Mrs. Nora Hudson, who lived in the Baltimore area of Bos-Wash on Baker Street, a busy eight corridor thoroughfare, was almost the complete opposite of Diana Chan in all ways. She was quite rich, wasn't a student, was older – but by no means old, barely into her late forties – and she was married. Mr. John Clay, her husband, a very stout, florid-faced, elderly man with fiery red hair, was present during the entire interview. Sitting next to his wife on a very expensive spun plasteel sofa, he never intruded into the conversation, and only uttered one word, once.
"I tell you," Mrs. Hudson went on, "the city has become a jungle. It never used to be like this, you know. It used to be nice. People used to be able to walk around without being afraid something was going to happen to them. Women used to be able to walk around at night – anywhere – without being afraid." She shook her head sadly and sighed, "I tell you I don't know what's become of the world. Get out of the city! That's the only solution: get out of the city. Go out to Centauri – further! Go all the way out to the boondocks. Get away from it all. That's the only way."
There were a lot of people like Mrs. Hudson: people who said the city was on its last legs; people who lived in the city, worked in it, made their money in it, but did nothing but tear it down to others every chance they got. I suppose Mrs. Hudson had reason to be bitter; I wouldn't deny that. But I loved the city: Bos-Wash meant something to me. It meant a lot to me.
"I'm not sure that's the solution," I said, wondering to myself why I was allowing myself to be drawn into her argument. "Sooner or later the problems we face in the city will reach all the way out into the suburbs. You can't escape the problems of life by running away from them. I really think you have to take a stand, people have to take a stand, and try and solve these problems. I guess, in a way, that's why I became a cop. At least I hope that's why."
"Yes. But you see," Mrs. Hudson said, fluttering her matronly arms out, indicating her wealthy apartment, "I have so much more to lose than most."
That couldn't be denied: the apartment was rich – wide and plush, with an area so enormous that Diana Chan's entire Harvard apartment would have easily fit inside the room in which we were presently sitting. The floors were all carpeted with real wool from the mutant sheep herds of the Martian veldt, so thickly piled that you literally sunk down into them. There were two wall screens, just in the room we were in, both of enormous size, and one of them actually picked up many of the deep space programs – or so Mrs. Hudson claimed. Across from us, the entire far wall was made from a very rare and expensive type of translucent plasteel so that as you looked out, the entire breadth and scope of Bos-Wash seemed to lay below, almost at your feet.
"Everyone has something to lose," Jocelyn said, shifting stiffly on the edge of her chair. She pressed her thighs together, playing preoccupied with the wrinkles in her uniform. She was letting her feelings show again.
"Oh… really?" Mrs. Hudson said, looking at Jocelyn with disdain. Her husband didn't say anything.
"Perhaps," I said, quickly cutting in, "we should get down to our official reason for this visit – as unpleasant as it must seem to you, Mrs. Hudson, to have to go through this again."
She sighed stoically. "Oh, well… if we must."
I unsnapped the quadcorder and placed it upon the levitab in front of me. I pushed back the two glasses, one still half-filled with the languidly rolling mercumist Mrs. Hudson had graciously offered Jocelyn and I, and two darting robo cleans whisked the glasses away in the blink of an eye.
"This is just standard practice…" I began, indicating the quadcorder.
"Ah, a quadcorder," Mrs. Hudson said. "So you're going to see if I'm telling you the truth or not. Well, don't worry, I've clean."
I glanced quickly at Jocelyn, and she returned my perplexed stare.
"I watch a lot of the wall screen," Mrs. Hudson explained, allaying my suspicions. "They always have quadcorders on the shows. Police melodrama is in this season, you know. Just the facts, ma'am…"
"Oh, I see. You understand, of course, use of this instrument in no way implies…"
"Yes, yes, I know. In no way implies any suspicion of me on your part. It's strictly routine."
"Yes… that's so."
Mrs. Hudson sighed. "I watch all the programs. I'm something of a mystery buff myself. Actually, if it weren't for the damn rape, this would be positively fascinating. It still is, I guess, in its own way."
"All right…" I said, simply because I didn't know how else to respond. "Let's begin. Just for the record, would you please state your full name and address, date of birth, and occupation…"
Mrs. Hudson replied, answering the questions fully.
"Ah, yes, one point of clarification," I said. "Again, lust for the record, you state that your name is Nora Peel Hudson, but your husband's legal name is John Clay. Could you clarify that, please?"
