Bill Hammons: Writing and Running in Boulder, Colorado

BILL HAMMONS: WRITING AND RUNNING IN BOULDER, COLORADO
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44


Bettmann blushed as he reached for her wrist. "Don't get the wrong idea: I usually take a girl out for dinner on a first."

Korsakova's smile didn't waver as Bettmann began to slip the plastic film off her wrist and hand. "That's perfectly okay: there's something romantic about you wearing my fingerprints."

Bettmann slid the inverted glove onto his own hand, stretching it over his larger paw. "Well, don't speak too soon," he cautioned as he held the putty-colored creation up to the garish overhead light, "this technique hasn't exactly been perfected."

"I would think your agency would have found a countermeasure by now," Korsakova observed as her guest placed his gloved hand on a fingerprint pad.

Bettmann looked up from his hand without a smile. "Who do you think invented Negatix?" The pad, set on one corner of the table, bleeped a pleasant tone and colored green along its top edges.

Korsakova sat back in her chair as she absently rubbed her cloned hand. "Is your agency always inventing ways of breaking the laws it's assigned to enforce?"

Bettmann carefully pulled the sheath off his member. "It's not the CIA's job to enforce the law. It's our job to make sure the American government remains in power. They can enforce the law. 'Sides, I'm not with the agency anymore: I'm just a guy trying to prevent a hijacking."

Korsakova reached for the cup of tea that had long since grown cold. "And what will you do once you're on that plane?"

"Hide in the bathroom, for starters." Bettmann slipped the Negatix glove inside a Ziplock bag and laid it on one corner of the table. "Wait for the plane to fill up, then take one of the empty seats just before take-off and pretend I'm a ticketed passenger."





































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