Small Difficulties

She was standing in the middle of my desk, totally naked and totally hairless.  She stood without modesty, ego, shame, or even particular care for how it was effecting me.  He head was cocked slightly off center, tilted a degree or two to the right.  Her body was covered with … I hesitate to call them tattoos.  Tattoos, to the best of my knowledge, were … well, stationary.  Just two dimensional designs and illustrations worked into the various layers of skin.

Her … well, let’s call them “markings” … her markings floated an apparent quarter inch above her skin and they moved.  I don’t mean they moved like my uncle Vinnie’s belly dancer on his bicep, the one he could make shimmy by flexing; I mean they moved like three dimensional animation.  I kept waiting for a motion to repeat, to find the edge of the loop, but they never did.

As I pondered this, the cat on her left thigh casually wrapped itself around her hip and batted playfully at the butterfly on her lower back, which circled her torso and ended up finding a new perch on an erect nipple.

She ignored the body art byplay and kept her eyes on my face, patiently (and obviously) waiting for me to come to grips with the moment.  “Gimme another minute, doll,” I muttered.  She nodded and leaned back on one shapely hip.

Without taking my eyes off of her, I reached into my right desk drawer and brought out the bottle.  One strong swallow was enough to unfreeze my synapses.  I started to put it back … and then offered it to her, instead.

She tilted her head just as slightly in the other direction and produced a glass from God only knows where.  I filled it half way and put the bottle up.  She drained the glass in one long gulp, then permitted it to vanish (hopefully to be washed) while all her various illustrations shivered in response to the booze.  She didn’t respond, only her artwork.

Weird.

I leaned back in my chair and tilted my hat to a more rakish angle, regarding her for a moment longer before saying, “Okay; you have my attention.  What can I do for you, Miss?”

“There is a strange man following me, Mr. Grunion,” she replied promptly.

I looked at her again, carefully searching for any details that I might have missed during the first fifteen minutes, and shrugged, “Well, if he’s following you, he really can’t be all that strange a man.  Sounds like a pretty normal male response to me.”

“Charming,” she replied, deadpan.  “I want you to find out who he is, what he wants, and – if necessary – to stop him before he harms me.”

I leaned back and rubbed my chin with my right hand, thinking.  After a second, I asked, “How tall is he?”

“Excuse me?”

“How tall is he?” I repeated.  “Your stalker; how tall is he?”

She glared at me before replying, “A little taller than I, around eight inches.”

“Uh-huh.  So … that is your real height, then?  You’re actually in my office?  This isn’t a holograph?”

“Yes, this is my real height.  No, I’m not actually in your office, Mr. Grunion.  This is a holographic contact, but it’s a full sized one,” she explained.

“Glad to hear it.  Really; I thought I was losing it for a minute.”  I leaned forward and studied her markings.  “Is this your corrected appearance, then?  Are those markings legitimate or a computer enhancement of some sort?”

“Does it matter?” She asked, scornfully.

“Yes it does,” I replied, sitting back.  “I do not do business with clients I cannot identify in a court of law, should matters go sour.  I have a full time security recording of all my time in this office, so this entire conversation is being videoed.  Tell me that this is the way you look and I have an official record of your statement to fall back on if needed.”

She glanced around, as if able to see my entire office from her location.  I filed it away as interesting information.  “Fine, then.  That’s more than reasonable.”  She glanced back at my face and shrugged.  “For what it is worth, this is my natural state and these markings are a part of me, not any sort of illusion or augmentation.  Satisfied?”

“For now,” I agreed.  “Now tell me about the man stalking you:  Do you know his name?”

“How could I possibly know his name?”

“Most stalkers are people the women already know, Miss … I’m sorry, but what is your name?  I made a mental note of the fact that it took me damn near fifteen minutes before I’d realized that she hadn’t introduced herself.

She frowned and looked around the office again, or looked around wherever she was broadcasting from … whichever.  “I was rather hoping we could do this without my having to identify myself, Mr. Grunion.”

I did my level best to give her my private investigator tired frown, but I couldn’t help grinning at her presumption.  “I’m sorry, but let me get this straight:  You appeared on the top of my desk (where there is no holographic receiver, by the way, so … nice trick), totally naked and with the damnest tattoos or whatever those markings are, definitely unique either way … and you wish to remain anonymous?”  I was openly grinning at this point.  “Exactly how difficult do you suppose it would be to track you down?”

“Um … well, actually, it would be impossible.  You see, this is what I look like and these are a part of me, but your video system cannot record my image, only my voice … and my voice, you will find, is not in any database on the planet.”  I didn’t think a face that small could be that smug.

“Really?  So I’d be representing a client I cannot identify in the event that everything goes into the crapper?  No recorded image, no voice to identify, no name to track; is that it?”

“Yes, please.”

“No, thank you.”  I dropped my fedora on top of her image and went back to my novel.  It was an unknown Heinlein, discovered in a trunk of his effects by a collector.  It had been published as soon as it had been identified, but there were still those who believed it to be a clever fake.  Either way, it was a good read.

I reached back and snapped on the small lamp sitting behind my desk.  The sun had set far enough behind the San Francisco smog as to be useless, although the sunset was – as ever – spectacular.  I understand that it was even better at Key West, but who the hell wanted to fly across the country just to see a sunset?  From my office slant apartment, I had western windows that provided incredible sunrises and eastern windows to catch the sunset … and, between them, a row of windows that provided me with a spectacular view of The City.  Best of all, I was high enough to be above the usual fog bank that blanketed The City from time to time, so it was living in the clouds.

My hat was trying it’s best to argue me out of my position, but I found it much easier to ignore felt than a small naked bald woman, so I ignored the noise and concentrated on my novel.  It was a prequel to one of his final known novels, The Cat Who Walks Through Walls.  It traces the life and military career of one Colin Campbell, an illegitimate son of the legendary Lazarus Long.  If it wasn’t by the Admiral, it was the best forgery that I’d read in decades.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the edge of my fedora lift and a small head peek out from underneath.  I ignored it, just filing the fact that my little visitor was actually in my office and not having her image beamed in somehow.  I’d assumed as much when she kept glancing around the room, but assumptions were not facts.  A fedora moving was a fact.  The edge lowered again and I went back to reading; it was getting to the infamous cannibal story, so pivotal to the character in later life, and I was curious how the writer, whomever he was, would handle it.

“Ahem.”

I looked back at my desk and my fedora was missing.  I looked up and my visitor, now around six foot, still naked, and wearing my fedora on her bald head, was sitting in my visitor chair.  I cocked my head, folded a corner of the page I was on, set my book aside, and stood.  Her markings were even more remarkable at this size.  I walked around my desk, removed my fedora from her head, and gently tapped her pate with a finger.

Solid … huh.

I tossed my hat onto the bust of Bogart and sat back down, leaning forward and cradling my chin on one palm.  After a few seconds, I asked, “How?”

“Shouldn’t that be ‘Why?’” she replied.

“Nope; couldn’t care less about why, just wanna know how you are doing this.  I know you were only six inches tall when you were standing on my desk, that it wasn’t a hologram, and that you’re now a solid six footer sitting in my office.  The how can only be one of two things; either it’s magic or technology so advanced as to seem like magic, and I’d like to know which is it.”

“Why would that matter to you?”

“Because it would tell me if I’m talking to an alien or a fairy, an important point if I’m to take your case.”

******

Okay, Shipmates, get busy.  Is she an alien or a fairy of some sort and why?  Gimme some direction on this and let’s see if writing via committee actually works.  To keep this under some sort of control, please post your official opinion/vote at my blog as a comment.  That way, we can all keep track of the replies and have a little fun with it.