Ingrid sat at one of the more isolated blackjack tables, outside the pit on an elevated ledge to the side.  As befit her cover, she was losing, albeit conservatively.  After a half-hour she was the only player at the table, and the dealer went off shift.  He was replaced by Ms. Gradenko, who smiled professionally at Ingrid.

“Welcome to Caracas,” said Gradenko.  “Was security rough on you?”

“No worse than expected,” replied Ingrid.  “Are they all there?”

“Yes.  Figura’s cut-out is one of the six players at the center poker table.”

From her seat, Ingrid could see all six.  She lifted he purse onto the table next to her.

“I have them,” reported Gregorio via her earring-phones.

“What do we know about them?” Ingrid asked Gradenko, who stood with her back to the pit.

“Starting at the dealer’s left, we have Simon van der Plonk,” recited Gradenko without turning around.  “He’s a scientist, although nowhere near as accomplished as Figura.”  Ingrid glanced at van der Plonk, a slight man dressed off-the-rack with light hair and handsomely boyish features.  He looked at his cards more than needed for this table.

“Next is Imelda Versace, astronomically wealthy socialite.  Her patent lawyers have been sniffing around in all the right fields.”  Versace was a doe-eyed voluptuous Latin beauty in a very distracting gown.

“Next is Horatio Longhammer.  Owns several legitimate businesses, but they’re all cover for his smuggling network.”  Tall and rugged, Longhammer had a disarming smile that he beamed at each bettor in turn.

“Next is Melissa Hormel, heiress to the sausage fortune.”  Hormel’s cleavage was almost as deep as Versace’s, and her slate-blue eyes drank everything in.

"Next is Sid Brown, producer of dozens of straight-to-video skin flicks.”  Brown’s receding hairline was beaded with sweat and he couldn’t keep his ratlike eyes off Hormel’s rack.

“Last is Hydrangea Jones, international violinist.”  Jones, a skinny redhead in a modest yet ill-fitting dress, scrutinized every play with severe earnestness.

Ingrid and Gregorio watched the poker game until it adjourned for the evening almost two hours later.  Jones was first place in the standings, followed closely by Brown.  Versace was a more distant third, Longhammer and Hormel were fourth and fifth, and the wretched van der Plonk brought up the rear.

Gradenko had already rotated to another table for her cover, so Ingrid collected her purse and drifted into the pit, hoping to overhear something revealing.

“I know who the cut-out is,” said Gregorio.

“Really?” said Ingrid.

“To an experienced professional, it’s obvious.”

“Then spill it.”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Of course I do.  I just want to see if you were paying as close attention as I was.”

“You have no idea who it is.  It’s absurd that an amateur like you is making this approach.”

“We don’t have a choice.”

“Wrong again,” said Gregorio, poking his head out of the purse.  He aimed his air pistol high behind Ingrid and launched the anchor and line toward a chandelier.  The anchor caught and the line went taut as Gregorio leapt from the purse and reeled himself to the ceiling.

“See you back in at the room in three hours,” he said, sailing out of range of his miniaturized comm-set.

Ingrid forced herself not to turn around, lest she call attention to Gregorio’s sortie.  She nevertheless lost track of the suspect she had been trailing, who had vanished from the casino.

“Shitballs.”

Melissa Hormel was halfway down the elegantly-appointed hallway to the ladies’ room when Sid Brown slithered ahead to block her path.  Conscious of her station and public persona, Melissa did not break her stride to go around the obstruction but instead simply stopped in mid-glide and raised an eyebrow at Sid.

“I couldn’t help notice, Miss Hormel,” he said, his eyes lingering on her chest, “that the cards haven’t been going your way this evening.”

“I’m new to this game,” she said.

“Oh, I doubt that.”

“What is it you’re after, Mr. Brown?”

“I could stake you,” he said, sidling closer and lowering his voice.  “Keep you in the game a little longer.”

“I think I can probably stay afloat,” she said, leaning forward and pressing her formidable breasts into his chest.  Sid reflexively flinched away.

“You’re making a mistake, babe,” he said, his voice becoming shrill.  “You don’t know who I represent.  I’m a very big man.  Everywhere that counts.”

“Size isn’t everything,” she said, spinning away.

“You’ll change your mind,” he sneered, “and when you do, I won’t be so gentlemanly.”  He swatted her ass before stalking back toward the casino.

Gregorio spotted his suspect return to the casino, order a drink at the bar, then start to stroll through a small gallery of priceless art.  Setting out to reach the end of his target’s projected tour, Gregorio began a series of leaps and swings via light fixtures, wall hangings, and pillars, making his way across the casino.

