“Yes and no.”
“That’s a hell of an answer!”
“Your artificial pochette was used.”
“I thought so. Despite the fact that there aren’t supposed to be any nerve endings there, I can feel something-pressure, maybe-when it’s loaded.”
I pressed on my belly around my navel and tightened my belly muscles. “Hey, it’s empty! You unloaded it?”
“No. Our antagonists did so.”
“Then I failed! Oh, God, Boss, this is awful.”
“No,” he said gently, “you succeeded. In the face of great danger and monumental obstacles you succeeded perfectly.”
“I did?” (Ever had the Victoria Cross pinned on you?) “Boss, cut the double talk and draw me a diagram.”
”I will.”
But maybe I had better draw a diagram first. I have a ‘possum pouch, created by plastic surgery, behind my bellybutton. It isn’t large but you can crowd one whale of a lot of microfilm into a space of about one cubic centimeter. You can’t see it because the sphinc
ter valve that serves it holds the navel scar closed. My bellybutton looks normal. Unbiased judges tell me that I have a pretty belly and a sightly navel . . . which, in some important ways, i~ better than having a pretty face, which I don’t have.
The sphincter is a synthetic silicone elastomer that holds the navel tight at all times, even if I am unconscious. This is necessary as there are no nerves there to give voluntary control of contraction and relaxation, such as is possible with the anal, vaginal, and-for some people-throat sphincters. To load the pouch use a dab of K-Y jelly or other nonpetroleum lubricant, and push it in by thumb- no sharp corners, please! To unload it I take the fingers of both hands and pull the artificial sphincter open as much as I can, then press hard with my abdominal muscles-and it pops right out.
The art of smuggling things in the human body has a long history. The classic ways are in the mouth, in the nasal sinuses, in the stomach, the gut, the rectum, vagina, bladder, eye socket of a missing eye, ear canal, and exotic and not very useful methods using tattoos sometimes covered with hair.
Every one of the classic ways is known to every customs officer and every special agent public or private the world round, Luna, space cities, other planets, and anywhere men have reached. So forget them. The only classic method that can still beat a pro is the Purloined Letter. But the Purloined Letter is high art indeed and, even when used perfectly, it should be planted on an innocent who can’t give it away under drugs.
Take a look at the next thousand bellybuttons you encounter socially. Now that my pouch has been compromised, it is possible that one or two will conceal surgically emplaced hideaways like mine. You can expect a spate of them soon, then no more will be emplaced as any novelty in smuggling becomes useless once the word gets around. In the meantime customs officers are going to be poking rude fingers into bellybuttons. I hope a lot of those officers get poked in the eye by angry victims-navels tend to be sensitive and ticklish.
“Friday, the weak point of that pochette in you has always been that any skillful interrogation-”
“They were clumsy.”
“-or rough interrogation using drugs could force you to mention its existence.”
“Must have been after they shot me with babble juice. I don’t recall mentioning it.”
“Probably. Or word may have come to them through other channels, as several people know of it-you, me, three nurses, two surgeons, one anesthesiologist, possibly others. Too many. No matter how our antagonists knew, they did remove what you were carrying there. But don’t look glum; what they received was a very long list reduced to microfilm of all the restaurants listed in a 1928 telephone book of the former city of New York. No doubt there is a computer somewhere working on this list right now, attempting to break the code concealed in it . . . which will take a long time as there is no code concealed in it. A dummy load. Sense-free.”
“And for this I have to chase all the way to Eli-Five, eat scummy food, get sick on the Beanstalk, and be buggered about by brutal bastards!”
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