* * * * *

My name is Miles Stone; captain (USAF). And, what I'm about to tell you is going to sound like bull manure. But, I swear it's true.

It began as just another test-flight.

For the past year, myself and four other astronaut-candidates had been undergoing a unique form of hypnotherapy. You see, we had all been selected for a top-secret project code-named "Silenus." And, as part of that project, we were each given a series of injections distilled from genetically-engineered Amanita mushrooms.

The goal was to see if we could access the unused 90% of the human mind without becoming addicted to those mushrooms. Because, NASA wanted to see if a space shuttle could be flown via telepathy!

That was why I wound up having a computer chip surgically implanted in my brain, when it turned out I had the best psychic access. Theoretically, that chip would allow me to telepathically interface with both the space shuttle's flight computer, and the Houston Mission Control mainframe.

Launch Day came, and the rocket lifted off without a hitch. And, the separation from it, once I had escaped Earth's gravitational field, was equally successful.

That's the point at which I went into my autohypnotic trance, as I had practiced so many times before. Sure enough; it worked. I single-handedly flew that shuttle to the Moon, and around it, in 25% less time than it had taken any of the three-man Apollo crews!

My good luck did not last, however.

At T-plus five days and thirteen hours, micrometeors started penetrating the space shuttle's hull! This automatically triggered the ship's alarm, which I had been hypnotically pre-programmed to regard as an emergency wake-up call.

Putting the shuttle on manual control, I tried to radio Mission Control with my situation report. But, the radio had already been made to look like Swiss cheese. So, I had to sit there, praying that someone's radar scopes would track my re-entry.

The G-forces I experienced during re-entry were tremendous. I felt like I was going to overgrow my spacesuit, like the Incredible Hulk!

Finally, though, I managed to bring the shuttle in for a crash-landing somewhere in the southern North Atlantic, between Miami and Bermuda. I didn't know the exact co-ordinates as the radio-compass had gone haywire during re-entry, as well.

The seat belts wouldn't unbuckle, so I had to slide out of my seat like one of those contortionist limbo-dancers in Jamaica. In hindsight, that should have been my first clue! But, at the time, I was too concerned with getting my self-inflating rubber life raft into the water before the shuttle went completely under.

And, needless to say, I did. The moment I climbed aboard, however, I got the grand-daddy of all migraines and blacked out!

I don't know how long I remained unconscious. But, when I revived, I found the life raft adrift near the biggest anchor chain I had ever seen. Talk about miracles!

I initially surmised that I must have been spotted by some passing cruise ship, and they had come to rescue me. Then, it occurred to me. If that was the case, why wasn't there a lifeboat parallel-parked next to my raft? Filled with people asking for my name, and if I was all right?

I shouted up towards the bow of the ship. Yet, no one answered. Could my shouts have been drowned out by the Spanish-sounding music I was hearing?

With no other choice in the matter, I climbed up the chain as if I were Johnny Weismuller, in an old "Tarzan" flick. When I got to the railing and climbed over it, I got the biggest shock of my life.

There was a radio playing Spanish music, all right. BUT, IT WAS AS HUGE AS A TIMES SQUARE BILLBOARD!!!

And, sunbathing next to that radio, was a giantess with long, dark hair...and the skimpiest white bikini I had ever seen.

tbc

Then, I looked to my left. There was another giantess! A short-haired blonde, wearing a blue bikini that was only slightly less skimpy than her companion's.

I pinched myself, to see if I was dreaming. The yelp I uttered proved that I wasn't. Which left only two other possibilities. Either I had ditched the shuttle off some real-life "Land of the Giants." Or, somehow, I had shrunk!

The male Spanish voice I heard next confirmed the latter hypothesis.

"Oye! Carmen! Miranda! Bajo, pronto. Yo tengo clientes que viene!"

The two giantesses slowly rose from their lounge chairs, and started picking up their sunbathing paraphenalia. Not wanting to lose this chance for help, I jumped down on top of the mooring rope, right beneath my perch on the ship's railing. I then half-rolled/half-fell down the surrounding, terraced loops of that rope, praying that my helmet and padded suit would protect me from too much injury.

When I got to the bottom, I fought off my dizziness in order to stand up and run over next to the giant portable radio that the brunette was just stooping down to turn off. She had just done so, when she noticed me jumping up and down, waving my arms.

