COXEMAN #1 Don't bite off more than you can chew by Troy Conway

1967 Genre: Vintage Sleaze / Sexpionage

Rod Damon uses the arts of love to expose a startling Neo-Nazi plot—

As head of the League for Sexual Dynamics, Rod Damon pursues pleasure in the name of science. And as a member of the Thaddeus X. Coxe Foundation, America's super-secret Intelligence operation, he pursues the enemy in the name of peace.

Damon has everything a top agent must have—brains, strength and courage. Women–the weakness of most men–are his greatest strength, for he also has a secret weapon–insatiable virility. And he puts it to its biggest test when he attempts to stop a band of Neo-Nazis eager to set off World War III.

CHAPTER ONE 

Her lips were full, moist, and oh-so-inviting. I covered them with mine, and my tongue probed the warm sweetness of her mouth. Sighing prettily, she arched her body against me. I realized instantly that she wasn't wearing a bra. 

She noticed that I noticed. “It's all right, isn't it?" she stammered apologetically. "I mean, I don't want you to think I'm fast or something. But, I mean, it wouldn't be authentic any other way. Would it? I mean, they didn't wear bras in the ninth century, did they?” 

The heady aroma of her perfume played hell with my libido. My hand found its way beneath her sweater and over the soft, firm hemisphere that was her left breast. "Definitely not," I told her, trying hard to sound professorial. "Never even dreamed of it until the eighteenth." 

Her nipple grew hard in my hand. Her breath was hot against my ear. "I mean," she went on, "it's not like we were doing it for fun or something. I mean, it's strictly scientific, isn't it. Gee whiz, when I heard that the great Dr. Damon had room for another research assistant, I was fit to be tied. I mean, I've waited all my life for an opportunity like this. You may not realize it, doctor, but, when I was an undergraduate soc major, you were my idol. I mean, I'd hate to start off on the wrong foot." 

My fingers hungrily raked the surface of what had to be one of the two most succulent breasts in creativity. My lips nibbled at the sheer silk blouse which was draped over the other. "You're doing just fine,” I assured her. 

"I mean," she continued, "it isn't every young doctoral candidate that gets a chance to work with a man of your stature. You understand, don't you?" 

"Completely," I replied. "So now, what do you say we get down to work?” 

“Whatever you say, doctor,” she sighed, pressing provocatively against me “Gee whiz, whatever you say." 

Work. Before going further, maybe I'd better set the record straight on that score. As you may have gathered, my name is Damon. Rod Damon. I'm professor of sociology at one of America's major universities, and more important, founder and director of L. S. D. 

Officially, it's the League for Sexual Dynamics. Unofficially, it's the swingingest way I know to mix a little business with a lot of pleasure. Either way you look at it, it's nice work if you can get it. And I've got it. 

It all started back when I was a struggling young graduate student trying hard to make my way in a field where recognition is hard to come by and pleasure is almost nonexistent. After laboring over the studies of Kinsey, Yankowski and all the other biggies in sex research, I'd come to the conclusion that what they lacked was the personal touch. So I prevailed upon a few female fellow-students to join me in an experiment. We dug up a dozen ancient sex manuals. Then we went to work duplicating the techniques. The sociological purpose? To determine the emotional responses of contemporary collegians to practices of civilizations past. 

To make a long story short, it went swimmingly. Not only did I enjoy three months of the grooviest sack-time this side of the Temple of Venus. I even got a doctoral thesis out of the deal. 

What happened next is history. My thesis was published as a book. The book got rave reviews in all the professional journals. One of the big research foundations gave me a grant to continue my studies. And I've been studying happily ever since. 

That's how I met Judy Maple. She took an Introduction to Sociology course under me when she was a junior, and in her words, I turned her on. 

"I mean, doctor, you really did. Gee whiz, when I first went to class, I was all hung up about sex. I mean, I did it now and then. But I felt such guilt. I was a walking Electra complex. Then I heard a few of your lectures and I said to myself, anything this interesting can't be all wrong. I mean, you were so scientific!" 

So much for the powers of persuasive speech. During her second year as a grad student, Judy learned that I had undertaken a study of the emotional responses of contemporary collegians to the techniques espoused in Book of Exposition in the Science of Coition, an erotic manual by the ninth-century Arab theologian and historian, Jalal al-Din al-Siyuti. 

Judy applied for a job as research assistant. She was interviewed and found eminently qualified. And that's how I wound up in bed with her, my fingers hungrily stroking one of the most succulent breasts in creativity, my lips nibbling at the sheer silk blouse which covered the other, and I all the while reassuring her that she was doing fine, just fine, if only she would keep her pretty mouth shut for a while and concentrate on the business at hand. 

