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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