Part 6, A Pansy Now and Forever

Everyone except his girlfriend call George "Pansy" now--but he still knows he's really George. They can't take that away from him. Or can they?
 
 
May 28

-- Ibarra peered through his thick glasses at his notes. The use of hypnotics to give Seá±or Deon a temporary identity had been edifying and instructive, but it was only the beginning. He leaned forward over his desk and drafted his proposal for Don Pablo.

Don Pablo Herrera E., Memo: I wish to use the memory-erasure technique now, to begin to create Pansy Pinkerton. Both Seá±or Deon and Petunia, as well as Jaime and the others, will need to be treated. I propose to test four distinct, but related, treatments. The four are as follows:

1.)Unsubstituted loss of a memory without awareness of loss;
2.) Unsubstituted loss with awareness;
3.) Substitution of a memory without awareness; and
4.) Substitution with awareness.

For all four, I choose long-established memories, basic to his identity: knowledge of his family for 1 and 2, and knowledge of his name for 3 and 4. If I succeed with these, other memories should be much easier. I cannot guarantee the success of the procedure in every case, as this will be the most extensive trial, but past experience indicates a high probability of success.

Case 1: A memory that will not leave a noticeable hole must be chosen for this test. I have chosen the memory of his sister. He has two brothers and one sister, the baby of the family. If I succeed, he will believe that he has two brothers only; for him, the sister will disappear as if she had never been conceived.

Case 2: I need a memory that will leave a gaping hole, one that will itch, that will cry out to be filled. The given name of his mother will do. He will recall her face, her voice, her actions; but her name will be lost.

Case 3: His family name will do, if certain conditions can be met. The new name must not be contradicted. I suggest that those who know the former name and who see him regularly should submit to memory erasure to prevent inadvertent disclosure. You, I, Weiss, Herná¡ndez, Ibarra, and a few others can retain the information. However, we must be careful not to use his original name. If I succeed, however, the new name will replace the old smoothly. Seá±or Deon will become Seá±orita Pinkerton (the change will have to be included in the memory treatment of the finca personnel), and he will believe that his family name has always been Pinkerton. This has the added benefit that any search for his past will be made in this name.

Case 4: The most challenging test is this, for it involves the loss of a basic part of his identity. His given name is an obvious choice. He will be aware of his loss, and he will be desperate to recover his true name. If I succeed, his efforts will be futile, and the new name, however patently false, will completely replace the old to his own mind. I theorize that, after a short time, the initial sense of bitter loss will be dulled, because of the lack of a hole; but new ground is broken here, and I cannot know. We will see.

If I may trespass on the domain of Doctor Ibá¡á±ez: We believe that the physical changes have reached a point where a phenomenon known as “cognitive dissonance” is becoming important. The nascent Seá±orita Pinkerton still considers himself to be male, but more and more this clashes with what he sees in the mirror every morning. Moreover, some of his memories are of girlhood. The forced acknowledgment, to himself, of a feminine name will intensify the dissonance. We predict that his mind will ultimately resolve the dissonance by changing his self-image. She will come to consider herself a woman, and will act as one.

The alternative, I think, is a complete mental breakdown, most likely terminating in suicide.
 
 
May 30

-- Late in the afternoon, Don Pablo rang for Jaime and told him, “Jaime, tomorrow we will have three visitors. They will interview Seá±or Deon, so that later they will be able to evaluate the extent of our success in reshaping him. See that arrangements are made for them.”

“Very well, Seá±or.”

“One more thing, Jaime. Seá±or Deon and Seá±orita Baca are still using Seá±or Deon’s old name. That will stop. On Wednesday morning, have ‘Pansy’ and Petunia taken to Ibarra at the Institute.  ¿And Jaime?”

“ ¿Seá±or?”

“I ask you and others who know his old name to submit to memory erasure as well. It is harmless and it eliminates the chance that someone will slip and reveal the old name. I understand the natural reluctance to have a doctor play with one’s mind, so as an incentive I will award 10,000 lempiras to those whose memories are altered.  ¿Do you understand?”

“Yes, Seá±or. I think there will be no problem.”

 
 
May 31

-- Taqi Ergec had spent a comfortable night at Las Rosas. He had been sent by the Iraqi government to investigate the efficacy of the procedures that Pablo Herrera was developing. Seá±or Herrera had explained that other representatives had come for the same reason, but that was not a problem. It was generally known (within select circles) that personality-modification research programs were being pursued in several places, but Iraq had had little success. A comparatively small sum of money (for an oil-rich country) might allow his country to catch up, at least a little. The details of this project titillated some within the Islamic regime; the idea that opponents could be condemned to live as a servant girl, with no hope of escape, appealed to them. He had discussed the idea with Ivá¡n Machado, a Cuban who had shared his room, and found that the notion attracted the patriarchal Cubans as well.

Jaime ushered the visitors to the library, where Don Pablo welcomed them and offered drinks. Ergec chose a Drambuie, and the others, rum drinks. Their host rang a bell and ordered the refreshments. “Sá­, Seá±or,” the maid replied, returning in five minutes to hand each man his drink. Ergec accepted it with a murmured “Gracias”–his Spanish went little further–and ogled the adolescent girl. Her breasts were less than ripe, but the bodice of her thin cotton dress revealed their outline clearly. Don Pablo nodded in approval and, indicating a stool by the wall, ordered, “Siéntese aquá­ y espere un ratito. Es posible te necesitamos otra vez.” He turned his attention back to his guests and, after exchanging pleasantries, said, “Now, the business at hand. You may be interested in supporting the Ovid Project, but you are not certain whether the benefits to you would justify the cost. Am I right?”

Machado replied: “That is fair. We must know–see for ourselves–that our money will be well spent. We need–not proof–but evidence that your far-reaching claims have some basis in reality.” The others agreed.

“I believe I can do that.” He paused. “Would you like some fruit? I have local strawberries, or fresh mangoes, or others–and you must have some of my home-grown coffee.” Taqi wondered when they’d “deal with the business at hand”, but didn’t press the issue; each visitor chose, and Don Pablo ordered, “Pansy, fetch the fruit and serve our visitors. And make fresh coffee as well.” With a “Sá­, Seá±or,” the maid left for the kitchen. The don went on: “I have corresponded with you gentlemen, and with others, offering to document the changes we have imposed on our subjects; but you objected that documents and photographs could be faked. I suggested another course: that I should provide the documentation, and also allow you to observe and interview our main subject during his treatment. He is receiving a radical course, involving the complete transformation of every aspect of his being.”