Our present project involved what the author of Book of Exposition in the Science of Coition termed "The Fourteenth Variation on the Primary Coital Embrace, with the Male Standing while the Female Lies before Him, Her Legs atop His Shoulders." 

Sociologically speaking, it was a well-known coital posture, its intricacies having been detailed not only by Jalal al-Din al-Siyuti but also in several Greek vase paintings, two Indian sculptures and at least one fresco uncovered at Pompeii. I showed Judy a photograph of the fresco and read her the description of Jalal al-Din al-Siyuti. Then I helped her out of her blouse and skirt—"They didn't wear slips or panties in the ninth century, either,” she explained conscientiously—and we got to work. 

Judy's marvelous buttocks wriggled provocatively as I guided her into position over the edge of the bed. Faithful to Jalal al-Din al-Siyuti, I was careful “not to make haste in the establishment of conjugal union" but to "prepare the way beforehand by means of repeated kisses and caresses of the sweetest sort." Lying alongside her, I gently stroked her marble-smooth thighs and kissed her firm but pliant lips. After I reassured her that it was all very legitimate and scientific, she responded in kind. 

Her pulse pounded wildly as she surrendered to my caresses. “Mmmmm," she purred softly as my hand worked its way over her thighs. “Mmmmm," she said again as I touched the warm, moist sweetness between them. Then, “Mmmmmmmmm! ! ! ” Maneuvering into place, I prepared to do it as Jalal al-Din al-Siyuti said it should be done. 

Judy forgot completely about being scientific. Her legs trembled as I eased them over my shoulders. Her eager fingers groped frantically to help me find my way. There was a brief moment of frenetic fumbling. Then there was nothing but pure liquid fire as our bodies locked in a mad dance of passion. 

It was beautiful—too beautiful to last. And it didn't. 

Two of the toughest-looking gorillas this side of King Kong saw to that. 

They were on top of us before I had a chance to wonder where they came from. One of them grabbed me by the shoulders and spun me around. The other drove a fist so far into my stomach that my backbone felt it. I buckled over, then straightened up and fought back. 

I threw a punch that caught Gorilla No. 1 on the jaw. He staggered backwards, and I tore into his partner. My first punch caught him just below the heart. My second landed on the side of his head. Then I heard Judy Maple scream, something crashed into my skull, and the lights went out. 

When I came to, both of the gorillas were standing over me. One of them held Judy, now fully dressed, with her arms behind her back. The other massaged his swollen jaw with his left hand while his right held a .45 automatic a few inches from my groin. “Don't try any more stunts, Damon,” he warned me, "or you'll become the first mezzo-soprano sociologist since Margaret Mead." 

I stumbled to my feet. There was an egg-sized knot behind my right ear where he had beaned me with the butt of his pistol. "If you're looking for crib notes to my next exam," I said weakly, "forget it. You just flunked the course." 

The goon who was holding Judy chuckled. "Very funny," he said. "But we're the comedians tonight, Damon. You're the straight man. Now get your clothes on. The four of us are going for a little ride." 

I eyed the gleaming .45 which still was pointed directly at my 38th Parallel. Then I imagined myself addressing next year's freshmen in a high-pitched falsetto. I decided to let the goons have their way. 

After I was dressed, they herded Judy and me out the door and into a shiny maroon Volkswagen. The thug with the pistol climbed into the back seat with me. "You know, Damon," he said, "for a former U. S. Army Intelligence officer, you aren't too hip on local security. We broke your lock with a butter knife. It took about two and a half seconds." 

"A gentleman," I replied, “would've knocked.” 

“Yep," he grinned. "So much for the Marquis of Queens bury." 

The Volks pulled away from the curb and out into traffic. I glanced at Judy, who was curled up fearfully in the corner of the front seat. "Look," I said "I don't know what you animals want with me, but the girl is just a research assistant. There's no reason to bring her in on it." 

The driver chuckled. “There's a very good reason, Damon. You don't think we want some scatterbrained coed running around campus mouthing off about how the director of L. S. D. has been kidnapped, do you?” 

"Scatterbrained?!” protested Judy. "I'll have you know I was graduated with a three-point-five average.” 

"Shut up, high-pockets,” he snarled, throwing a withering glance at her marvelously unholstered breasts, which heaved provocatively with each fearful breath. "As for you, Damon, sit back and enjoy the scenery. This might be your last chance to look at it for a while." 

The goon beside me thrust his gun barrel into my ribs. "Get the point, fella?" he growled. 

