The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. Your fingers are even now as stiff as a schoolgirl’s. ’ He glanced about and saw his quarry holding court at one end of the vast mirrored chamber. She is something different. Even Lucy’s bra and panties, the ubiquitous polyester underwire and matching cotton bikini briefs from Kmart, were gone. Who could say that the two weren't in collusion? When a chap like Spurlock jumped the traces, cherchez la femme, every time.
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