Ergec said, “You imply that we will have several interviews?”

“Yes, of course. We can discuss conditions later. The subject is five months into his two years of treatment, so you cannot interview him before changes are begun; but we have transcripts, videos, and medical data, and the main part of the treatment–the psychological and mental transformation–is mostly ahead. Even the physical changes are only begun–although well begun, I think. Whatever you decide, the first interview is free. It is just a teaser, of course, and you will only be able to follow the success–or failure–of our attempt if you help to support the experiment. Of course, even partial failures give us, and you, valuable data–and my doctors assure me that at least a partial success is highly likely. I suspect your own experts have told you the same.” They all confirmed his guess.

“When can we see this subject?” the third visitor, Albert Bianchi, asked.

Don Pablo chuckled. “In a very few moments, Seá±ores. But tell me, if you will, how you would use the technology I am offering you. Seá±or Machado?”

“Does it matter? We are offering a fair price–more than fair. What we would do is our own business.”

“Yes, of course. Your financial proposal was quite generous, and I do not–cannot–insist on anything more. However, if I understand your purpose, I might be better able to help you achieve it.”

Machado unbent slightly. “I see. Our purpose is to reform lawbreakers by making it impossible–literally unthinkable–for them to return to their old ways.”

“I understand. That has been one of the main thrusts of our program, as you know.” Don Pablo didn’t comment on the ideological nature of many of the “crimes” in the Cuban legal code.

Ergec claimed the same goal: the rehabilitation of criminals, not dwelling on the often-religious nature of the “crimes” in the theocratic state of Iraq. Privately, he knew of several dissidents–and rivals–who might usefully be degraded to the status of docile serving girls, bound by the constraints of a strict Muslim society.

“And you, Seá±or Bianchi?”

“The same. Rehabilitation has, by and large, been a failure. Your process might afford a practical alternative to imprisonment. It may be expensive, but if it works–if you can change a man’s basic nature–it’d be cheaper than keeping him locked up for decades.” He paused: “It might also be a stronger disincentive than prison.”

When the maid returned with the fruit and coffee and began to pass it out, Don Pablo turned to his visitors. “I will allow you to speak with the subject in private, if you wish.” He rose to leave.

Puzzled, Bianchi spoke for all three when he replied, “Yes–but where is he?”

“In front of you. Let me introduce Pansy Deon, born George Deon, who is training as a maid. He still thinks of himself as a norteamericano, but we are transforming him into a peasant girl. Already after just a few months, he has been changed more than a little. Of course, the physical transformation is only a means to our end–merely the first step in a process of psychological engineering. If we succeed, then nineteen months from today, he–she–will be content–no, pleased–to spend the rest of her life washing dishes and changing diapers, as my daughter’s maid. Ask him–still ‘him’, at this moment, in spite of his appearance–what you will.” He bowed slightly and left.

George stood there stunned until Ergec asked, “Is this true? Are you an American man?” “Y…yes, I… I am,” he stuttered, his tenor voice demonstrating the truth of his statement.

Ergec recoiled. “How…? But…” Collecting himself, he demanded: “Tell me, why do you allow this?”

“Allow it?” George’s voice rose. “You think I’m allowing it? I don’t have a choice! I’m a prisoner, and they punish me if I don’t obey them.” He didn’t ask for help, knowing that such a plea would be useless.

Machado asked, “Seá±or, what is your usual–I mean, your former–occupation? You have not always worked as a serving maid, I can guess?” He added quickly, “You seem to make a very good maid, though.”

“I’m a scientist. A research chemist,” was George’s abrupt reply.

An educated professional man. He’d agree to remain a maid? “You know what Seá±or Herrera plan for you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he will succeed?”

“No.”

“Do you approve them?”

“Hell, no! He’s crazy!”

Bianchi signaled to Machado that he wanted to break in, and said to George, “Tell us about yourself–your background in the States, why you came to Honduras, how you came to be here. That sort of thing.”

Reluctantly George complied, with a sanitized version of his recent history.

Machado asked a few more questions in Spanish, and George’s responses in that language made it even more plain that he was indeed a norteamericano.

Don Pablo returned in a few minutes and sent George back to his other duties. “Well, gentlemen?” he asked. “Do you think this test would be sufficient for your purposes?”

“Let me get this clear,” Bianchi said. “You intend to change this George Deon into a woman–a Honduran peasant girl, you said?–and force him–her–to work for your daughter.”

“Yes, and no. Change him to a woman, yes, as thoroughly as possible–but after he is released, I will not force him to do anything. If he truly becomes a peasant girl–psychologically as well as physically–then he will want to be a maid; it will be an attractive career. That, of course, is the true test of success for the Ovid Project.”

Ergec broke in. “He will become a functional female, then?”

“As much as possible, but we do not know how how far we can go. If you support us, you will find out.”

Ergec seemed unsatisfied, but said no more. Bianchi took over again. “The physical change is less significant to my people. You are claiming you’ll change his mind–his personality–to that of a peasant girl?”

“We do not know how successful we will be, but yes, that is our aim: Pansy should be meek and feminine, and content to live the life of a traditional peasant girl. As such, he–or she–would ask to keep her position after we free her. If she is a capable and willing maid–I emphasize ‘willing’–we will be satisfied. Otherwise, no.”

After more discussion, all three men agreed: their organizations should support the project.

 
 
June 1

-- On the morning of June 1 George and Petunia were drugged and taken away. The two awoke in what looked like a laboratory. Although the walls had ornate tapestries and old paintings, the bright fluorescent lights and the large machines studded with switches and dials bespoke the purpose of the room. They were strapped into facing chairs with wires attached to their bodies. George thought he recognized the apparatus in part; they were wired to polygraphs. Additional electrodes clung to their skulls. George struggled, but to no avail. He was completely immobilized. A tall man with dirty-blond hair walked in front of him.

“I am Doctor Jesáºs Ibarra. You are Pansy Deon, no?”

George protested: “No! I’m called ‘Pansy’ in this madhouse, but you know better. I’m George Deon! You have no right to keep me here! Let me go!”

Ibarra smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Seá±or Deon. I know you think of yourself as ‘George Deon’, but don’t you remember what Don Pablo told you? You’ll accept a girl’s name, and forget ‘George’. But is ‘Pansy’ really such a terrible name? Especially for someone who is beginning to look so attractive in a dress.”

