occupational junketing." She waited -- he left the ball in her court as she snapped on a pair of latex gloves.

"Afraid we're going to have to go through the whole lot in detail this time, Sir. You and everyone else, no exceptions today. Doesn't happen very often. I'll ask you please not to reach out or touch anything in the suitcases as I check things, but you can say anything you want as we go along." He handed her the key for the approved mini-lock: she opened it and handed back the key. "So, Sir, just what is the occupation in question that requires so much travel?"

"I'm a scientist. Oceanography. Visiting here to give a short series of lectures at the university. An old PhD classmate of mine is a prof here." That brought her up short, a flicker of something broke through the impersonal façade but just for a fraction of a second.

She looked at him again, much more attentively, and said "Oh? And just what species of oceanographer might you be?"

That was interesting, Martin thought -- even in the scientific community almost nobody recognized that there were serious, largely independent, divisions of the overall field. He found himself both impressed and curious. "Biological. I'm actually a global-scale systems ecologist. I study blue-water planktonic ecosystems. Central Pacific gyres." That ought to cause something: he grinned to himself, waiting.

"Hmmm..." she said. "So you're one of those kilocalories per square meter per day energy flow up the food chain sorts of people, I suppose?" He blinked in surprise and she cracked the briefest, tiny smile, her face lit up, and then she suppressed it. "Sorry, Sir, we're truly not supposed to make any personal contact with the passengers. But... I wonder, would you happen to be the Jeremiah of a scientific paper by Jeremiah and Reeves, back about twenty years or so? In Deep-Sea Research?"

Martin was stunned -- yes, indeed, he acknowledged, and then wondered aloud just how the heck anyone in such low-level security work happened to know about the paper? "That stuff isn't exactly casual reading" he said -- "There's something more to you, Miss Marsha of Security, than meets the unaided eyeball!"

She grinned at his surprise, retreated into her official persona, made as if to flip open the suitcase, and paused to tell him "Papa is a marine biologist in England. I'm a third-year PhD student in oceanography myself, and THIS..." she gestured to the surroundings, "...well, this job is a good way to make a lot of money fast during the summer. Your paper was required reading in my marine chemistry class last fall. Nice paper. Well written -- so few of them are, you know."

She flipped the top open on the big suitcase. Martin had been steeling himself for this ever since seeing these unusual security arrangements. Inside, under the topmost layer of clothes-used-as-padding, was an orderly array of gear. He always set things up so an x-ray would show clearly what all the wires and lumps were, and usually managed thereby to keep the security folks from physically opening his bag. Under the coat on top, carefully arrayed, were his digital camera and charger, his cell phone and charger, an extension cord, his mini-computer and its adjuncts. And -- the only subject of possible embarrassment - a fine selection of sex toys both old-fashioned, meaning simple dildos, and new-fangled, meaning the latest in electronics with wires, batteries, switches, plugs and timers. Perfectly capable of looking like a bomb in an X-ray, he supposed. Oh well -- he doubted that there was anything in there that Marsha hadn't seen before, probably many times, and there was most certainly nothing illegal or dangerous.

As she did a quick hand-check of outer suitcase pockets and the liner of the top he muttered "You're going to find quite an array of electrical wires and stuff just beneath that coat on top. I'll be glad to explain anything you're not familiar with."

She glanced at him, then said "So I can see from the x-ray." Her eyes flicked left and Martin finally noticed the small flat-screen monitor that only she could see. "Quite a collection indeed. Neatly laid out, though. That's thoughtful of you."

She flipped the coat out and onto the table, patted it down, then stared at the layer of toys and equipment.

And blushed.

Martin thought it a very pretty sight indeed, all that blood suddenly popping up beneath her peaches-and-cream English complexion. She worked her way silently from left to right: camera, computer, shaver and other gear she picked up and put on the growing pile.

Then she laid her hand across all three latex dildos -- small, medium, and significantly larger than average for Homo sapiens. With a tone as carefully neutral, a voice as nicely modulated as that of a Harrod's-of-London over-the-counter salesman selling a gross of multi-colored frilly condoms to a middle-aged single schoolmarm, she said "A nice selection, if I do say so myself, Sir." She picked them up one after the other, used both hands to flex each, laid them aside. Her eyes rose to meet his gaze. "Rather good quality, too. Those things aren't cheap. And they don't appear to be made of C4 either, which is good."

Followed by "And THIS -- well, this is practically a work of art, irrespective of its function! Where in the world did you find such a thing?"

The item in question was a gorgeous, perfectly carved dildo with scrotum and veins, cut from a perfect piece of black walnut, a genuinely stunning bit of handicraft. Martin smiled, told her "Did that myself. I like making jewelry and doing wood carving, especially during long seagoing expeditions. Took a while to get it right. That one was my third attempt, I believe. It's about twenty years old now. Very serviceable."

Marsha looked back and forth from his eyes to the dildo, shook her head and said "And I'll just bet you that I have a pretty good idea who posed for the sculptor, too. Is it totally accurate, Sir? Except, of course, for this aspect..." She rapped it on the table to call attention to its hardness. Martin just grinned at her and said "Pretty good likeness, actually. And as a budding scientist, Miss Marsha, who might you be to claim, without evidence, that any single, critical parameter is somehow misrepresented?"

