Chapter 3 - The Confidence of Lovers

Berlin, 3rd March 1938

"And might I add", Melira said, "that you might have been a bit more considerate with your caveman antics. My poor host won't be able to walk straight for weeks."

Sarah giggled. "It wasn't my fault", she reminded. "I had no control. When I was him, all I felt was, well, desperation. You were going to get fucked, and that was all there was to it."

"Well, it hurt", Melira complained, and cringed.

Sarah giggled again. She was more comfortable now that she could see the person who was talking to her, and that had not been the case with Jober. She didn't quite understand the process by which the illusion was created, and even though at times Melira's voice, like Jober's, seemed to be coming from within, she knew that Melira, the person she could see, was the source.

Melira claimed to represent herself accurately. If so then, apart from the addition of clothing, she bore a striking similarity to the primitive whose body she had until recently been resident in. When Sarah had pointed this out, Melira had agreed. "It's always that way. The influence we exert on those whose existences we share appears to amend them physically."

The facets of appearance which Melira had shared with her host had, Sarah now realised, been the reason why the caveman had been so attracted to that host. The woman within whom Melira had lived had not been a woman of her time. She had been taller than she should have been, more feminine, possessing the litheness of a more developed creature. The caveman had been lured and captivated by her exotic nature.

There had been other factors too, of course. The fact that she had been naked hadn't particularly hindered matters. Although even now, dressed in a figure hugging thigh length green velvet dress, Melira was an absolute vision.

The surroundings in which she had chosen to be an absolute vision, having declared herself bored with the tumbling timestream, were pretty impressive too. A manor house, Sarah guessed. Probably Edwardian. But the rooms were not constant, changing in layout and nature according to Melira's occasional whim.

Their current location was a reading room, with bookshelves along two walls heaving with handsomely bound tomes, and with rich oil paintings decorating the other two. A central table, at which Melira was seated, bore an impressive candelabra. "You just wouldn't know that time was passing you by, would you?", Melira joked, regally waving a hand.

"I'm so impressed", Sarah replied tartly, whilst glancing at herself in a large mirror placed strategically between two bookshelves. Even the sight of herself was, she knew, a mere representation, because her real body was in 1997, being given a pretty good shafting by one Gary Callery in the cheap rate room of a Manchester brothel. And her real body, just like Melira's, was stark naked, whereas this image of her wore a dress identical to Melira's in all design respects except colour. Sarah's version of the garment was yellow.

In all material respects, however, the image was perfect. She could sense her hands, her legs, all of her body, as though such things were real. When she pulled her hair experimentally, she felt pain.

And the fascination of the mirror lay in the fact that every gesture she made was duplicated in it.

She indulged herself, studied herself. She was, she decided, a good looking woman. And she enjoyed that.

But the truth was, she had enjoyed being a man too. Particularly insofar as the sexual sensations were concerned. Those had been very different. Not better, but very different.

For one thing, there had been a sense of power, a power which arose primarily from being the penetrator rather than the penetrated. For another, there had been the sharp concentration of sensation, and the sheer physical relief of ejaculation, as well as the feeling of both completion and commitment that passing something of oneself into another human being created.

Now, of course, she was considering the probability that she was neither man nor woman. That she was not human. That her origins were other than terrestrial.

She vaguely understood her task at last, and some of its purpose. She even accepted that her existence as Sarah, whilst remaining valid, was subsidiary to that task. Because Melira had told her the story, and as it had been told, Sarah had started to remember.

Like all Revisians, Loranna had been captivated by the idea of the Grand Tour, which had been proposed as an experiment and an entertainment by the celebrated adventurer Kotee. Kotee had theorised and developed some time previously a way in which time travel might be possible. Loranna had never understood the physics, but in essence the traveller became unlinear. The individual existed in all times at once, effectively becoming a part of the time stream. It then took only a mental effort to isolate a moment within that time stream and to observe it.