Involuntarily George glance down at the bodice of his sleeveless peach dress, where his bosom was only too obvious. “It’s a silly, stupid name, even for a woman. It’s a horrible name for me! I’m a man! I’ll never accept it!”

“I have good news. After today we will not force you to use that name.” George started to feel some relief, but Ibarra went on: “We won’t need to use force; you will name yourself–you will think of yourself–as ‘Pansy’. Don Pablo said you would forget George. As would Petunia. Now I make it come true.”

George didn’t believe him: “Bullshit! You can’t do that!”

A pained look crossed Ibarra’s face. “Last month you had a hint of what I can do. Don’t you recall, your Papá¡ gave you a doll? And a part of you still likes to wear a fancy party dress. I did that mostly with drugs, and it was temporary. Or at least your acceptance of those memories was temporary. Eventually we’ll integrate those memories with others, and you’ll have a new past: a Honduran girlhood. It will help you adapt to your new life.”

So this was the bastard who had tampered with his memories. “When the drugs wear off, I’ll know the truth!”

“You will know it’s not your birth name–but it will be the only name you have. And after you become woman–completely woman–the new memories and the new name will be more concordant with your new identity. Subconsciously you may find them more acceptable, repressing the discordant memories of your lost masculine past. But we won’t depend on that. You see, we have another tool, more powerful than the hypnotic drugs.”

George knew how effective the last treatment had been. What could be stronger? “No,” he protested, “I don’t believe you. Maybe you can repress my memories temporarily, but they’ll come back.”

“You may be right. After all, this is an experiment. You’re a scientist yourself, I believe–although that will change.” When Hell freezes, thought George. “My method may interest you. It’s a refinement of electroconvulsive shock therapy, once used to treat depression. Sometimes it had the unfortunate side effect of erasing memories. I’ve adopted the technique, but by using drugs, I can intensify the effect and control what memories are lost.”

“I don’t give a fuck what your technique is! What do you think you’re doing, conducting some insane seminar? I’m not interested!”

Ibarra shrugged. “You have a point, Seá±or. Enough idle chatter. Now I must edit ‘George’ from your mind.” Then he asked George to state his name.

George was horrified. Ibarra was preparing to take away his identity! “Doctor, please! This whole… this whole project is inhuman! I… you… you can’t do this to another human being!”

Petunia shouted at Ibarra in Spanish, “ ¡You cannot do this!”

Ibarra apologized to Petunia: “I’m sorry. You won’t be hurt, but I must follow Don Pablo’s orders. Again, I’m sorry.” Turning to George, he remarked, “Another human being? Maybe it would bother me if I saw you that way, but I can’t afford to–no experimental psychologist can. You’re not human, not to me: you’re a guinea pig. A lab rat. Nothing more. He motioned to an aide at a console. “Now, Seá±or guinea pig, tell me your first name.”

George paused, then shouted, “Go to hell, fuckhead!”

“We don’t need cooperation. Answer or not, as you like–but your lack of courtesy just cost you the memory of your mother’s name.” He motioned to another assistant, who thrust a hypodermic into George’s arm, then another into Petunia’s. Ibarra told them, “One drug removes resistance and compels obedience, and the other binds to memory sites in the cortex, to destroy them. You received the first in your previous experience.” By the time Ibarra finished his statement, George was beginning to drift. He tried to resist, but it didn’t really seem important. In fact, nothing was important. He sat there quietly, passively. Ibarra ordered them, “Do not think, do not remember anything, except what I ask for. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” George replied, and he heard Petunia answer, “Sá­.”

“What is your first name, your original first name?”

“George.”

George felt a shock. He was disoriented for an instant. “Tell me again,” the doctor ordered, but George couldn’t remember. Ibarra smiled and told his assistant, “That’s enough power. The real test comes now.” Turning back to George again, he asked, “You are called George, I believe. Now, what is your real first name again?”

Of course it was George! “I’m George…” and the slight shock hit again.

Ibarra repeated, “What did your name used to be?”

His victim tried to reply, but he was slightly dazed, and unsure. “I was… I was… Wait… I was George. I…I am George.” He felt a shock again, a little stronger, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except obeying Ibarra.

The doctor turned to Petunia and asked, “Who is that man?”

Petunia answered in English “He’s George. George Deon.” Her technician pressed the button, and her head jerked spasmodically. George knew he should worry, but it wasn’t important.

Nevertheless, Ibarra must have noted a needle move on the polygraph, because he reassured George: “She’s all right. The shock’s harmless. There’s no pain, as you have seen. Now, what did you call yourself?”

Involuntarily George tried to remember: “I am… I am…” He recalled Petunia’s reply. It seemed unfamiliar to him, but it had to be correct. Didn’t it? “Yes. I’m Geor…” And the shock hit him again, stronger yet.

Ibarra turned to Petunia again and asked: “She is Pansy,  ¿yes?”

“No. She is… I mean, he is… is… George.” Shocks hit both of them.

The helpless man was asked again, who were you? He tried to remember. He knew he had been drugged to cooperate, but he couldn’t resist, and it didn’t matter anyway. He scoured his memory, but it didn’t come. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t recall it.

“Good!” Ibarra said. “Were you, perhaps, Ralph?” No, he didn’t recognize it. “ Thomas?” No. “Joe?” No again. “George?” He felt a small jolt of recognition, but a stronger shock hit, and he lost it. “Petunia,  ¿was your lover John?” No. Peter? No. George? They were both hit again. “Petunia,  ¿what was your lover’s name?”

“It was… I think it was…  ¡I don’t know!”

The doctor asked again, “ ¿Was it Peter?  ¿or John?  ¿or James?  ¿or Albert?  ¿or Bill?  ¿or George?” She twitched, but her companion received no shock. “ ¿Maybe Silvio?  ¿Jack?  ¿Dick?  ¿Alfred?  ¿Roger?  ¿Paul?  ¿John?  ¿Bill?  ¿Robert?  ¿Andrew?  ¿Carlos?  ¿George?  ¿Patrick?  ¿Bill?  ¿Theodore?”

There was a flicker of recognition: his middle name was Theo… The shock hit again. “That’s right! You had two names,” Ibarra noted in English. “You told Don Pablo your middle name was Theodore!” As he stated the name, a shock wiped it away immediately. The man tried to bring it back. Ibarra smiled and helped him: “Your middle name is Theodore…” His mind was hit with another inaudible explosion. Ibarra asked for the name again.