“Got it," I replied. 

The Volks hopscotched through the traffic on Campus Avenue, then wheeled sharply onto the main highway. Half a mile later we passed a moving-van which was parked at the side of the road. The lights on the Volks blinked and the van lights blinked in reply. Then the van lumbered onto the highway behind us. 

"Don't look now," I told my captors glibly, “but we're being followed.” 

The gorillas didn't bother to answer. 

Slowing to a crawl, the Volks pulled to the right of the highway and let the van pass. A moment later, the back doors of the van slid open and a ramp was lowered. The Volks roared up the ramp and squealed to a halt. Then the van doors closed and we were enveloped in darkness. 

"Now, Damon," said my seatmate, nudging me with his pistol, "out." 

The driver tugged his seat forward to give me room. I stepped out of the car and into a long, narrow corridor. At the end of the corridor was a sliver of light. The sliver promptly became a huge, yellow triangle, at the apex of which stood a tall, lean, impeccably dressed man with a walrus-mustache “Do come in, Dr. Damon," he beamed, gesturing toward the door behind him. “I thought you'd never get here." 

The door opened to a large, walnut-paneled office. Along one wall was a black leather couch. Facing it was a rosewood desk. Behind the desk was an American flag and a portrait of the President. Walrus-mustache closed the door, motioned me toward the couch and took a bottle of Johnny Walker Black from a liquor cabinet under the Presidential portrait. 

“You drink it on the rocks, I believe?" he said, popping a pair of ice cubes into an Old-Fashioned glass. "I prefer soda myself, but then, degustibus non est disputandum." 

“Up yours, too," I replied. "Now what the hell is this all about?" 

“Tut, tut, doctor," he tut-tutted, squirting a second glass full of seltzer water. "There's no need for vulgarity. We're going to be working together very closely during the next few months. I think we'll get along a lot better if we observe a few social amenities." 

I took the drink from his outstretched hand, thought momentarily about throwing it in his face, then decided that I could put it to better use in my stomach. "You call it good manners to bust in a man's bedroom? While he's in the middle of a-er-research project?” 

"Unfortunate, that," he smiled compassionately. "But there was little choice. I'm sure you'll agree once you realize what's at stake.” 

I downed my drink in a single swallow. "What is at stake?” 

He brought his hands together in an almost prayerful posture. "The future of the free world, doctor," he said gravely. 

“Do you suppose you could be more specific?" 

He smiled again, then took my glass, refilled it and handed it back to me. "Do sit down,” he said, gesturing toward the couch. "It's a long story, and the motions of our mobile field office have been known to make more than one man seasick.” 

As if on cue, the van went over a bounce in the road and my stomach felt as if I had left it half a mile behind. I sat down and waited for Walrus-mustache to continue. 

"Dr. Damon," he said after a moment, "the enemies of democracy never rest. As a hundred and ninety million Americans tonight sleep soundly and securely in their homes, the forces of evil are busily at work, bound and determined that wickedness will rule the world." 

"Sounds like a pretty tiring job,” I observed dryly. 

"Laugh if you like," he replied unsmilingly. "Not too long ago, some people laughed at Hitler.” 

"I still don't see what this has to do with you and the two goons who busted into my bedroom.” 

"Doctor, the two 'goons, as you crudely refer to them, are agents of your United States government. They visited you at my command, and only because the national security demands it.” 

I gingerly massaged the knob one of the goons left behind my right ear when he bopped me with his pistol, "What does this have to do with the national security. I've heard of C.I.A. infiltration of American campuses, but isn't this going too far?" 

He examined the wound sympathetically, then sipped his drink. “Again my apologies. We're terribly undermanned in the federal service, you know. Austerity program. Had to borrow your two escorts from a branch of the agency that's infiltrating the Cosa Nostra. Guess they couldn't make the adjustment.” Then, his eyes brightening, he continued. 

“As for the C.I.A., we're in no way affiliated. In fact, we're so secretive in our operations that they don't even know we exist! For purposes of discussion, let's say that I represent the Thaddeus X. Coxe Foundation. It's a philanthropical foundation that finances many worthwhile causes, including us." 

"I suppose you've got credentials to prove who you are." 

He smiled. “Dr. Damon,” he said quietly, “you don't think that anyone who operates at our level of secrecy would carry identification cards. They might fall into the hands of the enemy. However, I do have some brochures from the Coxe Foundation. 

“Then how do I know you're legitimate?” 

