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understood the complex bureaucratic mechanisms of residence within them and travel between them. She was also young and attractive and intelligent and even-tempered. In short, the ideal secretary.
    Of course she reported everything we did to her superiors; that was a matter of course on Saturn. It would have been suspicious if it were not so. No personnel were cleared for service of this nature who were not primarily agents of the government. Since I had nothing to hide from Khukov, this didn't bother me.
    What did bother me, as we spent weeks reviewing the statistics and personnel of the farm bureau and the Kranian SR, was Tasha's sex appeal. At first she was chill and formal and beautiful, but as time passed she relaxed and unbound her fair hair and became warm and informal and luscious. I was sixty, but by no means immune to female presence. As her blouses became more sheer and her skirts shorter and her attitude more accommodating, I reacted exactly as any man would. Tasha was letting it be known, in the quiet arena of body signaling, that she found me interesting.
    Certainly I found her interesting. The increasingly supple curvature of her bosom and the firmness of her lengthening thighs were stripping years from my age. I knew that if I wanted a woman for sexual purpose, all I had to do was requisition one; Tasha herself would put in an order and the pool would provide whatever description of girl I desired. But I was never keen on anonymous flesh, and less so as I aged; I preferred to have a larger relationship.
    So in due course, when Spirit was away on related business, I took Tasha to a private chamber and kissed her. She accommodated me so expertly in this, too, that I knew that it was considered to be part of her job description. I was reminded of the ancient Saxon joke about a secretary not being considered a permanent fixture until screwed on the desk. As with many jokes, there was truth in it; Tasha was evidently prepared to be permanent. I was sure she was making it her business to learn as much about me as possible, and to report it, but I do have a certain way with women and like to think that she would have been similarly amenable if not required to be. I drew out the seat of the couch, converting it to a serviceable bed; even the furniture was accommodating.
    She let me undress her, for she knew too that the typical occidental man likes to believe he is in charge.
    Her body was exactly as her clothing had suggested: perfect in detail. It was evident that Saturnian notions of beauty aligned with those of Jupiter. She was full and soft without being extreme.
    I stripped as she lay on the bed, discovering myself to be too eager for the culmination to resort to any subtleties of approach. I took down my trousers and undershorts, but was overcome by desire before getting to my shirt. I approached her, and she lay supine, smiling and spreading and lifting her legs. I dived for her, and those legs circled my torso and locked behind me while her hands came up to grip my collar on either side.
    In retrospect I consider myself to be a fool. I had had experience with the martial arts, including judo, and I well knew the nature of the Osae-waza, or art of holding, and the Shime-waza, or art of strangleholds. But I was overcome by lust, and so missed the signals. I plunged for her genital region, and got inside—and her wrists twisted and locked against my throat, cutting off my breath. It was the reverse cross lock, lightly but firmly applied.
    “Finish your business, lover,” she murmured, drawing my face down toward hers. As she did, the strangle tightened, as was its nature. Her right hand gripped my collar on my right side, and her left on my left, so that her wrists crossed, and the closer she brought my neck to her, the more firmly those crossed wrists dug in. “It is your last.”
    I tried to break free, but that is almost impossible when such a hold is properly applied. I couldn't twist out, because her