His target, Melissa Hormel, stopped to study a Vermeer just as Gregorio reached the lamp above the painting.  The journey across the casino was more exhausting than he had expected, and when he tried to retrieve his anchor and line from above the lamp, his wearied hands slipped and he tumbled from his perch.  Just then, Melissa leaned forward to examine a detail of the painting, and Gregorio plummeted feet-first into her cleavage.

He sunk up to his waist, with his arms spread wide across the mounds of milk-white flesh.  He looked up to see that Melissa’s expression was not one of alarm but rather cool curiosity.  Moving slowly but deliberately, she reached up with two fingers and pressed down firmly on Gregorio’s tiny shoulders until he disappeared entirely between her massive and firmly-supported boobs.

Then she casually finished her drink and left the glass at the bar as she made her way to her room.

Sid Brown sat in a different part of the bar, nursing a drink that was too strong for him.  Ingrid appeared behind the chair to his right.

“May I join you?” she asked, smiling.

He looked her up and down with a disaffected air.  “Be my guest, Toots.”

As she sat next to him, she tried to expose as much leg as she would without it looking deliberate.  She placed her drink order, then turned to Sid.

“You’re a brilliant poker player,” she said silkily.  “You should play professionally.”

“How do you know I don’t?” he retorted.

“Because you seem distracted,” she said, running her tongue over her teeth.  “I’m sure you’d be in first place if you were concentrating.”

Sid slid sideways to face Ingrid, then leaned forward, leering drunkenly.  “And what’s distracting me?”

“Issues of scale.”

“Scale?”

“Taking small things and making them into big things.”  She let her gaze drop to his crotch.

“That’s a serious distraction, I must admit,” he said, nodding.  He finished his drink with a gulp and stood up too quickly.

“Tell you what,” he said, “let’s get out of here and you can help me take my mind off things.”

Ingrid beamed her deadliest smile at Sid and stood.

“After you,” he said, gesturing toward the elevator lobby.

He took them to the 12th floor and down a corridor.

“Does your room have a view of the bay?” asked Ingrid coquettishly.

Sid said nothing, then Ingrid felt a gun pressed against the small of her back.

“That’s far enough, Toots,” he said venomously.  He herded her out of the hallway into a vestibule with a fax machine and other facilities for business travelers.  A tall potted plant partially obscured them as he forced her to face the wall.

His fingers probed drunkenly, but they nevertheless found what the Immigration officer could not.

“I knew you were O.S.S., bitch,” he said, flaunting her pistol, “and this proves it.”

She didn’t say anything as he fumbled through her purse, his gun digging into her ribs and pinning her against the wall.

“I told them they’d send someone for Figura, and now I’ve gotcha,” he sneered.  “What kind of flashlight is thi— ”

A strobe flared off the wall in Ingrid’s face, and she no longer felt Sid’s gun or heard his voice.

A pair of hotel employees including the concierge came around the corner and approached the vestibule.  Ingrid spotted her purse and its spilled contents on the floor behind her.  She quickly stooped and collected her belongings, returning her weapon to its cache, then she walked hurriedly to the elevator.

Gregorio couldn’t move.  He was pinned by walls of warm flesh that swayed and bounced with Melissa’s steady strides.  Her heart and breath sounds crowded out his own grunts of discomfort and, combined with her soft skin blanketing his face, threatened to send him into a trance.

Finally, Melissa came to a rest and her giant fingers extracted Gregorio from the well of her cleavage.  He lay in her palm, looking up at her pillowy sofa-sized lips, cascading wavy brown hair, and eyes like slate-blue spotlights aimed straight at him.

“Agent Cortez himself,” she said, smiling.  Her cinder-block-sized  teeth glistened less than ten subjective feet from Gregorio’s head.  “I knew the O.S.S. was eager to get their hands on Figura’s work, but I didn’t expect them to miniaturize an agent to jump down my dress.”

“That was not my intent, Ms. Hormel, I assure you,” shouted Gregorio.  Looking around, he saw that Melissa was seated at a desk in her hotel room.

“Apology accepted,” she said, lowering her hand to let him down to the desktop.  “Although I believe we’ve been close enough that you can call me Melissa.”

“As you like, Melissa,” he called.  Her hemispherical tits hung over him so massively that he had to back away in order to see her face.

“You must be awfully confident of Figura’s cooperation and the O.S.S.’s implementation to volunteer to be miniaturized,” said Melissa.

“Everyone in the O.S.S. is prepared to make sacrifices for the greater good,” preened Gregorio.  “How shall I contact Figura?”

“He’s at his lab right now, but he’ll meet you at the University in two days.  Dr. Pandemonium’s office.  He’ll be there from 12 to 4.”

“Why can’t we just go to his lab?”“Because I don’t know where it is, and that’s how Figura wants it.”

“Very well.”

“One other thing,” said Melissa.  “Figura has been approached indirectly by something called Matador Productions.”

“Is Figura working for them?” asked Gregorio.