She whipped off her sunglasses, stared at me for a second, and then shook her head. When she had thereby confirmed she wasn't hallucinating, she put the sunglasses back on so she could carry the radio in her left hand...while picking me up with her right.

"Carmen?" inquired the blonde: "Que paso? Venga! Mas rapido, por favor."

When we got back to the stateroom occupied by the girls, Carmen showed the blonde (who, by process of elimination, could only be Miranda) the reason for her initial hesitancy. As expected, Miranda was a little dumbfounded. So, to break the proverbial ice, I took off my helmet, and said--as loudly as I could--with my limited Spanish:

"Holas, senoritas. Hablas ustedes ingles?"

They both nodded. So, I looked them both in the eye (Carmen's were brown, and Miranda's were blue), and I told them what had happened to me. Although, I edited it for national security reasons. I claimed that I was the sole survivor of a weather satellite maintenance-and-repair flight!

"So," I said in conclusion: "If you could just take me to the captain of this ocean liner..."

This caused both women to giggle.

"Is no ocean liner," replied Miranda: "Is the private yacht of Simon Suarez. He is here to sell la cocaina! Unfortunately, he also uses it. Which makes him--como se dice--limp like the noodle?"

I looked up at Carmen, who was still holding me in her right hand. She nodded in confirmation.

"That is why we are so glad you are here," she added: "Because, on those occasions Don Simon cannot pleasure us, you will!"

Before I could protest in the slightest, both giantesses had stripped me of my spacesuit right down to my olive-drab boxers. And, even those wound up being thrown out the nearest open porthole!

It looked like I was going to be spending the rest of my life as a naked love-slave. All because, at that moment, I was involuntarily proving myself as not being "limp like the noodle."

tbc

The first thing these girls did was to demonstrate that they had not always been eye-and-arm candy for some half-impotent druglord. In fact, once upon a time they had been antipodists, or foot-jugglers, for some now-bankrupt Mexican circus!

Carmen laid down on the floor, flat on her back, her long barefoot legs sticking straight up in the air. Then, I was placed on the soles of her feet. And, before I could utter a word of token protest, I found myself being bounced around on those feet. Up-and-down and back-and-forth! Back-and-forth and up-and-down!

Then, suddenly, I found myself flying through the air without any kind of aircraft whatsoever. Only to land on the soles of Miranda's feet!

Miranda had assumed a position identical to Carmen's, except she was facing the other way. End-to-end, in other words. And, the moment she heard my involuntary "oof," as I landed on her feet, she bagan putting me through the exact same routine!

Before I knew it, they were using their feet to play badminton...with me as the shuttlecock!!!

As an astronaut, I had been trained to withstand a good deal of centrifugal force. But, even the best astronaut has his physical limits. And, mercifully, they stopped before exceeding mine.

Even so, I was way too dizzy to utter any kind of protest when I heard them utter the Spanish word for "shower."

In-and-out and side-to-side. Side-to-side and in-and-out. That was the pattern these girls followed when using me as a human washcloth. First, Carmen; then, Miranda. When they were both done, Miranda massaged my entire body with some kind of strawberry-scented lotion before Carmen dried me off with a real washcloth. Plus, a five-second blast of hot air from her blow-dryer.

After that, they put me in the top drawer of their dresser bureau while they changed into something "casual" (=semi-formal) for their first night in Miami. When they opened the drawer to take me back out, I could see that their color scheme for bikinis also extended to the rest of their wardrobe. Miranda was wearing a sleeveless blue sundress with a flowing knee-length skirt. While Carmen had on an all-white counterpart. With respectively matching light sweaters.

What they modeled next, however, really caused me to renew struggling and protesting. Because, while Miranda was tightly gripping me in her right hand, she picked up a red silk bandana with her left. Simultaneously, Carmen was using both hands to raise her long, sable-brown hair from where it flowed down past her shoulders.

"No! No, please! Don't mmmmmmmph!"

I was wrapped up like a mummy within the bandana before being secured, by it, to the back of Carmen's neck! With only my eyes and nose sticking out over the top of it (like one of those Kilroy cartoons from World War II).

Then, Carmen let her hair fall back into place. When that had been accomplished, we started moving. I judge that it took my captors about two minutes to get from their stateroom to the gangplank, before I heard an electronically-amplifed voice shout out:

"Alto! Manos arribas, todos! DEA!"

tbc

The next thing I knew, some fool fired off two gunshots. Followed by a staccato burst of machine-gunfire!