The helpless man tried to recall it, but his memory was blank. He had no identity. “No, I don’t remember.” he told Ibarra uncertainly; “I am… My name is…” He couldn’t remember.

Ibarra turned to Petunia. “Petunia, help him.  ¿Who is he?  ¿What is his name?  ¿Do you know, Petunia?”

She looked puzzled, and told him, “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

He fitted earphones over their ears and turned back to his first subject.

Through the earphones a voice asked, “Who are you now? Who have you always been?” and he tried to reply: “I am… I used to be…” He heard “George”; it wasn’t familiar–in fact, it seemed foreign–but it was erased anyway. The process continued forever, it seemed; the drugs interfered with his time sense. But it didn’t matter.

At last Ibarra removed the earphones. “Your names are thoroughly eradicated. In effect, you have never heard those words in your life,” he told his subject, who was mildly interested, but no more. Ibarra went on, “Now we’ll assign a new name.” He injected a new drug into the subjects; the memory enhancer entered their bloodstreams. “Listen and obey. You want to know your name. You must tell me! You need a name!”

Suddenly he had to find his name! He was desperate to obey. “My name… My name is… I don’t know!”

Ibarra smiled: “You are Pansy; your full surname is Pansy-Ann. Now tell me: what do they call you?”

The man shook his head, but repeated, “I’m Pansy… Pansy-Ann?” He was unsure. “They call me… Pansy?”

“Tell me your name again.”

Again the man repeated, “My name is Pa… Pansy.” He still hesitated, although the name was familiar.

Ibarra told him, “That’s right. You are Pansy. You have always been Pansy. Tell me again.”

“I’m Pansy,” he said, and believed it. It sounded right for him. Everyone called him Pansy, didn’t they?

“Who were you before you came here?”

He tried to think. Of course he had had another name. “I was… My name was… I don’t know. I’m Pansy.”

Ibarra smiled, and pressed: “But who were you? Last year?”

“I was…” There was no other name. “I was… I don’t remember.”

“Your parents named you Pansy. You have always been Pansy. Now who were you last year?”

“I was… Pansy. No! I was… I don’t know. I’m Pansy. I…” His resistance died. “I was always Pansy.”

“Yes, you are Pansy, or Pansy-Ann; you have always been Pansy-Ann. You think of yourself as Pansy Deon.”

Pansy nodded. “Yes, I’m Pansy-Ann. I’m Pansy-Ann Deon!” Of course he was! It had never been otherwise.

Ibarra turned back to Petunia. “Look at that pretty girl.  ¿What is she called?”

Petunia’s head twitched. She responded, “Pansy…  ¡No! She… he was called… It was…” She twitched again.

“She is your girlfriend, named Pansy-Ann, or Pansy. As her close friend, you call her Pansita. Now,  ¿her name is…?”

Petunia replied, “He… his name is…” A battle was fought and lost. “She is Pansy-Ann Deon. She’s Pansita.”

“Yes, she is your dearest girlfriend Pansita.  ¿Who did she used to be?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember. She… No, he… he was…”

“She has always been Pansy. Now,  ¿who is she?  ¿What was your girlfriend’s name when you first met her? Tell me.”

“Pansy… My girlfriend… Her name… It was Pansy. He… she was always Pansy.” Her face wore a confused look.

Ibarra was satisfied. He replaced the earphones and left. The names “Pansy-Ann” and “Pansy” repeated over and over, in every possible context, in both English and Spanish. They absorbed the words without thinking. In three hours Ibarra returned and told his assistant, “A few more details and we’ll be done.” He injected both with more drugs, then changed Pansy’s last name. His mother’s first name was erased. His father became Leo, who lived in Tulsa; his brothers became Willy and Peter; and the existence of his sister was obliterated.

“How old are you?”

“I… I’m twenty-two.” Shock.

“No, you look much younger than that.” Shock. “Surely you are just a teenager.” He grinned: “In fact, you are nineteen. Your birthday was the first of April.” It became so. “Tell me again. Your birthday is?” After twenty minutes, Pansy “knew” he was just nineteen years old.

To prevent the recovery of George’s original identity, Ibarra altered a few additional details: such as his birthplace, social-security number, and schools. George lost all knowledge of English measures; henceforth he’d think in metric. Details of his fictional girlhood were added. He finished by taking away the memory of the treatment session itself. It only remained to see if the changes were permanent. The new memories might cause some inconsistencies, but as long as they were minor, George’s mind should work around them, inventing explanations as needed, and even manufacturing vague memories to fit together a coherent story.

Ibarra repeated the Deon/Pinkerton substitution with Petunia. He then made sure that Petunia had none of the knowledge erased from George. Both subjects, still unconscious, were then returned to Las Rosas.

Ibarra considered George to be an invaluable research subject. He wrote that evening:

He must remain here. I have nineteen months to work actively with him, but after the changes are done, a long-term study of their permanence, and of any side effects, must be made. Don Pablo will release him then, under the presumption that he will be forced to remain with Susana Herrera as her maid. I believe that presumption to be correct, and I will do all in my power to see that no other option remains. I firmly believe that Pansy Pinkerton, born today, will prove a fascinating and productive subject.

 
 
June 2

-- The former lovers awakened in the morning with no memory of the previous day. They were a bit groggy, but thought nothing of it. Petunia asked, “Pansita, can I please have the sugar?” during breakfast, but neither took any notice. (Of course, by now the name seemed apt enough, given his appearance, and he had long since become accustomed to it.) At last, though, it occurred to Petunia that “Pansy” was not, could not be, what she called her girlfr… no, her boyfriend!–whatever others did. She shook her head, wondering how she could have made such a stupid error. But it seemed so right–and she couldn’t recall her–his, his, HIS–real name! At last she asked, “Darling, forgive me, but…” She stopped, then took a deep breath and went on: “What’s your name?”

He was puzzled at first. What was her problem? “My name? How could you forget it? I’m Pansy…” But then it hit him too: his real name wasn’t Pansy, even if he was forced to answer to it temporarily. “No, of course my name isn’t really Pansy. It’s… My name is… It’s…” “Pansy” shouldered its way into his mind. His name–there had to have been another name–was gone. He was… Pansy. It seemed he had always been Pansy. He tried to think back. His brothers… they had called him… Pansy? “My real name… I… I can’t remember it!”

“Your middle name!” Petunia cried. “What’s your middle name?”