Unlike previous time travel schemes, the Central Council had permitted the research, mainly because any traveller using the technology was trapped in a passive, observing role. Past time could not be contaminated, which had always been a primary concern, and future travel would be limited by the machinery to twenty turnings of the moon and was only to be permitted with stringent confidentiality undertakings. There had been, nonetheless, opposition, principally from those who claimed that no Revisian would ever again have privacy, that it would never again be possible to be certain that someone from the future was not watching them.

There were also limitations. The linear dissolution was a temporary status which required technical support from a stable tachyon field. For the experiment, this field was located in the laboratories of the Astro Centre, but Kotee had been unable to overcome the problem of powering the field sufficiently to permit travellers to move more than ten ruhls from the Centre and more than five turnings of the moons into either the past or the future.

Then the breakthrough came. What, Kotee wondered, would restrict him if he were to build the tachyon field into the skin of a spacecraft? The field would thus become mobile, and the distance limitation would be removed. It was an exceptional notion, and one which Kotee had always claimed to have conceived within a paradox. He had, he said, gone forward five turnings and had seen himself starting to modify the craft.

There were dangers. In particular, there was a notional long term fallout issue. Also, as the practicality of the proposal came to be accepted, people became concerned about temptation.

It was theorised that the chance of looking far into the future might be just too tempting for Kotee and those who travelled with him to resist. A meeting of the Science Council was therefore convened, and a compromise reached. Kotee would be permitted to modify his spaceship, but would be banned from using it within the Revisian system. Kotee's honour was never in doubt, and his acceptance of the conditions ended the matter.

Revisians had long been space travellers, and had mapped over half of the galaxy. There would be much for a spaceship full of travellers to see, and Kotee had no trouble in securing recruits. Loranna, one of Kotee's students, had volunteered immediately, and the ship had launched with a total crew of twenty five.

Once clear of the Revisian system, the time field had been engaged.

It had been a fine adventure. Because the crew were young, romance and sex had enlivened the vessel, and Loranna, despite her status as mission second, had joined in with a will.

The history and future of many worlds had been dipped into, and the Revisian crew were able to establish that many races would develop technologically in the future, that the fate of the universe was in good hands. War, whilst glimpsed, was not a common thread. At least, it wasn't until the Revisians visited earth.

Sarah's thoughts were suddenly disturbed. The library dissolved around her, to be replaced by the now familiar twisting colours which seemed to be the way in which her eyes interpreted travel throgh time. The twisting, she noted, was sluggish, and she read this as an indication that a stopping point had been selected. She raised an enquiring eyebrow at Melira.

"We're going to rescue Holak", the other girl replied. "He's the next on the list."

"I wasn't aware that we were following a list", Sarah mentioned.

"Well, we aren't really", Melira conceded. "Not as such. But we have tried this before, you know. We know where some of our people are. So every time we make a new effort, we visit those places first."

"Go for the easiest ones", Sarah interpreted.

"Well, yes", Melira acknowledged. "Because in essence, the more we are, the stronger we are."

"And Holak is a simple rescue", Sarah presumed. "An easy target."

Melira chuckled. "You don't remember Holak, do you? He was always easy. No, never mind. We haven't time for that sort of smut. Yes, he is an easy target. But valuable too. He's... well, a bit unusual."

"He preferred the back way", Sarah remembered, suddenly seeing a clear picture in her mind. Blonde. Craggy face. Sharp blue eyes. Logical mind. Not much of a sense of humour. But always co-operative in the recreational sex department.

"Yes, he did prefer the back way", Melira confirmed. "And that's the problem."

"Why a problem?", Sarah wondered. "As far as I can recall, it never bothered me. As far as I can recall, it never bothered you either."

"It didn't", Melira said. "But that way won't free him. The exchange of fluids is the important thing in transference, you see. An exchange in... well, in the usual place. And the human Holak has occupied has, not surprisingly, inherited Holak's preferences. So this time, you're going to need to concentrate not only on who you want but... well, not to put too fine a point on it, where you want it."

"Just how difficult is he going to be?", Sarah asked. "From previous experience?"

"We've succeeded four out of five times", Melira advised. "Pretty good odds."