His smile broadened into a grin and his tone hardened. "Damon," he said, "we know more about you than you know about yourself. You were born in Racine, Wisconsin; you had your tonsils removed when you were four; you got your smallpox vaccination when you were six; you were bit by a dog, a German shepherd, when you were nine, and you've still got a two-inch scar from his teeth-marks on your left thigh. You were graduated from high school at seventeen, got your B.S. in sociology when you were twenty-one, served for three years as an officer in Army Intelligence, then formed the League for Sexual Dynamics and balled your way to a Ph.D. at twenty-eight. You drink Johnny Walker Black on the rocks; you don't smoke; and your favorite food is steak, medium rare. Your hi-fi is a Fisher, your stove is a Hotpoint, you had a vasectomy when you were twenty-five and you keep a container of Emko in your dresser drawer in case your girlfriends don't believe you're sterile. Shall I continue?" 

“Please do," I gulped. 

"You write with your right hand, eat with your left, and your politics are dead center. You wear a size forty-two jacket, size sixteen shirt and size thirty-two boxer shorts. Your shoes are Florsheim, your belt is a Hickock, your watch is a Bulova and it's two minutes fast. Your eyesight is twenty-twenty, your golf game is in the eighties and your favorite bandleader is Woody Herman. You've got two books from the university library that're four days overdue, you owe Internal Revenue Service $42.50 on your last tax return and the balance in your checking account is $183.51." 

"It's $163.61," I corrected him. 

"It's $183.51. The $20 check you cashed at the faculty cafeteria Tuesday didn't clear yet and you made a ten-cent error in subtraction. Shall I proceed?" 

"Don't bother," I said weakly. 

“Of course," Walrus-mustache added quickly, "we could've found out all we know about you without being legitimate agents of the Federal government. On the other hand, as a sociologist, you're well acquainted with the rules of statistical probability. If we aren't Federal agents, who are we? What do we want from you?” 

“What do you want from me?" I asked. "Your cooperation, doctor," he smiled. “Your cooperation in a mission on which the fate of the free world depends." 

I downed my drink and shoved the empty glass across his desk for a refill. "Tell me more about it," I said. 

Walrus-mustache took a photograph from his desk drawer and handed it to me. It was a color snapshot of a girl in a bikini. She had long chestnut hair, sexy brown eyes and a figure that wouldn't quit. My eyes worked their way over her full, firm breasts, her trim, flat tummy and her generously curved hips. "Some dish," I whistled approvingly. 

“Spoken like a true aficionado,” he replied, popping two more ice cubes into my glass and covering them with liquor. "Her name is Bonnie Bennett. Her father is Jason Bennett. Mean anything to you?” 

"Not particularly." 

"I can see you don't keep up on the social register. The Jason Bennetts are as 'in' as a family can get. Well-known figures at charity balls, film premieres and opera season openings. Townhouse in Manhattan, summer place at Bar Harbor, winter home in Palm Beach. Four cars-two of which are chauffeur-driven—and a yacht only slightly smaller than the Queen Mary." 

"If you're offering to fix me up with her, I accept." 

“Don't be too hasty. She hasn't exactly carried on in the family tradition." 

"Eloped with one of the servants?” 

"Her old man wishes that's all she did. At fifteen she was a Greenwich Village regular, flopping into bed with every animal that crossed her path. She also smoked marijuana. Then she graduated to the heavy stuff. One night, at a party in an East Village cellar, she was picked up in a raid with two dozen other junkies. Had the good judgment to give the cops a phony name, so the real story never made the papers." 

“Admirable presence of mind.” 

“Quite. If only she had been so circumspect in all her dealings. After four months in a private hospital, where she kicked the heroin habit, she got on the lesbian kick and drifted out to San Francisco. There she set up housekeeping with a pair of dykes and stole from her father to support them." 

“Unfortunate." 

"Indeed. But she soon tired of it. Then she went to Hollywood, where she bedded down with every movie star who'd have her, which was quite a few. Also bedded down with a few starlets. Also posed for nude photographs, but she didn't sign a model release, so the girlie magazine that bought them couldn't make her Miss Boobies of the Month." 

"Voyeurism's loss." 

"Modesty's gain—but strictly temporary. When she was twenty, she ran off with a well-known Latin American playboy. That one did make the papers and her old man disinherited her. Then she left the playboy and took up with the San Francisco hippies. The old man took her back, reasoning that this was the only way he could keep some kind of lid on her.” 

“Did it work?" 

"For a while. She returned to New York and began running with the arty set. Discotheques, penthouse parties, all that jazz. Then three months later she dropped out of sight. Her parents haven't seen or heard from her since." 

"Now you want me to find her?” 

