A Very Small Matter, Part 4

    Notice: This story was been rated "NC17" for adult language, nudity,
strong sexual content, violence, and explicit smoking. If you don't like these
things stop right here, but you'll never know what you missed.


    This last is for Loring, who maintains the trough at which we all feed.


    "A Very Small Matter" Part 4 of 9


    Author's note: This story concludes (for the time being) the trilogy begun
in "Behind the Times" and continued in "A Letter from Paradise." As the
subject matter is more than a little strange, I recommend you peruse the
earlier stories (both available on Loring's page) before reading further. If
you find it all makes sense in the end, please e-mail me with the explanation.


    4. The Things We Do for Love

    I was determined to be better prepared for this excursion than I had ever
been previously. For some reason, I felt Baldy had been straight with me about
the "no rush to leave" part. It just seemed to fit my earlier experiences.

    For my first order of business, I bought a Heckler-Koch 9mm automatic
pistol and several spare clips. After waiting out the permit period, I trained
relentlessly for three weeks at a local range. My earlier handgun experience
was gone along with my "Higgenbotham" identity.

    Next, I withdrew $50,000 in cash and bought another $30,000 in travelers'
checks. That was as much as I could inconspicuously carry on my person, even
in high denominations. Money has a nice way of changing to the local currency
when I travel by lighter, but I couldn't depend on any luggage making the trip
with me.

    Then, I called information for area code 214. I asked if there was a
listing for a Sue Banning in Dallas. There was. I dialed the number.

    A female voice answered. "Hello?"

    "Is this Sue Banning?" I asked.

    "Yes?"

    "Mother of Laurie Banning?"

    "Yes?" A note of worry had crept into her voice. I hung up.

    Finally, I flew to Paris.

    This was my first visit to the City of Lights, and I wish I could have had
you all with me, because you'll never see it like I saw it. Smoking rates were
higher in "this" France than in the US, just as they are back home (but not
much higher, because they can't BE much higher!) Part of it was the fact that
nine and up was the age for unsupervised smoking, or at whatever age a person
could pass a written safety test. Yes, they had licenses to smoke.

    There was so much smoking going on the streets and in sidewalk cafes
(happily, the European winter was very mild that year) that it seemed to
flavor the air of the entire city, indoors and out.

    Too bad there are no pretty girls in France. Hah! Fooled you!

    I was strolling down the Rue de St. Michel when I heard a small voice ask,
"Pardon, m'sieu? Avez-vous une cigarette?" My French was also forgotten, but I
could figure this one out.

    Imagine my surprise when I saw a ten year old girl fully decked out as a
"fin d'siecle" Parisian prostitute, complete with corset, garter belt, silk
hose, long gloves, spike heels, and a big, floppy, feathered hat. She was
extending toward me a foot-long cigarette holder.

    I had no idea how to say "May I see your smoking license, please?" in
French. I was still working on how to ask directions to the nearest pissoir.
So, I simply popped a B&H in her holder and lit her up.

    And yes, she could do a French inhale quite well.

    "Merci beaucoup, M'sieu." The worlds were accompanied by the usual exhaled
smoke, followed by more smoke from mouth and nostrils, as she turned and
walked away with a provocative sway.
    She must be going to a costume party, I thought. I hoped she was going to
a costume party. At least she hadn't asked me if I wanted a date.

    "Too ehay bee-en-venoo" I called after her. It wasn't quite right, but
close enough.

    I booked a suite in the Georges Cinq, which was only a few blocks from the
Dricot Foundation, source of $2 billion a year in medical research grants.
Dricot had outgrown even the Pasteur Institute. He was both the Edison and
Einstein of medicine and the world's reigning scientific saint.

    I wonder who and where Dricot is in my old world? He probably got greased
by a truck on his first day at medical school.

    Before I get down to business, I must tell you about the Georges Cinq and
its bar. This is one of the finest hotels in Europe, and crowned heads,
nobility, and other upstanding citizens abound. The bar (saloon, really),
however, is the most decadent place I've seen in any time in any world. The
decor is all red, from the plush chairs to the textured-cloth wall coverings.
The patrons all dress and act the part. I was out of place in my conservative
American suit.

    On my first of several visits, I took a small, out-of-the-way corner table
so I could just observe the action. I don't need to tell you it was smoky
there, but I just did. It looked like a movie set, complete with a beautiful,
costumed cast, for some flick that would never play in Columbus.

    My eyes had just begun to drink in the wonderful sights when I suddenly
had company. A drop dead gorgeous blonde sat in the chair at my elbow, flung
her black feather boa around my neck, and dropped her leg over my lap. I could
make out every detail of her black fishnet stockings, garter belt, and
blood-red spike heels. I looked to where the garter straps vanished beneath
her indecently short shoe-matching red cocktail dress, and it was clear she
was bare underneath.

