The Time Has Come, The Walrus Said, To Talk Of Many Things - [C]

At precisely 0800 Hours Ensign Bauer established Comm-Link contact with the 5-EX. The Ensign and Commissioner Anderson updated Commander Smith on the situation in Stratos. How the High Advisor was using **** on the Troglyte members of his household in an attempt to extract information. One maid had already ran away.

Smith, in turn, told Anderson and Company about what had transpired on the planet's surface during the night, concluding with, "I met the Leader of the Sons and Daughters of Freedom. The so-called 'Disruptors'. He has agreed to negotiate with the Cloud Dwellers."

"You're having better luck than me, Captain," Anderson replied. "I've gotten nowhere with getting Ishlass to agree to a sit-down."

"Maybe it is time for some old fashion 'Gunboat Diplomacy'," Smith responded. "See if you can get me an appointment with him for this afternoon."

After a brief moment of hesitation on Anderson's part, the career diplomat agreed, "I'll see what I can do."

"I convinced their Leader to use a female negotiator," Smith said. "I just wish I had some female advise on how to doll her up a bit. I think it would make more of an impression than her current trousseau of a miner's utility suit."

"Funny you should say that," Anderson replied cryptically and then the link was broken.

Less than an hour later Security Guardian Ramesh O'Connell and a female Troglyte were standing in the Control Room of the 5-EX. O'Connell introduced her as Lavella, personal maid to Darcina, the daughter of High Advisor Ishlass. Lavella had run away rather than submit to the agonizer ray. The City Security had not bothered to check Lavella's transport card when they left Stratos; she was travelling with a Free Person.

The new arrival was about the same height as Farasha, although she was younger and with a compact, curvaceous body. Roughly Petty Officer Dawson's age. Perhaps a year or two older. She had on a simple white tunic and sandals. Her shoulder-length, dark brown hair was thick and wavy. The woman had smoky eyes, full lips, and an olive complexion.

"Excellent!" Smith replied to O'Connell. Turning to the Senior Guardian, Gladden, the Captain said, "You'll move in with Lieutenant Moonwatcher. Take Ensign Bauer's bunk. Lavella will take your and O'Connell's room."

"Where will I berth?" O'Connell asked.

"You?" Smith replied. The Captain jerked his thumb skyward. "You'll continue to sleep up in Stratos. You were never here this morning."

As soon as O'Connell had departed the ship to take a vertical transport back to the City of the Clouds, Smith disappeared into his cabin. He returned just a few moments later, holding two bundles of 'script'. Approaching Lavella and Farasha who were getting to know each other, he brusquely interrupted them.

"I want you to go into the nearby so-called town," Smith spoke to the young personal maid without preamble. "Pick out some dresses, and shoes, you know," he waved his hand in the air.

"I'm not certain what sort of selection they might have, Captain," Lavella answered. "The best shops and boutiques are up on Stratos."

"Do you want to be walking around up there while they are looking for a runaway Troglyte?" Smith asked Lavella while handing the 'money' to her. "I don't want anything overly-fancy. No formal gown or the like. Not that they are likely to have any. Some simple but smart dresses. Make her look like what on Earth we would call a Middle-Class housewife going to a bridge club meeting."

The House-Trog took the money while the Mining-Trog looked excitedly from the Captain to the Maid to the Captain. Despite being part of the leadership of the rebellion, she was still a woman. And no matter how old a female may get, when it comes to 'dress-up', they all revert back to being teenagers.

"DAWSON!" Smith yelled. The Cook ran out of the Galley, the last of their early, early morning breakfast dishes put away. "Drive these two ladies into town and bring them back when they have finished. I'll go over to the Port Foreman's Office and 'square' our Grand Theft Auto with him."

As the two women and the Cook descended the access-ramp, Smith called out to Lavella, "And buy yourself some clothes as well."

It was a little past noon when they returned. All three were clutching boxes and shopping bags. As Petty Officer Dawson dropped his armload of purchases onto a table on the Mess Deck, he told Smith, "Sorry I'm so late, Captain. I'll get busy right away rustling up something for everyone to eat."

Smith only nodded at Dawson's words, his full attention was focussed on Farasha. She was wearing a red dress with white polka-dots, full skirted, the hem reaching just above her knees. The sleeves were diaphanous, white and puffy. She wore a pair of short, white cotton gloves, white high-heels, and nylons. Atop her head was a floppy broadbrim Kentucky derby straw hat, also white.