"Don't be ridiculous. We're spies, not private detectives. Besides, we know where she is." 

"In Peking, serving as Mao's mistress?” 

“Not quite. Our operatives trailed her to London, then across the continent. In Paris she was arrested for fondling a man on the stairs of a Metro station. In Rome she was picked up after a fistfight with a streetwalker on the Via Veneto. In Barcelona she got drunk one night and tried running down tourists with her Jaguar XKE as they walked along the Ramblas.” 

"Who bailed her out of these scrapes?” Walrus-mustache smiled self-satisfiedly. "The government of the United States, through the good offices of the Coxe Foundation, which now seeks your help, doctor." 

“What's your interest in her?” 

“Let's say that one hand washes the other. Espionage makes strange—you should pardon the expression-bed fellows." 

“You mean she's an agent?” 

"She is now.” He chuckled. "In fact, she's an undercover agent, in more ways than one." 

"I don't get it." 

"She's working as a prostitute and supplying us with information about her customers." He grinned. “Undercover—under the covers. Dig?" 

I shuddered at the pun, then took a long drink of Scotch. 

“We didn't plan things this way," he went on. "It was a lucky break. When we first started picking up her tabs we thought we might eventually use her as a courier of some sort. You know, running messages across national boundaries, that kind of thing. As chance would have it, she proved suited for a far more important role. After leaving Barcelona she went to Hamburg. There, presumably in search of new sex kicks, she took a job in a brothel. The brothel is in the heart of the Sankt Pauli district. Needless to say, she couldn't have picked a better place to broaden her, ah, horizons." 

I nodded. I had been in Sankt Pauli only once, and then only for a weekend, but my visit was enough to convince me that the place was the wildest vice quarter in the western world. "Sex kicks she'll get," I agreed. "But information? I doubt it. Certainly not the kind that would be useful to your agency." 

“Don't be too sure. As you probably realize, Nazism is on the rise again in Germany. The most highly publicized activity is in Munich, but there are active Nazi groups in many other cities. One of these cities is Hamburg, and on the basis of what we know, the operations there are far more important than elsewhere. Significantly, the men we have pinpointed as the city's top four Nazi figures all patronize the same Sankt Pauli brothel." 

“This being the brothel where Bonnie Bennett is peddling her assets?" 

“Precisely." 

“Very interesting. But do you think your fearsome foursome will tip their hand to every hooker who comes their way?" 

"To every hooker, no. But to one trained in eliciting crucial information, as Bonnie Bennett has been trained, yes. You'd be astonished to hear what we've learned already." 

“Try me." 

“Contrary to popular opinion, Nazism today is not a unified movement. Some members seek a return to power gradually and by conventional means. They hold public meetings, run for office and sponsor propaganda campaigns to clean up the old Nazi image. They comprise a majority, and it doesn't take secret agents to keep track of their movements. But there is also a substantial minority who can't, and won't, wait ten or fifteen years to make their play. These are old-line Nazis, mostly in their fifties and sixties. They were small fish during the Third Reich, so they vanished into peaceful anonymity after the war. Now they're getting ready to swing into action again, and Hamburg is their base of operations." 

"They sound like a bunch of kooks to me.” 

“Undoubtedly. But kooks can be dangerous. To wit, Herr Hitler, Herr Himmler, Doctor Goering—need I go on?” 

"There's a difference. Hitler and his crowd had a power base.” 

"And so, I'm afraid, do our Hamburg people. Nothing like the Third Reich's power base, of course. But substantial enough that I, for one, am deeply concerned about them.” His voice took on a tone of urgency. "Believe me, Damon, they're not to be laughed at. They want world power, and they want it now. What's more, they fully expect to get it.” 

I looked at him skeptically. "How?" 

"They have a plan, a precise, carefully thought out plan. The mechanics remain a mystery to us, but the goal is quite clearly defined. They propose to start a third world war." 

"With what? Peashooters?” 

"They themselves wouldn't be part of the war, at least not initially. The combatants would be the United States and the Russians and possibly the Red Chinese, though we haven't the vaguest inkling of how they plan to maneuver them into the picture.” 

"How would they maneuver us?” 

He leaned back in his chair and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Let's suppose, Damon, that detachment of West Germans, armed and in full combat regalia, stormed the Berlin Wall. Do you suppose that the East Germans would fight back?” 

"It's feasible," I conceded. 

"And let's further suppose that the fighting exploded so rapidly and with such violence that United States and Russian troops were drawn in on it. It's not unreasonable that the situation soon could escalate into full-scale war, is it?" 

"It's unreasonable if you assume that both we and the Russians know who started it and why." 