    I've never had a special thing for fancy underwear, but I could see where
one might develop an appreciation really fast.

    Tucked into the top of her fishnet (the one on my lap) was a full pack of
Galoises Disc Bleu Sans Filtre, one of the world's most pungent cigarettes. It
didn't stay there long. I (carefully) removed the pack, gave her one, and
(after a moment's thought) took one of the smokes for myself.

    Now, unfiltered cigarettes are not "safe" in this world. The nicotine is
harmless, but to be spared the nasty effects of other things (like coal tar,
carbon monoxide, formaldehyde, and the like) you must have a filtered smoke.
US approved filters were developed under government contract in the 60s after
nicotine was proved beneficial, and they beat anything available in my old
world. All of the flavor, none of the shit. Unfiltered cigarettes in my "new"
States were sold only to persons over 21, and in limited quantities like an
open-ended prescription. Purchases-to-date for each sale were carefully
checked by computer in the stores licensed to sell them. Unfiltered cigarettes
were dangerous and decadent.

    I liked the idea.

    My guest stuck her cigarette in the corner of her mouth and let it hang
there, waiting. I lit us both. The aroma of the Galoises was...different,
almost overpowering. They were definitely an acquired taste, even for
dedicated smokers.

    My blonde companion had certainly acquired the taste. She dragged on the
cigarette three times without ever removing it from her mouth. Smoke poured in
rivers from nostrils and around the cigarette in her full, red-painted lips.
She took a fourth large drag (almost finishing the short smoke), leaned over,
and lip-locked me. Smoke escaped thickly from her nostrils while we were so
joined, and her tasty tongue probed halfway to my duodenum. I still had a good
half-puff in my lungs which I, not to be outdone, let out through my nostrils
as well. Smoke hid our faces in a cloud of romance.

    My eyes did not water. I had passed the acid test.

    All of this transpired, mind you, without a word spoken in any language.

    Now I told you I wasn't going to screw around...and I didn't. But it was
hard. Very hard. I could have had her right there in the bar, and we wouldn't
have been the only couple so engaged. Another presidential citation for Mr.
Grant, please, with bronze oak leaf cluster and a kiss on each cheek.

    I did stay long enough to finish that pack of Galoises with her, though.
Laurie would understand.

    The next morning I walked to the Dricot foundation.

    "I am verry sorree, M'sieu, but eet weel be at least a month before you
may 'ave an appoint-ment weeth Doctair Dree-coh."

    I was ready for this. A certified check for $30,000,000 made out to the
Dricot Foundation changed their minds. I went right up.

    I entered Dricot's palatial office and saw the great man for the second
time. He was 16 years older than when I'd seen him last month, and looked more
saintly than ever, with a halo of snow-white hair and eyes which seemed to see
further than anyone else's. I could see he still liked his cigars, though; one
was burning in an ashtray on his desk.

    "Monsieur Grant? Anglais, correct? Welcome, please sit down." He rose to
greet me.

    I was curious to see if he would recognize me. For all I knew, this was
not the same world in which I had "saved" him.

    "Have we...met before, Monsieur Grant?

    "Yes, in the American Embassy, in July of 1981. At the reception in your
honor, for your first Nobel.

    "Oh." His eyes opened wide as he made the connection. "But you are no
older! How can that be? And the woman...who vanished...?"

    I didn't go into long explanations about alternate worlds, time travel,
and magic lighters. I didn't really need to. Dr. Dricot was a fast study. In a
little while he understood well enough why I needed his help. Then I told him
what he could do for me.

    His face sagged. Clearly, he wanted to help, but..."Monsieur Grant, I
cannot do this thing you ask."

    "If it's a matter of payment..."

    "No, money has nothing to do with it. It is unethical. The risks..."

    "I'll bear all the risks and the responsibility. My lawyer has drawn up
the papers." I handed him a manila envelope.

    He let it fall to the desk. "That is not the point, Mr. Grant. A doctor is
always responsible, morally if not legally. We take an oath!"

    "Doctor," I said, trying to use my most persuasive voice. ""If the
procedure is so risky..."

    "Bah! The procedure, it is nothing. It is what will happen if you use what
I am to give you. I do not think you would survive."

    "There's at least one life at stake, besides mine," I said, pressing, "and
probably many more. You can't imagine the damage this Alliance can cause."

    "But I can, Monsieur Grant. I can all too well. Imagination is my gift and
my curse." He paused, thinking. "Let me think on this for a few days. Perhaps
there is a better way. I will contact you at your hotel."

    Two days later the call came. Dricot agreed to my plan, with some clever
modifications...

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