“It’s… It’s Ann! My middle…” He stopped abruptly, horrified. “No! My parents called me…” He recalled his mother scolding him–as Pansy-Ann Pinkerton. But that was ridiculous! He was… He had been…

Ridiculous or not, “Pansy” was his name. There was–could be–no other, however he and Petunia cudgeled their brains. Pansy wept as he realized that his old name was lost. There wasn’t even a hole in his memory–no “tip of the tongue” sensation. In spite of the fact that he was a man (now less than obvious, to be sure), his memory insisted that he was, and had always been, Pansy-Ann Pinkerton. He recalled what Don Pablo had told him: “You will abandon your old name. It will be lost to you.” He had made good on his promise. But how?

That afternoon the lovers tried to return to normalcy. Petunia’s eyes were red from weeping and Pansy was abstracted from the world around him but they covered some Spanish. They even managed to converse in Spanish. Petunia didn’t call her lover by name, but he let the matter pass. He knew intellectually that he hadn’t always been Pansy, but his memory told him otherwise. “But I’m still a man, even if I don’t look like it now,” he insisted to himself. “I do have a man’s name. It’s recorded in lots of places that I can’t reach now; it’s on my driver’s license, my transcripts, my passport.” Nevertheless, he had no idea what that name might have been. He could think of himself only as Pansy. He saw the name on his blouses and shells, and recognized it with an instinctive “That’s me!” He tried to convince himself that he could recover his identity after his release, but he wasn’t successful. “I may never get it back!” he realized with terror. “I may be Pansy-Ann Pinkerton forever!”

But he still knew details of his past; he knew he had been born in Ovid, Oklahoma; he had graduated from Oklahoma State; he recalled his family, his home. He recalled the events that had brought him there, starting with Celia. There were too many loose ends for his identity to remain hidden indefinitely, he thought desperately. Even if they erased more of his past (but how?), he was sure he’d find one of those loose ends and pull on it until the mystery unraveled! He’d write to his family! His friends!

Petunia couldn’t help. “I don’t know!” she told him. “All I can think of is ‘Pansy’! And if I don’t make an effort, I think of you as a girlfriend!” But she refused to use the name. “I’ll call you ‘Jack’,” she decided. “If it’s a wrong name, it’s still better than that damned ‘Pansy’!” It was difficult to overcome the synthetic “knowledge” that his name was Pansy, especially since that name was in general use and (worse!) suited his appearance perfectly.

The results pleased Ibarra. The procedure had been well tested, and he was certain that the lost information would not reappear. He suspected that some ancillary memories had been lost, but that was unimportant, or even beneficial. After all, Seá±or Deon’s life history was irrelevant. Pansy wouldn’t need to know the details.

He sat at his desk, looking out his window but not seeing the garden. Did any loose threads remain? People and places in Pansy’s past had been erased, and new names substituted. The basic biography remained, but the labels were different. He had left unchanged items which would remind Pansy of why he had been punished. Celia was still there, for example, along with the details of their affair. And Mará­a Banderas and Susana, of course. But birthplace, home town, family, friends, past jobs–all their true names were gone. Experience with earlier subjects had shown that ancillary losses might include details connected with the erased name. Erasure of an address, for example, might entail the loss of unimportant fragments–the names of nearby streets, or the color of the building. Or it could completely obliterate everything connected with the name. It was hard to predict. Previous trials, with other subjects had given inconsistent results. He rubbed his hands together. There was so much to do! To reconstruct an entire life, utterly foreign to the original version… It was a wonderful challenge!
 
 
June 4

-- “Pansy” continued to search for his original identity, but his efforts diminished as he discovered that all traces of it seemed to have vanished. Moreover, he found that in Spanish (but not English!) he was now referring to himself in the feminine gender. Not Petunia, though; her references were still grammatically in the masculine gender. In spite of his appearance, she would not accept him as a woman, nor would she use the false name foisted on him. He was “Jack” to her, if “Pansy” to himself.

Shortly afterwards he found that his mother’s name was lost! He didn’t know it! He could recall her voice, her face. Her maiden name was Jamison, her married name was Pinkerton, but her given name was gone!

It occurred to him that his name had been written in his books and some of his effects. When he checked, he found “Pansy Pinkerton” inscribed in them.

Petunia smuggled a package of letters to the post office. Mail was slow, but it usually arrived. She sent requests to Leo Pinkerton in Ovid, Oklahoma; to the birth registry in Ovid; to Oklahoma State University for any records of an undergraduate named Pinkerton; to the United States Social Security Administration. Answers would come to the friend who was smuggling them. She would discover who her lover had been!

Pansy’s breasts continued to swell. As he dressed in the morning he was forced to admit that he appeared to be a young woman. A year ago, he realized, he’d’ve been quite stimulated by the sight of tits like these. Now, of course, breasts no longer stimulated him sexually (nor did anything else!). They only reminded him of his inexorable progress towards womanhood and his ever-more-probable future as Susana’s maid. The slow but inexorable swelling was obvious through his form-fitting tops. Some of his bras, fitted only two weeks before, were already a just little too tight. His own feminine charms were repugnant to him, but other men were finding his blossoming figure to be delightful. At the beginning of May he had been treated as a girl at Don Pablo’s command. Now only a month later, he was being treated as a girl as a natural response to his apparent femininity, just as Don Pablo had predicted. Worse, he feared that response might soon be appropriate.

In the middle of the morning Herná¡ndez visited Pansy, to give him another physical.

“It’s been over two months since my last examination,” Herná¡ndez explained. “By now I’m certain you’ve noticed the effects of my treatment. Everyone else has. Some are saying, you are quite a becoming female.” He grinned broadly. “I say, you are becoming quite female.”

Pansy flinched and told the doctor curtly, “Do what you have to. Get it over with, you bastard.”

“Muy bién. You know the procedure. Strip to the waist.” Herná¡ndez stretched a tape around Pansy’s bust line, then around his waist. He palpated the breasts, and Pansy winced. The doctor nodded. “Yes, of course your breasts are tender. As I told you earlier, that is to be expected. I was afraid the accelerated growth might cause problems, but they are normal–for an adolescent female, of course. Note the size of your nipples, the diameter and pigmentation of your areolae. And secondary mounds are beginning to develop beneath the nipples: clearly an early entry into Tanner Stage 4 of puberty. Yes, they are more than satisfactory. Lift your skirt, por favor.” Pansy obeyed again. Herná¡ndez hummed softly as he passed the tape around Pansy’s hips. “Yes… yes indeed! Your hips and waist are showing some effect. Not quite womanly as yet, but girlish–definitely girlish.” He put the tape down. “Está¡ bién, Seá±orita. We are almost done.” He took a blood sample, and the examination was over. “You can dress now. You are doing nicely,” he remarked. “After only five months, your body responds quite favorably.”