"We both know. Our people have been in contact with the Russians. Information is being exchanged." 

"Then why not just wait until the Nazis make their move and snuff out the uprising before it gets a chance to escalate." 

"Easier said than done. Remember, despite a facade of friendliness in recent years, we still don't trust the Russians and they still don't trust us. For all they know, we might be sharing certain information with them only because we want to lull them into a false sense of security. For all we know, they might just be pretending to go along with us because they're interested in stirring up trouble in Germany while we've got our hands full with Vietnam. For that matter, it isn't entirely unreasonable that the Russians are secretly supporting the Nazis because an incident at the Berlin border is exactly what they're looking for." 

"You mean that the Hamburg boys may be unwitting agents provocateurs?" 

"It's not out of the question.” 

I drained my drink and handed him the empty glass for a refill. He obliged, then poured a stiff one for himself. I waited until he had taken a healthy swallow. Then I told him, "I don't buy it." 

He placed his glass carefully on the corner of his desk. His eyes were riveted to mine. "Envision it, Damon. One morning the Berlin Wall is fired upon from the west. The East Germans think the United States is attacking them. They come back at us with everything they have. We've got no choice but to defend ourselves. We fire. They fire. The Russians fire. Pretty soon somebody drops a bomb." He smiled sardonically. "It's not impossible, is it?" 

"It is if we stop the Nazis before they get to the wall." 

His eyes lit up like a pair of two-hundred-watt bulbs. "Precisely!” 

I sipped my drink and said nothing. The whole idea still sounded pretty far-fetched to me, but things were beginning to fit into place. 

“Understand, Damon," he went on quickly, "I'm not saying that we're on the brink of war. I'm just saying that we might be. And with the international situation being what it is today, we owe it to ourselves, and to the world, to keep a tight lid on every possible source of trouble." 

"Reasonable enough." 

“This much we know for sure: the Hamburg boys are getting ready to make their move. The Berlin Wall is where they plan to take their stand. They won't need more than a few hundred armed men to touch off the kind of incident we expect to happen. And it can flare up almost instantly. The only way we can stop it is to be fully prepared at the exact moment when they strike.” His tone became ominous. “Damon, that moment may be a lot closer than any of us. would like to think.” 

“How close?” 

“Let me put it this way. Until two months ago, whenever the Nazis spoke of their plan, they referred to it in vague terms as 'the project,' 'the maneuver,' et cetera. We got the impression that it was short-range, but we didn't realize exactly how short-range. Then they gave it a code name. "Operation: Philadelphia.' Does that suggest anything to you?” 

"Not particularly." 

“When you think of Philadelphia, what major event in American history comes to your mind?” 

“The obscenity trial of Ralph Ginzburg?” 

He scowled impatiently. "How about the signing of the Declaration of Independence?" 

"All right, how about it?” 

He leaned across his desk and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “When was it signed, Damon?” 

"July 4, 1776.” 

“July 4.” He permitted himself a small smile. "That's less than six months away, isn't it?" 

I took a long swallow of Scotch. "Okay, suppose they are planning it for July 4. All you've got to do is alert our Berlin commander to be ready for them, right?" 

"Wrong. Plans could change. Besides, we have no way of knowing how thoroughly they have our military units in filtrated. Remember, we work hand in hand with the West German forces. Moreover, there are countless German civilians who come into contact daily with U.S. personnel. An untimely leak could be disastrous. Before we give the word to our military forces, we have to be absolutely certain of our facts. And we have to wait until the last possible moment in order to insure that airtight security is maintained." He leaned back in his chair again. "No, Damon, for the time being all we can do is watch and wait. Especially watch. And that's where you fit into the picture." 

"Come again?” 

"Right now our principal pipeline to the Nazis is Bonnie Bennett. But she'll remain our principal pipeline only so long as no one suspects her. If the Nazis got the idea that she was giving away their secrets, they'd clam up. Or they'd kill her. Or, worse yet—at least from an agent's point of view-they'd use her against us, giving her false leads to throw us off guard." 

"You've managed to keep her identity secret so far, haven't you?” 

“Of course. But with D-Day drawing near, we'll have to establish closer contact with her. Instead of receiving messages once or twice a week, we'll have to receive them almost every day. We can't use our regular German-based operatives because we have no way of knowing just how well the Nazis know us. We can't use sympathetic German nationals because we can't be sure whether they're more sympathetic to us or the 'Neue Reich.' The only answer is to send someone to Hamburg. Someone who could keep in touch with her constantly and who would never be suspected of being a spy. Someone whose reputation in his own field—sociology, for instance—is so formidable that his affiliations would never be questioned. Guess who we have in mind?” 

