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devastating.”
    “I’ve never been attracted to a woman who—” Michael hesitated, trying to find the right words.
    “Was so much older than you? Who was not two slender legs supporting breasts of a more than moderate size?”
    “It’s not that, it’s just she’s—I mean, she isn’t—she’s hardly unattractive!” Michael sputtered.
    “Certainly not. But it is her profession to make people who can attract attention, divert it, keep it. Naturally, in order to pass that knowledge on, she is the master of the art.”
    Oh, so it was a lesson. Michael tried to compose himself. “If I heard her physical description, I wouldn’t have thought she could have that effect on me,” he admitted. “Is she Italian? I couldn’t place the accent.”
    “Greek,” Chris said, with a slight nod. “Her house is on Mykanos, surely one of the most beautiful spots on earth. I guarantee that you would find it absolutely intoxicating. Most trainees do. But such training isn’t for you. Think about that, and write me a few words on it tonight.”
    “Yes, sir,” Michael said. He was doing a lot of writing these days. And unlike Anderson, Chris not only checked up on him, but read and commented on everything.
    In fact, Michael mused, this seemed an awful lot like junior high school. He spent far too much time reading and writing, and kept getting interrupted by inconvenient boners. He hid a grin as he wondered whether that would make a good entry in his journal. Probably not.

    * * * *

    As trainers would continue to arrive the next day, dinner was an informal affair, with ad hoc groups meeting in separate rooms or enjoying an array of fresh sushi being prepared on one of the open porches. Michael finally was freed from his duty at Chris’s side, as Chris went off for some private meeting with one of the Japanese trainers. Michael had practically jumped for joy; instead, he smiled and thanked Chris as politely and warmly as he could and dashed off to enjoy a tour of the premises uninhibited by any thing save his fear of being unintentionally rude to someone. I can manage to stay out of trouble, he swore to himself, after trying a few clearly identifiable pieces of raw fish from a table hosting two stern sushi chefs. He found that the food was not quite what he knew as Japanese food per se, and tried to act as nonchalant as possible when confused by dishes of what looked like little nuggets of something pale and soft. Noticing several people digging into them and popping them like peanuts, he tried them and found himself chewing something that tasted remarkably like incredibly dense Velveeta.
    Weird. Also weird was the fact that a lot of the foods seemed spicy hot, especially when dabbed with a red pepper sauce that seemed very popular with the locals. He smeared a healthy portion on top of a piece of sashimi and took a bite, and felt like his mouth was being seared. As he gasped and tried not to choke, someone pressed a small cup into his hand and he swallowed its contents compulsively. Not the best idea, as it turned out. Expecting the light taste of fine sake, he was met with a much denser, harsher feel, like a brandy, which did precious little to soothe his tongue and quite a bit to make him dizzy.
    “Uchinaa guchi wakai miseemi?” A tall, broad and bearded Japanese man demanded of him. It was one of the local trainers, of course, and his face was so composed that the loud voice seemed terrifying. He helpfully repeated himself in a slower, and much louder tone and Michael made a helpless gesture, still spitting around the array of tastes in his mouth.
    “Sir, please excuse my rudeness, but Master Sato wishes to know if you speak Okinawan Japanese,” said a young woman suddenly next to him. By the collar around her throat and the careful phrasing, he knew she was one of the many interpreter slaves who were wandering around, and he was very grateful for her sudden appearance. She had a ribbon pinned to her blouse that listed