“Favorably for who?” retorted Pansy bitterly as he fastened his bra. “Not for me, and it’s my body!”

“Seá±orita, it is favorable for you, although I understand why you might not realize it. Your life as a man is over; when we finish, no one will ever mistake you for a male. In fact, already you would find it difficult to pass as a man. But you will have a new life as a woman, and as a woman you will find that an attractive figure makes life so much more pleasant.” He sat down and lit a cigarette. “Your shape is the most obvious effect. Your skin and hair texture will also change, and your voice; but those changes are minimal so far. With a five-month baseline, I can see your development progressing more rapidly than I expected. You must realize, I have little past experience to draw on. You are unique in my professional career and there is little in the literature. I find you fascinating.” A smirk crossed his face: “Other men find you fascinating for different reasons. I suspect you have noticed.”

“A one-sided interest, Seá±or.” He had indeed noticed, shrinking from the appraising gazes he was starting to draw. “I’m still attracted to women, even if I can’t do anything about it. I’m still a man inside.”

That drew a shrug. “It is not my concern. I am charged only with reshaping your body.”

Pansy looked down at his chest. Herná¡ndez was succeeding far too well in his cursed assignment. “Doctor…” He hesitated, then rushed on. “Doctor, I need a… I need bigger bras. Can you ask Don Pablo if he’ll arrange it?”

Herná¡ndez puffed on a cigarette, then replied, “Yes, I agree. Women in your family have large busts, and now those same genes have been activated in you. I will pass on your request.” He tilted his head and added, “Look at the bright side, Seá±orita . At least you will never have to worry about male-pattern baldness.”

After the doctor left, Pansy looked at his own body with loathing. His feminization seemed to be accelerating. He recalled the don’s words, less than two weeks ago: “Every morning, your breasts are slightly larger than on the day before. Your body is becoming soft and rounded. Your shape will be unmistakably womanly.” It was true; he saw it in the damned mirrors every day. Objectively he knew how attractive he himself would once have found jugs like these, on some sweet young thing. Now, though, they were repulsive excrescences, and portents of his imminent doom. No question about it: he’d need a mastectomy after his escape. And that escape had to be soon!

Herná¡ndez’s report pleased Don Pablo. The doctor’s potions were powerful, and Pansy’s advance through puberty had been rapid. Already, his breasts were those of a girl well along towards womanhood. Jaime reported that Seá±orita Baca still refused to accept the transformation as, not only an inevitable destiny, but in large part a fait accompli. In spite of the visible evidence, she persisted in referring to Pansy as a man. The don smiled to himself. Petunia’s task of denial would become ever more difficult. Eventually, she would have to concede that Pansy no longer qualified as a boyfriend. Don Pablo was curious as to what would finally persuade her.

 
 
June 5

-- After breakfast Pansy primped, as he did each morning. He was late. He gave his hair a perfunctory brush (it was far too long–how had it grown so fast?), added barrettes, inserted a pair of silver earrings, and did his nails. “That’s good enough,” he thought, looking at his reflection in the mirror. “More than enough! After all, I’m not looking to win a beauty contest.” In spite of his attitude, he still felt depressed at not looking his best.

The morning session was cut short. When he arrived, Conchita agreed with his own evaluation of his appearance. She looked at him disapprovingly. “Pansy, you are lazy in your personal grooming. Your face is unacceptable. I told you, you got to make yourself pretty, so that others will enjoy your presence. Your appearance is suitable for the laundry–barely–and that’s where you’ll spend the day.”

Evelina was happy to have her old pupil back. “I see you’re too stupid to be a high-class maid. Well, laundry is simple, even for a stupid girl like you. There’s a lot today, and I’ll see you do it right.” He was given a large pile of filthy workmen’s clothes reeking of horses and sweat, and an old-fashioned corrugated washboard and tub. “Clean them like new, or you’ll regret it. When they’re done, there’s a pile of diapers over there.” Pansy had already smelled them.

By suppertime the old aches in arms, legs, and back had returned in full force. He was sweaty and dirty, and his knuckles were skinned. “I will not return here,” he promised himself. “At least, not for some stupid thing like too little lipstick. They want a fashion model, I’ll make them happy.” After supper he re-did his face with meticulous attention, until he saw a very attractive girl in the mirror. On completion, he felt only a sense of satisfaction at a task well done, and none of the repugnance that would once have disturbed him. Petunia noted the touch-up job he had done, but didn’t comment, assuming that he was only complying with an order.
 
 
June 6

-- Pansy woke as dawn lightened the eastern sky. Mist filled the Comayagua valley, but the mountains on the far side floated as a blue mass above the clouds and stood silhouetted against the rosy sky. Songs of early-rising birds in the pine woods vied with the roosters. A donkey protested below the finca. “Damn it, I need to get away from here,” he thought. “Just to roam the woods freely again. It seems forever since I was able to do that. If Don Pablo would just let me…” Then he realized that Don Pablo had laid down specific conditions–and that those conditions were now fulfilled. Not by choice, perhaps, but fulfilled nonetheless. When Jaime arrived that morning to escort him to his training session with Conchita, Pansy reminded him of Don Pablo’s promise.

“He said, when I wear the clothing of a woman, I can to go out.” Pansy concentrated, to recall the don’s exact words. “He telled me I will go free on finca when I wear a woman’s clothing. Look at me, Jaime. I wearing a woman’s clothing now, blouse and skirt and sandals.  ¡I even ask for a bra! Ask the don if I can go out now.  ¡Please!”

Jaime raised his eyebrow. “Perhaps, chica. Like before, I got to ask Don Pablo.” Later that morning he relayed the request: “She said you told her she’d be given free run of the finca when she wore women’s clothing.”

The don chuckled. Pansy had indeed satisfied his conditions, if involuntarily. “Convey my respects to our guest. Tell her: ‘You and Petunia can move freely within Las Rosas. I rely on you, as an honorable woman, not to abuse your privilege.’ And remind her to wear an orchid in her hair when she returns, as agreed.” He pointed out to Jaime that the security measures would prevent an escape in any case, whether Pansy behaved honorably or not. “And her futile attempts to escape only help to fix in her mind the certain conviction that she is helpless, and must not resist authority.”
 