"I did her makeup, Captain Smith," Lavella said, "But I figured I would wait until we got back onboard ship to fix her hair."

"No, leave it," Smith replied, finally pulling his eyes away from Farasha. "The ponytail is perfect. I am not trying to pass her off as a member of the airborne aristocracy. I want a poster-girl for a newly emerging bourgeoisie."

Looking at the packages and boxes on the table, and the 'goodies' the two women were carrying, Smith asked, "Are these all of your purchases?"

"There are more in the trunk," Farasha answered.

"I guess I'll help," Lieutenant Moonwatcher offered. "Dawson is busy making lunch."

"No, that's o.k.," Commander Smith replied. "I'll do it. Lavella, you put away everything while Farasha and I get the rest of the packages."

As Smith and Farasha started to depart, Dawson stuck his head out of the galley. "Captain, if you want to drive it anywhere, just twist those two wires under the steering column together."

The Captain nodded his acknowledgement to the Cook. He knew the man was being a smart-ass, but in certain circumstances a certain amount of insubordination is acceptable.

Especially if it helps one do what one wants to do.

Once they had descended the access ramp far enough to be out of hearing range, Smith said, "You look fantastic. Good enough to eat. Lavella really knows her business."

"Why, thank you, kind Sir," Farasha answered as they reached the hover-craft. "Before we take up the rest of the purchases, would you like to drive out somewhere so that I can . . . properly . . . thank you?"

"I thought you would never ask," Smith grinned, hurrying around to the other side to open the passenger door for her.

With a 'heavy foot', Smith sped the vehicle out of the landing zone, past the cargo storage area, and took a fork in the road before they reached town. Finding a group of boulders on the edge of the road in the desolate landscape, he pulled off the road and drove behind the rocks, killing the engine (i.e., un-twisting the wires).

"Let's get in the back," he announced as he departed the vehicle. Farasha nodded, but did not coyly wait for 'Prince Charming' to open the door for her. She had spent all of her life toiling underground. She was more than capable of opening a door.

As soon as they slid into the backseat, Farasha leaned forward, reaching for Smith's fly. But he put his hands on her shoulders, pushing her back. All the way back. Until she was supine, her head and shoulders propped up against the door.

Sliding across the seat in the opposite direction, Smith told her, "I said that you looked good enough to eat."

A wicked smile spread across her face and she brought a gloved hand up to her mouth, chewing on her index finger as her sparkling green eyes locked on Smith's motions.

He brought her left foot up on the seat, her knee bent, as her right leg remained hanging over the edge. Pushing back the hem of her dress, he smiled to see that the maid had selected a white garter-belt with flesh-colored nylons. When he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her white panties, she lifted her bottom to help him slide them over her hips and past her thighs. He grabbed her left ankle, picking up her foot and sliding it through the leg-opening. Pushing the dainty undergarment down her leg, leaving it to dangle around her right ankle, Smith leaned forward, moving his head in between her parted thighs.

Her black bush was framed by the white front and straps of her garter belt. Placing his palms on the juncture of her upper thighs, he pried her nether lips apart with his thumbs, exposing her glistening dampness. He kissed her, moving his lips against hers and probing with his tongue. Only it was not her mouth, but her pussy that he was kissing. Her glove-covered hands gripped the sides of his head, moving it around, rubbing his face into her steadily moistening pudenda. Smith licked along the cleft between her puffy labia, lapping up her vaginal secretions.

Moaning as Smith continued making love to her, Farasha began to breathe faster and rotate her hips, grinding her snatch into his face. He swallowed repeatedly when his mouth filled with his own saliva and her pussy juices. With closed eyes, she bucked against him, sighing and mewling.

"Oh, yes, Richard," she gasped, running her fingers through his hair. "Eat me . . . eat me, baby . . . eeeat meee..."

Clamping his open mouth tightly over her cucci, he sucked on her naughty bits. Flicking his tongue over her little clitty. Worrying and teasing the tiny bud. Her writhing became more frantic, her groin lurching up to him, her fingers clamping tightly into his scalp.

"RICHARD!" she screamed, lifting her upper body and leaning over him. Her body shook and quivered as waves of relief washed over her. He kept his face buried in her quim, sucking and licking. It was only when her body went limp and she fell back against the hover-craft door that he lifted his head, smiling up at her.

"Wipe your face," she murmured, smiling contentedly.