"Well, what I want to know is, why did they call my trunks by such a
name? My understanding is that Bikini is the name of an island in the
Pacific Ocean."
"Yeah, I guess. Where they popped the H-bomb."
"H-bomb?" At last the hazy double meaning became clear to him. His
subconscious survey of many human minds had found nuclear energy mixed
up with females' scanty bathing attire, and the connection had evaded
him until this moment. "Could we see one if we went there?"
"One what?"
"An H-bomb, of course."
"Oh, naturally. The government would just love to show us how they
shoot off a H-bomb," she said. He missed the sarcasm entirely. "Matter
of fact, they're testing out there again this week. Why don't you call
up the president."
"That won't be necessary," he said seriously. In the space of eight
micro-seconds, he volatilized, visited the Pentagon, stripped the
exact location of the next nuclear bomb detonation from an agonized
general, and returned to the Cadillac. The blonde, of course, was
unaware of his brief absence.
"Just as I thought," he told her. "It's a nice, secluded spot where you
and I can be all alone for a little while. And I can poke around and
see what makes these bombs tick."
"Fine, fine," she purred in his ear. "Let's go."
She thought he was kidding.
It was an hour before dawn on the atoll when he re-materialized the
Cadillac, blonde and all, on the coral beach. Only the chauffeur had
been left behind.
"What's that sound," she cried a little startled.
"Just the surf."
"Be darned! I don't remember telling Smith to drive us to--oh well,
it's quiet, isn't it honey?"
The Sirian sent out a probe and located the tower with the huge
nuclear device suspended below it. He was about to close in and focus
on the construction and composition when the voice in his ear hissed
intimately, "Mike, darling, where are you?"
"Me? Why, I'm right here."
"Hadda feeling you were miles away."
"Not at all. Just about twenty-five yards is all. It's located right
over there."
"What's located where?"
"The hydrogen bomb. Just over that first hump. You can see the tower."
"Don't be silly," she said giggling. "It's jet black out there. Real
dark, and private, and Smith's gone off somewhere. We're all alone,
darling. Just like you wanted."
* * * * *
And now the Sirian, alias Mike Sledge, learned that there were other
than visual methods of aesthetic appreciation. Hundred-dollar-a-dram
perfume assailed his olfactory tissues from her warm body, turning
certain miniscule glands within him into busy chemical factories.
Her finger-tips trailed over his shaved head, and he almost threw out a
nerve block before he realized that the sensation was psycho-physical
rather than electronic.
"Show me!" she whispered.
"Show you what?"
"How you did it. How you fought back all that juice. All that terrible
electricity!"
"I didn't fight it. I just soaked it up."
"Soaked it--?" She gasped, and the passion was vibrant in her voice.
"It's--it's all in you? Now?"
"Of course."
"Oh, my darling! Kiss me!"
The custom of kissing, was known to the Sirian, but known only on the
academic level until this moment. Her lips were moist and full and
demanding.
"Fantastic!" she said in a flat voice.
"Well, thank you," he said, sitting back with a ridiculous feeling of
smug pleasure at her response.
"Fantastic how a guy can sweat out the hot-seat and kiss like a
high school sophomore." Her tone of voice led him to delve into the
idiomatic roots of her words, and he came away deflated.
"I, ah, let's try again," he suggested.
He had been holding himself slightly aloof from the sensation
thresholds of this primitive body, but now he let himself sink deeply
into the full neuro-muscular morass of feelings and emotions. The
effect was astonishing, confusing, overwhelming.