"How are you sure that I wouldn't be suspected.” 

"In this business nobody's sure of anything. Everybody plays the odds. With you, the odds are quite favorable. There's no vice quarter in the world as notorious as Sankt Pauli. What better place for the man from L.S.D. to conduct a study? Besides, our Hamburg foursome are as devoted to debauchery as they are to Nazism. Chances are good that they'd be as interested in you as you'd be in them. If things work out right, you might prove to be as valuable a source of information for us as Bonnie Bennett-even more valuable.” 

I glanced at the snapshot of Bonnie Bennett. The thought of playing counterspy with a knockout secret agent like her wasn't exactly unappealing. "You've got a point," I admitted. "Still, espionage isn't exactly my game." 

Walrus-mustache smiled, this time quite broadly. “You'll be well paid, Damon. Since we don't want to arouse the slightest suspicion, we've arranged for L.S.D. to get a grant from the Coxe Foundation. 

"As I said, the Coxe Foundation is super-patriotic organization. Some members even wear Bomb Washington Now” buttons under their lapels. They think America is already ninety percent in the hands of the Communists. By your joining this group and becoming a Coxeman, our Neo-Nazi friends will find you an even friendlier ear, into which I hope they will pour their plans. There's nothing like sex and politics to draw people together. The Coxe Foundation is happy to finance your sexual researches so that you can also act as ambassador of their views and make friends for them among their European sympathizers. You don't have to mouth their slogans. Just stick to sex. It's obviously what you know best. 

“We've taken the liberty of applying in your name on stationery from your office. The papers already have been processed and the acceptance letter, along with a check, will be on your desk tomorrow morning." 

"You touch all the bases, don't you?” 

“We try. Now then, about your time of departure. There's no point in leaving before the end of the semester, since that's only two weeks away. You're scheduled for only two classes next semester, and the university is prepared to release you from your contract until the Hamburg study is over. The foundation has arranged for that. Meanwhile, the two weeks will give us time to alert our people in Ham burg to expect you. All your routine reports can be sent air mail to the foundation, which will promptly forward them to me. Anything of an emergency nature can be passed on to one of our Hamburg operatives, who will get in touch with you shortly after you arrive. We don't use passwords or any of that jazz, and naturally we don't carry identification papers. But you'll recognize our agent instantly by what you're told when you're approached. Everything else, including your transportation and lodging, will be taken care of by the foundation. They don't know the exact nature of your mission, but they know whom you're working for and they'll see to it that you stay nice and comfortable.” 

“Just for the record,” I interrupted, “I haven't agreed to go." 

He dismissed the objection with a wave of his hand. “As for Bonnie Bennett,” he went on, "she'll know you when she sees you. If you don't recognize her from her photograph, she'll identify herself like our other operatives. For ward any messages you receive from her along with any other information you uncover. Since you know what we're looking for, I won't give you detailed instructions. Just remember to keep your eyes and ears open and to report everything."

"I still haven't said I'm going,” I reminded him. He reached under his coat and pulled out a .38 revolver. 

“E—easy, pal," I stuttered. “I haven't said I'm not going either." 

"Relax, Damon,” he smiled, placing the pistol on the desk. "I'm giving it to you as a going-away present. I don't think you'll need it, but just in case you do ...." He let the sentence trail off. Then he continued. "As for the girl, Judy Maple, she won't suspect anything. I've got a story cooked up to take care of any questions she may have about the way we made contact with you. I'm going to tell her that we're from the psychology department at State College and that the kidnapping was part of an experiment to test the reactions of a professor and a student to unexpected stressful stimuli.” 

“Do you think she'll fall for it?” 

"She fell for your story about testing her responses to the erotic techniques from Book of Exposition in the Science of Coition, didn't she? When I'm finished with her, she'll bend your ear for the rest of the night about how scientifically we went about it.” He drained his drink and placed the empty glass on his desk with a final-sounding thud. "Now, that should cover everything. You won't hear anything more from me or the agency until you're contacted by our Hamburg people. If you have any questions, you better ask them now.” 

"Just one," I replied. "Suppose I told you I could recommend a sociologist who'd be sure to do a better job than me?" 

"I'd say I like you better. Now pick up your .38 and get hopping, okay?" 

“Suppose,” I persisted, “I said I just don't feel like going along with the whole deal?” 

He picked up the pistol and tossed it to me. “I'd remind you,” he said after I had caught it, “that your country needs you." 

"And if I still didn't feel like going?” 