Sarah nodded, accepting that. "Clearly I'm a female this time", she stated.

Melira nodded in turn. "Sorry if it disappoints you", she said, "but yes. And we've arrived, incidentally, at the place where you put yout femininity to use."

Sarah felt like she was part of a magic trick. The colours rolled away, and she found herself looking at a smoky nightclub. Not a particularly modern one, she realised, because the waiters who moved between the crowded tables wore black jackets and bow ties, and the tables were in rows, small and circular and lit by table lamps. She almost expected to see Humphrey Bogart standing by the bar.

Her fondness for the movies gave her a good steer towards the time period. The clientele of the club were predominately male and predominantly employed in the German armed forces. The Nazi uniforms left her in no doubt of that.

To the right of the room, there was a small stage, currently occupied by two women in early middle age, dressed up like fairies and banging their bottoms together. Their movements were awkward, but were presumably intended to represent a dance to the discordant soundtrck provided by an unseen oompah band. The audience was barracking them good naturedly. "Paris", she guessed. "1940."

Melira shook her head. "Close", she said. "But not quite. We're in Berlin, Germany. And the time is March 1938. This is a period, you may recall, that we studied extensively. Because we thought it a good grounding in human fatalism. That said, I don't know whether Holak came here by accident, or whether he steered himself here. I don't suppose it really matters."

"It isn't Casablanca after all then", Sarah announced. "I thought it was. But it's "Cabaret." "I Am A Camera." Christopher Isherwood, and all that."

Melira frowned. Clearly her knowledge of the planet's popular culture was not as extensive as her familiarity with its history. "All I know", she said, "is that it's a very important night. Your target is Gunther. A shy man generally, but we know that tonight... well, there's a good chance of making things happen. And we can't afford the time or the energy to search around for another time when Gunther finds a lady friend. We'll need all that energy later on. When we really do need to start hunting."

"Gunther it is then", Sarah said. "Hadn't I better take a look at him?"

Melira was momentarily confused. "A look?"

"Of course", Sarah replied. "If I'm going to fix my ambitions on him, wouldn't it help if I knew who he was?"

Melira smiled agreement and pointed. "Blonde guy", she said. "Captain's uniform. By the wall." Already, as well as pointing, she was moving them closer. Moments later, it was as though they were standing, invisible, by Gunther's table.

Sarah studied him, and wasn't in the least surprised to note the incredible resemblance to Holak. Neatly tended short blonde hair stood guard on a thick neck. Piercing blue eyes watched the stage, disinterested yet anxious. The man's face was chiselled, like some sixties TV action hero, but the mouth, wide and voluptuous, was out of place for that image. He was slim and fit. Not, Sarah had to admit, the sort of man that she would have gone out of her way to pull, principally because of his apparent stiffness. But attractive enough.

He was smoking a cigarette, his shirt was open at the neck, his cap was on the table before him and the debris on his table showed that he had consumed at least four glasses at least of some clear spirit. But the alcohol had not left him at ease. His left hand balled occasionally into a fist, and he was perspiring slightly. His uniform, because of his tight posture, was still crisp and uncreased.

"Serious bloke", Sarah remarked.

"He's waiting for you", Melira explained. "Well, for who you're going to be. He's not just serious. He's obsessed."

"And who", Sarah enquired, "am I going to be? One of these old bum bangers?"

"Not at all", Melira said, fighting a chuckle. "You, my girl, are going to be the famous Lucy Bennett." For a moment, she left it there, but Sarah's confused look seemed to force the further observation, "Oh, come on. You're the entertainment buff. You must have heard of Lucy Bennett."

"Remind me", Sarah suggested. They were walking now, towards the wall to the left of the stage, then, disorientatingly, they were walking through it. The bum bangers, meanwhile, were concluding their act, earning muted applause and a few catcalls.

"Lucy Bennett", Melira lectured, "was, before the outbreak of the Second World War, perhaps the most famous cabaret artiste in Berlin. New York girl. Sassy as they come. A real star. You'll love her."