 
June 8

-- Having granted Petunia and Pansy the run of Las Rosas, the don also gave Pansy the day off. At dawn they were strolling through the cafetal. Petunia’s pregnancy had become obvious, but she could still walk easily. She was disturbed that, even for this outing, Pansy not only had applied makeup, but had tried to do it well. Pansy made an excuse that he couldn’t afford to risk disobedience, but Petunia could see that he had come to enjoy it. He was getting a needed morale boost; perhaps, he rationalized, it was a matter of having a lemon and making lemonade. If he had to look like a girl, at least he’d be a pretty girl. But Petunia saw the point of the compulsory exercise: after a few months, Pansy had begun to enjoy using makeup. Don Pablo was winning.

At sunrise they saw a magical world. Las Rosas had never switched from “shade” coffee, so that the coffee-growing portion of the finca still had its forest cover. A cool mist drifted among epiphyte-loaded oaks. Pansy pointed out orchids and bromeliads to Petunia, but she knew many of them already. He picked one of the orchids, a pale-pink Laelia, identified it for her, and pinned it into his hair, explaining that it was a condition of their stroll.

“Yes, I’ve seen lots of them,” she said. “Remember, Jack, I grew up here. The local people call it Flor de Jesáºs.” In turn, she pointed out the gurgling flute-like song of a jilguero, or solitaire, hidden in a barranca.

“Yes, I’ve heard it in Mexico,” Pansy told her, “but I’ve never seen one.”

Petunia laughed, and said, “I doubt you’ll see one now, either. They’re pretty shy. Pretty dull-looking, too–gray and brown–but what a beautiful song they have!”

By 10 AM they were strolling through a piney woods. “This almost makes me homesick,” Pansy said. “Listen, that trill: it’s a chipping sparrow. I grew up hearing that in the pine forests at home. And that over there–look, quick!” A bright blue flash disappeared among the ocote pine trunks.

“No, I’m sorry, Jack, I missed it. What was it?”

“A bluebird! Just like in… in Oklahoma.” Pansy took a deep breath. The warm air smelled of pine resin. Suddenly his delight was replaced by homesickness. He looked down at a brightly embroidered blouse molded to his bosom, and almost retched. The outline of his breasts, filling his bra and clearly visible to him and to all who cared to look, disgusted him. “Petunia, I wish, oh God I wish I were home! Will I ever see it again?”

“I don’t know, Jack. The don says you can go in two years, so I guess the answer’s yes. But will you really go? Will it be Jack who leaves? Or whatever your name really is? I know you think of yourself as Pansy; I know it because in spite of myself, I can’t help thinking of you as Pansy, whatever I call you–and if I don’t make a special effort, I think of you as my girlfriend Pansy, just l… like you… you look!” She started to cry, then gained control of herself. “You… you will be my girl… girlfriend, if you don’t get away soon. They’ll persuade you that you’re Pansy Lá³pez, a girl from Tela, or… or some such nonsense. You’ll forget your home and your real identity, and accept that you grew up in Honduras. You’ll believe it. I’ll believe it, I’m afraid–I half believe it now! What would the pine forests of home mean to you then? Jack, you’ve got to escape.” She turned to him. “I think we can talk safely here. My friend’ll help us. He told me that Don Pablo depends a lot on electronic surveillance. The details are secret, and he couldn’t find out much, but the don can track you anywhere on the finca.” Pansy replied that he knew about that; he’d remove the ankle monitor. Petunia shook her head. “That’s only a small part of it. Even without it, he can follow you somehow. Now, in a few days there’ll be a power failure, late at night. The backup power won’t work for a while either. All his electronics’ll be useless. That’s when we’ll have to run.”

“But it’s a long walk to town,” he protested. “I’m sure the don’s men’ll be waiting for us when we get there.”

“That’s exactly right, so that’s not where we’ll go. I have a map of the back trails, and I found a place where we can get through the fence and head west across country, instead of southeast where the don’ll be looking for us. Siguatepeque is west of here, south of the Montaá±as de Xicaque. We can walk west as far as the town of La Laguna in a few hours. My friend’ll meet us this side of La Laguna and drive us along back roads the rest of the way to Siguatepeque. . By the time the don figures out what happened, it’ll be too late.”

Pansy grimaced. “I don’t know. What if something goes wrong?” He recalled his earlier attempts and shivered. The sunlight faded as clouds rolled across the hillside, and the air suddenly became cooler and damper. He pulled a shawl tightly around his body. “We’d better get back. It’ll be raining shortly.”

Petunia insisted. “Jack, we have to try, risky or not. You don’t want to… to lose your manhood, do you? That’s the alternative. You’re already…” She swallowed. “You… you’re already p…prettier than I am!”

“No, of course not. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean I won’t do it. I just think…” He shivered, only partly from the cool air. “I mean, it’s dangerous, but I’ll try. You’re right, I have to try! It’s just that… well, my chances are poor. They probably expect me to try.” He looked again at his bosom. “But every time I look in a mirror, I see less of… Jack, and more of Pansy. They’re succeeding; if I stay, he’ll finish the job, and I’ll become, if not a real girl, then a damn good imitation. I feel like one of those caterpillars that has a tiny wasp larva inside, slowly eating away. Little by little, I’m disappearing. It’s horrible. I can’t go on this way. What’s the timetable?”

“Next week. Nothing’s supposed to happen to you until then. Don’t worry about that thing on your ankle. We’ll just cut it off, like you said. With the power out, it won’t tell them anything.”

“Good. But I’m still worried about the drug I take in my morning pill. I’ve been hoarding a little of the pill each morning, to take with me. With luck, I’ll be able to get away without getting sick. At least not immediately; and when I do, I’ll just have to hope I survive it.” He tried not to think about the sickness he had endured before. And of course he wouldn’t have any identification, but he’d worry about that when the time came. He could just claim it had all been stolen; he wouldn’t be the first. “Anyway, I noticed the security seems to be looser. Don Pablo seems to think I’m pretty well trapped. We’ll show him that he’s wrong.”
 
 
June 11

-- “ ¡Pansy!  ¡Pansy-Ann!” Jaime’s high voice greeted Pansy as he tucked the corners of a sheet. This was the third time he had tried to make the bed under Conchita’s critical eye. She insisted that he get the sheets and blankets exactly squared, and unwrinkled. He had always made his own bed, and he thought he had done it competently, but she told him otherwise. Now he was grateful for Jaime’s interruption, if apprehensive.