"Well, that should be obvious. We have different legal names. I never adopted his when we married."
The ancient practice of a wife legally changing her surname to that of her husband's upon marriage had long ago been abandoned generally, but in the last few years many women had revived the fad. I just wanted to make sure.
"This is just routine, ma'am," I said, turning to my next question. "You state that you're in the hotel business. In what way?"
"I'm sole owner of the Stamford Hotel."
"All right, then. Now would you please, in your own words, tell us what happened to you on the night of January eleventh…"
"It was a Monday," Mrs. Hudson, began. "That's important because John – my husband – is only out of the module on Monday nights – business meetings – so I find that an interesting 'coincidence'. If, indeed, it was a coincidence. Personally, I believe it indicates that the criminal must have been someone who knew my routine."
I interrupted her. "Are you speaking about any one in particular?"
"Good heavens, no. No one in particular, but there are, of course, any number of possible suspects."
"Ma'am?"
"Well," she said, shrugging magnificently, "one does not achieve as much as I have in her life without making some enemies…"
"Could you be a little more specific?"
"All right, for example, there's Zeck Roland. He used to be my husband's partner. And then there's…"
"We'll take a full list from you a little later. Now, if you don't mind, can we get back to the… attack."
"Very well. Where was I?"
"It was a Monday night…"
"Yes, and I was home alone. I remember I was watching the screen, when I received a call from the lobby wall-screen. Curious, too, that the visual was distorted…"
"Ma'am?"
"The picture didn't come through. Something was wrong with the vertical reception. All I got was a bunch of lines…"
"A distorter," Jocelyn said.
I nodded to her in agreement. "Go on."
"Mr. Ohls, the security man down in the lobby – that's Cramer Ohls: he's a very nice man – said that some man had delivered a package for me. He said he was Mr. Ohls, but I soon found out that was another ruse… but I'm getting ahead of myself. The man impersonating Mr. Ohls said he had a package for me. I questioned him why he didn't send it up, but he said he couldn't leave his post. Clearly, all he wanted was to get me out of my module… And I fell for it. I said I would gladly come down and pick up the package."
"Did you go down immediately after the call?" Jocelyn asked.
"Yes. I closed off and went directly down."
"By shaft?"
"Well, of course."
"There are no elevators in this building?" I asked. Mrs. Hudson looked scandalized. "Don't be absurd!"
"How many shafts are there in the building?"
"There's the large one at the front of the building: it has six separate channels, three up and three down, and there's a smaller, private shaft in the rear. Only that one is locked. Only tenants have voice cards."
"Did you pass anyone in the shaft?" Jocelyn asked. "Going either up or down?"
Mrs. Hudson thought for a moment. "No… I don't think so – wait! I think I did. Yes… yes, I did pass someone: a man, going up…"
I became excited. "Did you recognize him? Can you describe him?"
"No, I can't," Mrs. Hudson confessed, looking perplexed. "He was wearing one of those portable viewers: you know the kind that slips over the wearer's head…" I exchanged a knowing glance with Jocelyn.
"I don't understand," Mrs. Hudson said. "What does this all mean? What are you getting at?"
"In all probability," I explained, "the man you passed in the antigrav shaft was the attacker, on his way up to your apartment."
"My God…"
"Are you sure you can't identify him?" Jocelyn pressed. "Perhaps his size, his type of build?"
"My God – I never thought… No, no, I can't describe what he looked like for the simple fact that I didn't look at him. I mean, I saw him, but I didn't look at him. He was just a man. But young, old, short, tall, thin, fat – I just don't know."
I realized I had been holding my breath. I let it out slowly. "That's quite all right, Mrs. Hudson. Please continue with your explanation."
"Well, I got down in the lobby, and I began to look for Mr. Ohls. When I found him he said he knew nothing of a package, and insisted he had not spoken to me. Needless to say I was furious… poor man: I certainly tore into him. I accused him of irresponsibility, of being intoxicated on duty… everything. I even threatened to have him discharged." She looked at me very confidently and nodded. "I have that power, you know."
"Continue, please."
"I came up in a huff – angry, sputtering, talking to myself in the antigrav shaft. I walked down the hallway to my apartment, unlocked the door…"
"You're sure you unlocked it?" Jocelyn asked. "It wasn't open?"
Mrs. Hudson glared at her. "I un-locked the door to my apartment, and walked in. I stormed into the living room, intending to fix myself a drink at the bar to calm my nerves, when he – the rapist – called out to me from somewhere behind me."