"Does she take it up the ass?", Sarah said. "Because if that's going to be new for her, I'm not sure I want to bother. The first time I did it, it was bloody painful."

"No comment", Melira replied with a smirk.

"Great", Sarah sulked. By now, they were in one of the club's dressing rooms, having entered through the wall just as the bum bangers entered through the door. Bum bangers included and ghostly visitors excluded, there were six people in the room, enough to make it crowded.

Only one of those present was male, a tiny individual in his early forties with white hair, a white handlebar moustache and a white suit. He was busy fussing the new arrivals, lying to them, telling them that they'd put on a wonderful show. The other three were young women, two of them tarty blondes made up so heavily that they could have imprinted their faces on towels and wearing dresses so low cut that their nipples were fighting to say, "Hello."

The third young woman, who was currently applying lipstick in front of a mirror, was rather more sophisticated. She was wearing a low cut black dress, revealing fine legs disguised by sheer black stockings, a dress slit vertically but not too broadly to the breastbone, teasing with a hint of cleavage. In truth, she didn't have a lot of cleavage to reveal, because her figure was quite elfin. She was strikingly good looking, with a tiny, angular face, a long neck, a small, red mouth, and big green eyes, lovely eyes which shone in contrast to the black of her upturned eyelashes and her short black hair. The hair was plumped up but otherwise almost as short as would be worn by a man of the time.

She took Sarah's breath away, and Melira clearly noticed this, commenting, "She's lovely, isn't she?"

"I do hope that's me", Sarah said. "It's you", Melira confirmed.

"I can't wait", Sarah confided. "Now?"

"Good a time as any", Melira decided.

"And exactly where are you going to be", Sarah wondered, "while I'm trying to get Gunther to do things properly."

"Watching, of course", Melira said. "But don't worry. You won't know. So you won't be embarrassed."

"I might be afterwards", Sarah supposed.

"After what you've already done to me", Melira judged, "I doubt it."

"There is that", Sarah conceded. "Well then. Here goes."

So she concentrated. And this time it was easy. The transition was simpler. The moment of shared consciousness was briefer. And then she felt herself disappearing into Lucy Bennett...

... Who was consumed by just one thought. "Hey, Arturo", she called. "Arturo, will you quit with the bumbangers and give me a minute here."

Bumbangers? Where the hell, she wondered, had that come from? Well, the where was irrelevant. Apology was the important thing, because Frieda looked just about ready to burst into tears.

"A little cruel, cherie", Arturo remarked critically. "Everyone has to earn a living, n'est ce pas?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry", Lucy insisted. "Frieda. Eva. Really sorry. No offence. You were great, kids. Truly."

Frieda smiled uncertainly, but the crisis was past. Arturo wandered over. "What can I do for you, cherie?", he wanted to know.

"I wondered if David was here tonight", she said.

"Ah, David", Arturo replied, as loudly as he could. "You wondered if David was here." There was general laughter at Lucy's expense, and she coloured. For a moment she wanted to punch the nasty little Spaniard in the nose.

Of course, she couldn't afford to do that. If she was dismissed from her job here at the Liebehaus, then she'd only have two choices. Something a lot more sleazy here in Berlin, or poverty in New York City. And she'd have to leave David behind.

"Yes, David", she grated.

"No David, I am so sorry to say", Arturo taunted. "But plenty of German boys in crisp uniforms drooling at you, Lucy dear."

"You know I hate those scum", Lucy snarled recklessly, the lost job suddenly less important.

"They are good boys", Arturo replied playfully. "Good German mothers' boys. They show you what it's all about, Lucy. Fucking German boys is good for business."

"Arturo", Lucy stated coldly, "I've told you before. I'm a dancer. And an entertainer. You want whores, you hire whores. I'll dance for the bastards, but if any of them touches me, I'll cut their balls off."

Arturo raised his hands to his mouth in mock horror. "But David, his balls are safe", he presumed, "because he's so nice and so English."

"You wouldn't understand", Lucy told him. And it was true. Arturo was such a degenerate, twisted character that love was an alien emotion for him. He slept with anyone who would have him, male or female, and was famed as the most compliant of masochists.