“ ¿Yes, Jaime?  ¿What you want?” Probably nothing good, Pansy thought.

“ ¿Would you like to go to Tegucigalpa?  ¿Go to church, maybe get new books? We’re taking a group of women into town tomorrow. You can go to the noon Mass at the cathedral, then go shopping. You and Petunia are invited.”

Pansy didn’t know what to do. He wanted very much to leave the finca, even if only for an afternoon, and Tegus would be better than La Libertad, which was barely more than a village. But he still hated to appear in public, even after attending Mass in La Libertad. Still, in the morning he was going to go church dressed as a woman anyway. He might as well go to the city. “Ask Petunia,” he told Jaime. “I go if she agrees.”

Jaime returned in half an hour. “Petunia says yes. Be ready after breakfast, at 7:30.”
 
 
June 12

-- The two friends arose a little earlier on Sunday morning, and had a quick breakfast. As she dressed, Petunia asked Pansy, “Do you know Tegus at all?”

“No, not really,” her companion replied as he pulled a lace-trimmed white slip down over his body. “I’ve driven through it several times, and went to a movie there once or twice, but I’m not familiar with it.”

“Well, you’ve seen lots of big cities, so maybe you won’t be impressed, but for me it’s exciting.”

Pansy chose a sleeveless light-blue dress embroidered with flowers. It revealed his figure–there was no way to avoid it–but it was modest and he wouldn’t draw attention. His blue pumps had medium heels, practical for walking. He made up his face, selected earrings and necklace, put up his hair with barrettes, and tucked his Laelia blossom over his left ear. Petunia too wore a new outfit. When Jaime saw them, he judged Pansy to be the prettier.

At 7:45 Jaime and Hector Trujillo left with them, together with two young Las Rosas women. One was Mapy Hinojosa, the most sympathetic of his former students. She didn’t recognize him at first, then gasped when she realized who the pretty young stranger was, but she recovered and greeted him in Spanish as though he were just another girlfriend. The second was a stranger, Dionisia Utrillo, or Nicha. A homely girl with dark curly hair and a moon face, she was a friend of Mapy. She had no idea that “Pansy” was anything other than she seemed.

Pansy enjoyed his day in town, in spite of his attire. He was determined to make the most of the excursion, and to that end he behaved as if he accepted his feminine persona without reservation. The four companions chattered amicably in Spanish. Mapy covered for him with Nicha, explaining to her that Pansy was from the north, and was visiting relatives. In truth, Pansy’s constant practice had greatly improved her Spanish. There was no chance to escape, of course; Jaime and that black bastard Hector kept close to him, and he knew that flight was hopeless.

They arrived at the cathedral in time for the noon Mass. The ornate interior held a scent of incense. As Mass began, the three young women joined in the hymns. As before, Pansy abstained. It all seemed oddly familiar, but he couldn’t understand why. It seemed he’d been here before, but he knew he hadn’t; Seá±or Pinkerton had been remiss in attendance. Then it struck her; she had been a bridesmaid here. Of course she recognized it! A wave of nostalgia swept over Pansy, until she–no, he, HE–recalled that it was a lie. Even after he knew it was untrue, he had an eerie sense of déjá  vu. For a moment he had thought of himself–remembered himself!–as a young girl in a pink satin dress. And he still did–vividly! How had they done that? What else could they do?

Then the group, escorted by Jaime and Hector, went shopping. With cash provided by the don, Pansy bought a Harlequin romance novel in Spanish, a Pink Floyd CD, and (reluctantly) a flowery red dress, a lilac blouse, and pink barrettes, in addition to lingerie: the larger bras he needed (a full B cup), and matching panties. Petunia was unhappy that he behaved in such a feminine manner, but as he explained to her, he needed the excursion, and he saw no advantage in letting anyone know he was a man in a pale-blue dress.

While Pansy and Petunia were out, Ibarra and Ibá¡á±ez oversaw installation of equipment in a shed on the edge of the central finca compound. A memory scrubber had been added to the computerized monitor and control panel for Pansy’s chips, so that it wouldn’t be necessary to take their subject to San Pedro.

Ibá¡á±ez smiled. “I want Seá±or Deon to remain unaware that we’re working on his mind. When he goes to the clinic, he knows something’s up. Now there won’t be anything to give it away.”

“ ¿What do you have in mind for the immediate future, Doctor?”

“Just more of the same. Seá±or Deon already appears to be completely female, but I want his personality to match his appearance. If I succeed, he’ll enjoy pretty clothes and girlish trinkets. He’ll want to look cute and attract men.”

“His conditioning seems to be effective. I saw him mending shirts yesterday, and he seemed quite girlish. It wasn’t just the clothes–the skirt and the peasant blouse–or even his figure. It was the little things. He looked as if he really wanted to be pretty. The nails were carefully painted, his makeup was skillfully applied, his hair was brushed out.  ¿Your work?”

“Yes, but now he works on his appearance just to avoid punishment. I want him to enjoy wearing a pretty face.”

“ ¿And you’ve erased any possibility of escape?  ¿Has he accepted his new life?”

“No, not at all, for the second question–and he may never accept it. As for the first question: the computer tracks his location, and communicates with the chips in his head. It makes sure he isn’t where he’s not supposed to be.” He smiled slightly. “That may be the single most successful innovation I’ve developed. The only complication is that the computer needs to know when the subject’s allowed to leave. Like today, for example, when George went to Tegus–I made sure the programming didn’t kick in when he left. But it’s operative now. George is restricted to the finca again.”

Ibarra shook his head. “Don’t be so confident, Roberto. It’s a wonderful technology, quite elegant, but there’s always something that can go wrong. Something unforeseen.”

His colleague laughed. “No, I don’t think so. Not in this case. He doesn’t have a clue as to what’s controlling him, and that makes it hard to figure a way around it. And if he ever does find out, well then, you can erase it.  ¡It’s foolproof!”

Ibarra shook his head again. “I’ll have to remind you of that statement later, Roberto. Nothing is foolproof. We just don’t know the weak points yet. But there are weaknesses, you can be sure. There are always weaknesses.”

Upon Pansy’s return from Tegucigalpa, Doctor Ibá¡á±ez required him to take another psychological test. That evening, he analyzed the results. His personality still seemed close to a masculine norm, but the test suggested that Pansy had become more dependent, less aggressive, and more passive. His IQ scored five points lower.