His eyes took on a troubled look. "I'm not one given to threats, Damon. But for openers, let me remind you about that cute little blonde you fooled around with on your last research project. You probably assumed that because she's a graduate student she's also an adult. Actually she's a sixteen-year-old genius—a very mature—looking sixteen year-old genius, but nonetheless just a sixteen-year-old genius. You and she experimented in 20 different ways. The positions of the Saluka Goddess of Love. In case you're interested, the minimum penalty on a conviction of statutory rape in this state is twenty years." 

“You wouldn't." 

"I'd have to. But threats aren't necessary in your case, are they? A patriotic sociologist like you wouldn't dream of failing to answer his country's call." 

"I call it blackmail.” 

“Call it what you like. It's keeping the free world free." He ushered me to the door. "Think about the positive side of the picture. You'll make a pile of money. Sankt Pauli is a sex researcher's dream. And Bonnie Bennett isn't exactly the type of doll you'd kick out of your research laboratory, even if she is a bit shopworn." 

"You win on points." 

He opened the door. “And you have an assignment. Now suppose you join our two pals in the Volkswagen while I persuade Miss Maple that this little get-together has been all in the interest of science? “Goodnight, fellow 'Coxeman.” 

He said it without even a smile. 

Back in the Volks, five minutes passed. Then Walrus-mustache and Judy appeared in the corridor. The bright look in my pretty research assistant's eyes told me that she had fallen for his spiel hook, line and sinker. "You sure had me fooled," she told Gorilla No. 1 as she maneuvered her marvelously uncorseted body into the front seat. "If there's one thing you both don't look like it's psychology majors." 

“Appearances,” he grunted in reply, "is deceiving." 

Then the van doors slid open, the ramp was lowered, and we backed out into the street. Ten minutes later, Judy Maple and I got out in front of my house. 

"Gee whiz, doctor," she sighed as we made our way inside. "I've never seen such excitement! First the experiment with you and then the experiment with them! I feel like Madame Curie!” 

My eyes zeroed in on the swing and sway motion of the succulent, panty-less buttocks which rippled maddeningly against the revealing fabric of her miniskirt as she preceded me through the door. "Unfortunately," I said, trying hard to sound professorial, "the interruption has put us far behind schedule. We may have to work for a couple more hours if we're going to catch up." 

“Gee whiz!” she replied, “I wouldn't mind working all night!" 

My hands gripped her at the waist, then slid up over her tantalizing, bra-less breasts. When she spun around in open-mouthed surprise, I kissed her soundly. “We just may,” I warned softly. “We just may." 

"But, doctor," she gasped, struggling against me. "Shouldn't we wait? I mean, at least till we're in the lab?” 

“Unthinkable," I replied, maneuvering her into place on the living-room floor. “Jalal al-Din al-Siyuti is most emphatic on one point: 'when the heat of passion takes hold, surrender unto it, no matter what be the time or place." 

“Gee whiz! He sounds just like some boys I know!" 

"The human emotions," I explained. “Universal from century to century, Now concentrate closely. I want to know precisely what your reactions are." 

My hand found its way under her miniskirt. She obligingly parted her legs as my fingers edged up the warm, firm pillar of her thigh. After a moment, a shiver of delight ran through her body and she purred softly. "It feels good," she whispered. 

Wedging my knees between hers, I leaned over her. The buttons on her blouse slipped open as soon as I touched them. I took her hard, pointed breast in my mouth and ran my tongue slowly over the nipple. Her pulse pounded wildly. “Mmmmmm," she cooed. “It feels wonderful." 

The sound of her breathing was loud. Her sharp, even teeth bit into my neck. Shifting my weight slightly, I prepared for the assault. "Gee whiz," she interrupted, "are we going to do it with our clothes on?" 

"Your reactions," I replied sternly, easing into place. “Concentrate on your reactions." 

The soft flesh on the inside of her thighs quivered as I moved between them. The warm, damp portals above parted ever-so-slightly and bade me enter. Pressing forward, I met an instant of resistance. Then the barriers fell. "My God!" she gasped. "That's delicious!” 

Our bodies writhed and twisted against each other. Her tongue was a searing flame in my mouth. Her buttocks churned furiously. Somewhere inside me, a wild, warm glow began to take form. “It's beautiful,” she moaned softly. “It's gorgeous." Then her body shook with convulsions as mine exploded with passion. She began to bite me fiercely, uncontrollably. When it was over she lay limply in my arms. 

"I didn't ... pay attention ... to... my reactions," she panted, "and I ... wasn't ... scientific ... and I ... don't ... really ... care." 

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