I heard my giantess captors scream, and literally hit the deck. After that, there was total chaos. Followed by multiple barks of command in Spanish for everyone to lay down, hands behind their heads.

This restored my hope of being rescued. Because, if this really was a massive drug bust, then Carmen and Miranda would have to be separated for their strip search.
Which means I could attract the attention of the police matron conducting the search!

The processing was handled at a local police station.
And, sure enough, the matron ordered both women to take off all their clothes. Carmen apparently refused to comply, with regard to the bandana. Because, the matron repeated her command.

"That includes the fancy scarf," she added.

Carmen's hair parted like a stage curtain, and I got my first look at Officer Gladys Crabtree (the name on her right front pocket lapel pin).

She was African-American; about five years older than me; and, if I had been normal size, she would probably have been a foot shorter than me. She was also built like a lady wrestler, which probably discouraged most female prisoners from getting too feisty.

But, she was distracted by the sight of me, still bound-and-gagged to the back of Carmen's neck. Allowing Miranda to cart-wheel up from the left and kick Officer Crabtree to the ground!

As Carmen's hair immediately fell back into place, I could only feel her spin about. Just as I could only hear her scream as she apparently tried to flamenco dance on the police matron's face. But, Officer Crabtree must have overcome her surprise, and grabbed Carmen by one of her ankles. Using it as leverage to flip the brunette over, and make her land flat on her face and stomach.

Because, I felt the familiar sensation of a one hundred-eighty degree turn. Followed by the "oof" of someone having the wind knocked out of them! Then, I heard the shout of a death-threat from Miranda. Followed by a door being kicked in, and a warning shot being fired into the air.

The new arrival was a woman. She shouted at Miranda to resume the familiar capture position. After which, the acrobatic blonde and her partner were evidently shackled both wrist and ankle.

"You okay, Gladys?"

"Yeah! Nothing that a nice warm bath won't cure."

"What set these two off?"

"See for yourself! Under the brunette's hair."

A minute later, I got my first glimpse of Agent Melissa Belmondo of the DEA.

tbc

Agent Belmondo kept me in the left inside pocket of her DEA windbreaker while Officer Crabtree recruited some other police matrons to help her finish dressing Carmen and Miranda in the orange jumpsuits their little assault had earned them.

When she returned, I was taken back out and asked the inevitable questions about how I had gotten this way. I gave them the same edited story I had given my former captors. Then, it was my turn to ask a question.

"Could one of you ladies please call Cape Canaveral, and explain to them that I've been rescued? Albeit, with some 'unusual injuries?' I don't know if there was something in those micrometeors that's responsible for this. But, if there's anyone who can figure that out, it's the eggheads at NASA.

Officer Crabtree volunteered to make the call, and I had her write down my Air Force serial number, to insure that she was believed. After she left, I got better acquainted with Agent Belmondo (who also had an ID badge on her right lapel pocket).

She would have been about my height, at normal size. With bluish-green eyes and the shade of reddish-brown hair once called "auburn." She was a year or two younger than me. And, she preferred to be called "Melissa" by her friends. Including new ones, like me.

"I was born and raised at the Guantanamo Bay Marine Base, Cuba. I learned French and Spanish from my naturalized Basque grandfather. I'm a regular Annie Oakley with several black belts in various martial arts. And, the Suarez bust was the first major narcotics interdiction I've been involved with, since joining the DEA five years earlier. What about you?"

"Not much to tell," I said, with a shrug: "I AFROTC'd at the University of Connecticut. I fell so in love with flying, I decided to go career. And, prior to being recruited by NASA in 2001, I was a 'hurricane hunter' out of Biloxi, Mississippi."

It was about this time that a knock came at the door. Melissa asked who it was, and Officer Crabtree replied. She slipped back inside, as stealthily as possible, and half-whispered that she had gotten through.

"Someone will be here to pick you up, by chopper, inside half an hour."

Sure enough, that's exactly what happened. A portly white guy, in a mustard-brown suit (and about ten years older than me, with a brown-and-gray buzz cut), came into that backroom escorted by four Air Force SP's.*

"Well, now!" he exclaimed: "I see Officer Crabtree wasn't exaggerating. Ladies? I must ask that you accompany us, in order to lend your viewpoints to the official debriefing. Agent Belmondo, if you would be so kind as to put Captain Stone back inside your windbreaker? Thank you."