David Holm had no such flaws.

David was a British journalist working permanently in Berlin, a handsome man and a gentleman of the highest order. Lucy had tried to seduce him on a number of occasions without success, but she continued to hold out hope. His commitment to her was a given, though, because he escorted her to restaurants and shows on a regular basis, and telephoned to chat and flirt with her at least twice daily.

There were rumours that he might be homosexual, but Lucy discounted them. He was hers. It was simply that she had yet to find the key to open him up.

Arturo left the room, indicating his intention to introduce her. As soon as he had gone, the other girls immediately offered their sympathy. "He is just a jealous man", Eva judged. "I think he is attracted to David himself."

Lucy bent to pull on her black high heeled shoes. "Thanks, Eva", she said. "But it's alright. Arturo's a lizard. He doesn't bother me."

"Why do you stay, Lucy?", Isobel, one of the younger girls, wondered. "I mean, we have to. There is no choice for us. But you. You can go back to America. Land of the free, eh?"

"I wish I could sometimes, Isobel", Lucy replied. "But not often. For the most part, I'm happy here."

And she was. Lucy had come to Berlin in 1933, when her father had been posted to the city by the international bank for which he worked. She was an only child, and her mother had walked out two years after her birth. Things had gone well, despite the poverty and upheaval in the city, but then, in 1937, her father had been posted again, this time to West Africa. Lucy, having many friends in Berlin, had refused to go with him. There had been a difficult argument, but Lucy's mind had not changed, and her father had left Germany all but disowning her.

Over the next six months, the friends she had so treasured had seemed to melt away, and eventually she was forced to accept that her father's money had been the primary reason for the deprived Berlin teenagers' involvement with her. And that money, of course, was not only now denied to those teenagers. It was denied to Lucy too.

She had been forced to edit her lifestyle somewhat when she realised that her personal savings were running out. The first priority had been a cheap room. Of necessity, she had moved to a poorer area of Berlin. An area which was frequented by prostitutes and which, at night, was illuminated by the bright lights of the gentlemens' clubs.

Financial difficulty had become pennilessness. And she had been left with two options. To join the girls in the streets. Or to use the limited talent for singing and dancing which she had acquired as a young girl, to use it in a rather sleazy manner. This last possibility had been put to her by Eva, who had a room in the same lodging house.

The thought of becoming a whore had been unbearable. As a result, she'd allowed Eva to introduce her to Arturo.

Arturo had found the prospect of Lucy joining his "ladies" a potential moneyspinner. Her nationality, he had decided, would be a real pull. An American, bumping and grinding for Germans. It had to be a winner.

He had started her big, and public reaction had made her a roaring success. Within weeks, she was headlining the bill. To her shame, she found that she was very good indeed at what she was called upon to do.

The routines were relatively simple. Three or four crude songs, in the company of Arturo and some of the other girls were followed by a stage dance routine during which Lucy left the others on the stage to move around amongst the audience, showing her stuff more privately. She was only too well aware that at such times she was little more than a glorified stripper. The fact that she kept her clothes on was frankly irrelevant.

So. It was time.

Trailing Isobel and the other younger blonde, Mariella, in her wake, Lucy headed for the stage. Still adjusting her costume, she moved to the wings. Arturo was ending his short and appalling comedy routine with some nasty joke about two copulating dogs.

Lucy took a deep breath. The laughter was dying. Arturo took on a mock serious demeanour.

"Ladies and gentlemen", he announced. "I bring to you now the lady who has taken Berlin by storm. I bring to you, ladies and gentlemen... Miss Lucy Bennett."

Lucy moved. She had been nervous as usual, but there was no time for nerves now.

It wasn't all bad. When she was on stage, before the floor dancing, she always enjoyed herself. Less so since the Nazis had discovered the club, but enough to keep on performing. Performing gave her a thrill. It was just as simple as that.