She almost sputtered, keeping from laughing, then dropped it onto the pile, picked up a long, slender silver rod with curved, tapered tips, and looked quizzically at him.

"It's called a urethral sound. A medical instrument adaptable for certain types of sexual play. Lubricate it properly and then slip it down a penis until the curved tip is inside the prostate, and you will instantaneously produce the damnedest erection ever seen. Rather a sort of mechanical instant aphrodisiac. If one needs it. Otherwise, just an amusing play-toy."

She shook her head again in mingled astonishment and embarrassment, laid it aside. Next was the control-&-battery box for the e-toys. He explained quietly what the big double-electrode dildo-shaped plug was for, and the smaller metal egg on its single wire, the options for current to go across one body only, or between bodies when things were properly set up. On-off, pulse repetition frequency and pulse intensity all made perfectly good sense to her.

She looked up at him as she laid it aside with the rest of the toys. She had an almost puzzled expression.

Martin recognized it, said "What is it, Marsha? The only dumb question, you know, is the one you don't ask."

She nodded, then blushed again and said "Interesting that in all these materials of yours, there isn't a single actual vibrator. May I ask why not?"

Martin wondered where the obligatory "Sir" had suddenly gone. He shrugged, snorted a gently suppressed laugh, and said "Well, Miss Marsha, now that we're clearly past the point of no return as to "personal contact" with passengers, I can tell you that my women are usually both experienced and well equipped -- they do take some serious responsibility for their own well-being. I like that in a partner -- that and aggressiveness -- and so I don't provide absolutely every possible little thing."

He paused, considered whether to push a little, decided YES, said with a gentle grin, "Besides, I actually DO own a very sophisticated vibrator - it just doesn't pack well in luggage." He twitched his lips just the tiniest amount.

She clearly understood, blushed prettily, nodded, seemed briefly lost in thought as she sorted almost casually through the rest of his stuff, finding nothing else that required attention or explanation.

Martin stood silently, waiting.

Finished, she looked up, said "You're clear. You can re-pack it yourself, or let me do it. Your option." He almost decided to have her do it -- she could see him considering it, and smiled at him "I wouldn't do a very careful job -- repacking is a duty but not much fun. You'd doubtless like your own version better. Especially the packing of the toys and other instruments of... whatever they are instruments of!"

"Why, Marsha, they are implements of pleasure - of that I do assure you!" said Martin. He spun the suitcase, packed rapidly. Marsha watched him thoughtfully, then pulled from her jacket pocket one of the little post-card-sized notices that he occasionally found in his bag -- the notice that said, basically "We had to open the bag, sorry about that, you will find the contents disturbed as you unpack, thank you very much for your indulgence, signed - your anonymous airline baggage security agents". She leaned down and put the card face down on the table, took out a pen and scribbled something on it, then stood and put the pen away.

In thirty seconds he was finishing up, about ready to close the lid. As he tilted it up, Marsha dropped the card onto the contents, back-side up. Even without focusing on it he recognized the pattern -- three digits, dash, three more, dash, a final four digits. She finished the motion he had interrupted, closed the case, zipped it for him as he stood there slightly befuddled.

She made solid, prolonged eye contact this time, as she pulled a strip of big green adhesive dots from another pocket and applied one prominently to his suitcase.

"Doctor Jeremiah, for further information, you would be very well advised to call that number this afternoon precisely at five pm, that is seventeen hundred, local time. It could be QUITE advantageous to you. Please do not ignore or forget this notice I'm giving you."

The professional glaze covered her eyes again: "Thanks for your cooperation, Doctor. You are clear to go. The exit is over there -- busses are outside to take you to the main terminal. Good day." She waved him towards the door, turned to greet her next passenger.

It hadn't taken ten minutes.

At the hotel by three, Martin went to his room and waited for five, wondering. After a few minutes he set up his computer, got online, and did a little research -- the number belonged to Sprint, so clearly it was a cell phone. He couldn't pry any more information out of the net, but reset his watch to perfect synchrony with the national official time signal on radio WWV.

Ten seconds to five, he began dialing: he finished on the dot. The unknown, mystery-elsewhere phone rang only once, and a familiar British accent sounded in his ear.

"Good timing, Doctor."

He didn't get a chance to say anything.

"So aggressiveness is okay with you, is it? Well -- do you like Chinese food?"

He sputtered, allowed as how he did.

"Then if you REALLY haven't something else on your schedule tonight, I'll be over shortly with takeout. I'm not far away. And I get to choose the wine. You do drink wine, don't you, Doctor?"

Martin managed to make it clear that anything dry-ish would be more than adequate.

He could hear her, almost see her through the phone, snickering at his discomfiture.

"I know that hotel from the outside only -- do you have a view of the sunset?"

He gave her the room number, assured her that the room came with a fine view -- and double king beds.

Just before she hung up, she said quietly "Doctor, I certainly do hope that you are up to giving lessons on all those neat little instruments and toys you carry around with you. Perhaps -- who can tell -- perhaps you can even introduce me to your sculptor's model?"

She signed off with "See you in thirty minutes. You better be ready. I am. And I come equipped!"