Within five minutes, we were aboard a helicopter that I sensed was heading north and west (my astronautical sense of direction). That was when Portly said it was okay for Melissa to take me out of the jacket. The moment she did so, I could see something was wrong.

The helicopter we were in looked to be a U.S. Army Iroquois, rather than a "Jolly Green Giant." And, all the flanking windows were blacked out. Just like the ones aboard the Lockheed Jetstar that had shuttled me and my fellow astronaut-candidates to and from Area 51, during the early days of Project: Silenus!

After nearly half an hour, we touched down. This was followed by the sound of a massive elevator that (according to the momentary pressure on my ears) took us beneath something. Chopper and all!

Finally, we were allowed to disembark. The SP's guided the four of us through a bunch of gray-painted corridors to a conference room, with the word "private" indelibly painted in black letters over it. Two of them then saluted and left, while the other two commenced to flank the door, before closing it.

"Why don't we all sit down, and get comfortable?" asked Portly: "Capt. Stone? You can rest on the table top. Here! Use this customized handkerchief to restore your dignity."

At my current size, that handkerchief looked more like a Greek toga. But, at least I was no longer naked. So, I thanked him. Then, I got right to the point.

"You're not from NASA. Are you? What branch of the spook alphabet do you represent?''

Portly chuckled: "Very good, captain! Very astute of you. My name is Myron Meriwether. I'm the Director of Operations for M.A.C.H.O. The Multi-Agency Counter-Homunculist Organization. And, I wish to offer you a job."

tbc

"Doing what?" I asked.

"What's a homunculist?" inquired Gladys.

"And, why does it need countering by more than one agency?" demanded Melissa.

Meriwether held up his hands, signaling for one question at a time.

" 'Homunculist' is what our organization calls women with a fetish for shrunken men. It comes from the Latin word 'homunculus,' referring to a little man artificially created through alchemy. That is; according to medieval European folklore!"

He revealed that most of these women only encountered such men by accident. Subsequently adopting them as unique "pets." But, some of these "pet-owners" proved to be cruel and abusive.

"And, an extreme few are directly responsible for that shrinkage in the first place! Using either some new, high-tech advancement. Or, something of a more...metaphysical nature."

"And, it's your job to police such women?" Melissa stated rather than asked.

"Let me put it this way," he replied: "If I were to shrink you or Officer Crabtree down to Captain Stone's present height, would you voluntarily agree that your civil rights had been similarly reduced, in proportion?"

"Of course not!"

"You try to shrink me?" added Gladys: "And, I'll give you a right cross up-side your head!"

"Then, why should shrunken men suffer from a double standard?" Meriwether continued (half-smiling at Gladys' retort): "Hence, our acronym! You name the agency, and we're partially funded by them. Because, there are more homunculists out there than any of you realize. And, you're not the first shrinkie that we've rescued, Capt. Stone. Which brings me back to my earlier statement."


He revealed that half of M.A.C.H.O.'s Research Division was incessantly engaged in trying to find a way to reverse "bio-miniaturization" (as they preferred to call it). While waiting for that momentous discovery, some of the shrinkies filled their time by working as special operatives for M.A.C.H.O. Accompanied by a normal-sized partner, or "normie," as bodyguard.

"If I may be blunt; you certainly can't go back to being an astronaut. And, if they're amenable, I could even arrange for Agent Belmondo and Officer Crabtree to be transferred with you, and serve as your bodyguards!"

Picking me up in her right hand, so I could have an equal say in the matter, Melissa and I huddled with Gladys for a bit. Then, the huddle broke up, and I was put back down on the conference room tabletop.

"It's a deal!" we chorused.

Now, I'm in a "dormitory" that looks more like a dollhouse version of Yale University. And, I have three roommates who were recently shrunk, themselves: Ned Fogarty; Fyodor Ivanov; and Diego Garcia. We all wear these red cover-alls that make us look like Lee Majors action-figures from the 1970's. But, at least we're not naked!

We attend these classes called "re-orientation," which is to help us cope with the psychological aspects of being so small. As for Mel and Gladys? They're getting self-defense refreshers from a sensei named Anjiro Watanabe. And, scuttlebutt has it that he's a genuine, honest-to-God ninja!

I don't know what work I'll end up doing for M.A.C.H.O. But, whatever it is, I just know it's not going to be dull.


THE END?