The first song was difficult, though, because it involved a lot of touching in personal places. Lucy touched the girls and the girls touched Lucy. Arturo touched the girls and the girls touched Arturo. Towards the conclusion, Arturo came to stand behind Lucy and reached up to squeeze her breasts. Each squeeze was accompanied by the blast of a motor horn from the orchestra pit. It was degrading. But she could live with it.

After that, the show proceeded as it always proceeded. Audience reaction was good. She immersed herself in that reaction, committed herself to performance.

It was during the third song that she noticed the German officer.

She didn't know why she found him so riveting. It was as though some relay inside her had clicked. Her reaction was a gut reaction, an uncontrollable physical response that she didn't particularly like. The odd thing was that she'd seen the man before and had never been at all stricken. But now, she noticed everything about him. His strong eyes and hard, masculine profile. His intensity. His obsessive rather than passing observation of her. She felt heat in her face, and a vague stirring in her groin.

Throughout the remainder of the song, and through the one that followed, she took every opportunity that she could to glance in his direction. She hated his uniform. But she was attracted by his power, and by his naked lust for her.

There was no doubt that he had registered the return of interest, because his posture stiffened. Lucy was frightened by him, and strangely this fuelled her interest.

The time of the evening arrived when she was required to leave the stage. Still drawn, she drifted in his direction, pausing to dance lackadaisickally in front of a couple of customers on her way, failing even to register their faces. She stopped again at a table two to the left of his, ground her hips for a fat middle aged lieutenant. All the while, she looked at the other man, the man who had sparked such animalistic urges in her.

As she'd hoped, he beckoned her, and she immediately went to him. Close up, he was even more attractive than she'd thought, a classic Aryan type with blonde short cropped hair and a firm jaw.

She restarted her dance, moving in much the same way as she had done for the other men, but more slowly, more naturally. He had time for her body, observing it closely from time to time, but in the main he watched her face, those hot eyes gripping hers, compelling her to treat him differently. She knew that she was wet between her legs. And she knew that he could resolve that problem. And she was pretty sure that he would want to. Opportunity was the only missing element.

A murmur of discontent rumbled through the audience. She forced herself to move on, but she was dizzy with confusion and lust. Her body and mind had been hijacked.

Since she had first met David, he had never been quite so far from her thoughts.

She returned to the stage after about ten minutes, perspiring, still disorientated, and performed the last number. She was conscious of Arturo's amusement, and expected a rough time later.

The expectation was, of course, correct. Back in the dressing room, Arturo teased her mercilessly, unable, he claimed, to get over his relief that she had found a good German boy. The hurtful thing was that even the girls seemed to find her plight amusing.

She got back into her street clothing as quickly as possible, anxious to be free, to have time to think. She was pulling her coat on when there was a gentle knocking on the door.

She sighed. Tonight, of all nights, she couldn't cope with another old man offering her undying love and a place in the country. And when Arturo had spoken with the visitor and confirmed that she was wanted, her fears appeared to have been realised.

She moved to stand by Arturo, already rehearsing her excuse. Some prior engagement. Some important prior engagement. The doctor? No, too late at night for that. What could she say... ?

But her visitor was no old man. It was the officer she had danced for. Danced for so slowly. Danced for so naturally.

He was standing in the doorway, smiling rather sheepishly, looking for all the world like a lovelorn little boy. Now that he was out of the steamy atmosphere of the club room, his confidence and much of his power had apparently deserted him.

Because of that, she wanted him all the more. The only thing that prevented her falling head over heels in love with him there and then was the evil tale that his uniform told. But, for the first time ever, she believed that she saw something of worth beneath that uniform.

"My name is Gunther", he said, his English excellent, his voice softer than she had anticipated. "I wondered whether you might consider joining me for dinner."

She held out a hand. "Lucy Bennett", she replied. "And... well, yes. Why not? I'd be delighted." Her heart was pounding.

Instead of shaking the hand as she'd expected, Gunther touched it to his lips.

She liked the soft touch, felt herself colour slightly. "I know a little restaurant in Riffstrasse", he suggested. "Intimate, but you will find it safe."