"What did he say?"
Mrs. Hudson thought for a moment. "He said: Don't move! Don't turn around I've got you covered with this blaster…"
I glanced at Jocelyn. "Are you sure those were his precise words?"
Mrs. Hudson assured me they were. "I'll never forget them as long as I live. I've got you covered with this blaster, he said. And then to prove it – he shoved the muzzle of his gat into the small of my back."
Jocelyn's face was pained. "Are you certain those were his words? That he did exactly what you said?"
"My dear young woman…"
I cut in. "Would you continue, please, Mrs. Hudson. Then what happened?"
She smiled smugly at Jocelyn. "After he shoved the gun in my back, I knew he meant business. Naturally, I thought he was after my jewels." Then she quickly amended: "Not that I keep any here… I just thought that was what he might be after. You don't know my relief when he said he was interested only in me."
"Relief?" Jocelyn questioned.
"Well, of course. I mean, I like fucking as much as the next woman. More perhaps. After all, what happened to me was nothing really serious, albeit it was an inconvenience. But can you imagine how I would have felt if he truly were after my jewels? Why, they'd be gone forever perhaps! As it was all I really suffered was a little pain, and that will pass soon enough…"
Jocelyn's face turned scarlet, but she said nothing.
Mrs. Hudson continued: "He threw me a hooded mask to put over my head, and then he told me to strip. I did as he asked, taking off every stitch of my clothing. I have a wonderful body still, you know. I do. It's quite remarkable. Very youthful. Why I look…"
"What happened then?" I asked.
"He threw me a dildo and told me to make love to it. It was quite a nice one too: very long and very, very thick. Made of a nice soft, but firm flestex. I hoped he was going to leave it behind, but he didn't. It was a shame: it was some rubber cock."
"And?"
"And I made love to myself, using the dildo. I started off very slowly, you know – just running the tip of the shaft between my legs, getting my cunt used to it. I pushed the head against my clitty and rubbed it hard back and forth, setting up the most glorious sensation." She sighed, as if in passing memory. "Then, when I got loose and wet, and held the cock parallel to my cunt, spreading the lips around the sides of the shaft, and I pumped it up and down, humping myself with it. It was quite nice."
Jocelyn said nothing. Her lips were pressed tightly together, stretched tautly across her clenched lips. Mrs. Hudson's husband didn't say anything either.
"Then I began to open up all the way, and I just tipped the cock up, and it slid into my pussy just as neat as you please. Let me tell you – that was some cock. I was really filled up: from the lips of my cunt all the way up into my belly. And then, when I began to move it, you know, push it in and out of me – well, I tell you, I was in ecstasy, regardless of the circumstances."
I shattered her reverie. "And then what happened?"
Mrs. Hudson flushed slightly. "I have a small confession to make." She leaned forward and spoke in a low, confidential tone. "I have a slight sex problem – I have a tendency to over-sex. Once I get started, I sometimes don't know when to stop. My doctors tell me that it might be glandular. But, whatever the case, I do have this propensity for over-sexing, and that time was no exception. I was really enjoying it, building nicely toward what seemed to be a shattering orgasm, and then… and then…"
"Yes?"
"And then that – beast! – asked me to do something unnatural. He simply ruined it."
I looked at her curiously. "What did he ask you to do, Mrs. Hudson?"
She gulped, but held her chin out bravely. "He forced me to…" her lips quivered as she spoke "… to insert the dildo into my… into my…"
"Rectum!" her husband, John Clay, said, speaking up for his only contribution. He said it smugly, firmly, as if his only reason for being there was to say that one word. And perhaps it was.
"Yes, that's where he made me put it. I didn't like it at all. I'm a very sexually well adjusted woman, but there are limits!"
"Of course," I said. "And then?"
"And then it was over. He sprayed this misty thing at me, and I went out, just like that." She snapped her finger. "When I woke up, he was gone. He took the dildo with him."
"You know, of course, you were raped for certain?"
"Of course. My poor little cunny was all sore and bloody. Oh, it ached so bad. He must have had some cock, that man." She shook her head and sighed. "And I have a very wide cunt. I can take a cock as big as – here, let me show you." She began to lift her dress.
I held up my hand. "No – that's quite all right. We don't doubt your word."
Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Thank you."
"And you're positive you can't identify him?"
"No. I can't."
"Shit!" Jocelyn exploded.