“I don’t think so.  I don’t know anything about them.”

Gregorio stretched his arms and back before unlimbering his climbing gear.  “Thank you, Melissa.  You’ve been extremely helpful.”

Melissa licked her lips slowly and raised an eyebrow at Gregorio.  “I’m about to take a shower.  Would you like to stay a bit?”

Gregorio paused, and his gaze fell to her mountainous chest.

“You can ride somewhere else, if you like,” she purred.

He straightened his spine.  “A very tempting invitation, Senorita, but my mission is time-sensitive.”

“As am I,” she said, standing with a rueful smile.

He gave a short wave, then launched his line out an open window and swung into the night.

Ingrid sat at the table of their room, a half-empty tumbler of tequila next to her and the dossier on Sid Brown that she got from Gradenko in front of her.

Gregorio was able to light on the far edge of the table without detection, but when he strolled into Ingrid’s narrow field of vision, she pushed away from the table, knocking Gregorio off his feet.  When he recovered, he saw that she was pointing her pistol at him.

“Sorry,” she said, making the weapon disappear again.  “I thought you were somebody else.”

Gregorio gave her an incredulous look.  “How many three-inch-tall people do you know?”

“Never mind.  Did you contact Figura’s cut-out?”

“Of course.  It was Melissa.”

“‘Melissa’?”

“Hormel.  The wiener lady.”

“I see.  What did the wiener lady say?”

“She said we are to meet Figura at the University at a colleague’s office in two days.  She also said something called Matador Productions has been trying to get to Figura.”

Ingrid sat back, lost in thought.  “I know I’ve heard that name somewhere before,” she said.  Then she leaned forward and selected a page from Brown’s dossier.

“Here it is,” she said, “Known associates: Matador Productions.”

“Why do you have Brown’s file?” asked Gregorio.

“He was here for Figura, too.”

“‘Was’?”

“I took care of him.  He’s gone.”

“Really?  I do hope you didn’t leave a conspicuous mess.”

“Trust me, no one will find him.”

Melissa was a luscious beauty to gaze upon under any circumstances.  Her overflowing breasts, fair silky skin, brazen haunches, plush lips, and beguiling eyes would rivet anyone in their presence.

Of an order of magnitude more mesmerizing, therefore, was the sight, from the vantage point of a three-inch-tall person on the bathroom floor, of Melissa taking a long and leisurely shower.  Her long brown hair flowed straight behind her head, weighted by the water into a dripping whip.  The drops splashed off her contented brow and clung to her face as they ran down over her red mouth, along her delicate throat, and finally dappling her cetacean tits.

Twin waterfalls cascaded from her pink nipples, scattering droplets as her boobs swayed freely about.  The flesh of her ass rippled as she caressed it with her soapy loofah.  When she dropped it she had to squat to retrieve it, exposing her pink pussy folds through the steam.  These bewitching images and sounds were magnified a hundredfold to the tiny voyeur.  It was enough to make one lose all sense of one’s tradecraft, mission, or even simple safety.

At last, Melissa exited the shower, her titanic legs heaving out of the mist and thudding massively on the tiles.  She wrapped her pink and perspiring flesh in a floral green robe that stopped above the knee and only loosely wrangled her mighty bosom.  The hem crept up the back of her thighs as she leaned over the sink to wipe the condensation off the mirror and examine her face for a moment.  Then she pivoted on her elephantine heels and thundered out of the bathroom into the carpeted area of the suite.

The three-inch-tall form of Sid Brown poked his head out from underneath the armoire where he had been hiding.  As Melissa’s towering figure disappeared around the corner, Sid found himself walking across the bathroom floor, uninhibited by concerns of stealth, lest he miss even a second of Melissa getting dressed.  He looked past the threshold, scanning under the bed and beyond for any sign of her movements.  Then his viscera flinched as Melissa’s feet, like two Mack trucks, rumbled back into the bathroom, her toes pointed directly at him.

Awareness of how conspicuous he was knocked the wind out of Sid.  He didn’t even frantically cast about for impossibly distant cover.  He could only look up at his doom.

Melissa’s barrel-sized toes flexed in anticipation of an absurd pursuit, but it was unnecessary.  Her taut calves rose like pale sequoias, curving into boulder-like kneecaps.  The green robe still hung over her thighs, and fingers that could squeeze the life from Sid were perched on her Richter-scale-registering hips.  Above it all was her triumphant, smirking face.

“Still the gentleman, I see,” she said.  Her left foot shot forward and her big toe slammed into his clavicle, knocking him flat on his back.  She settled the ball of her foot on his chest, leaving only his head visible between her two largest toes.  Her sole was still moist and soft from the shower, but he could not hope to injure or resist it with any method at his disposal.  Looking up, Sid could see Melissa’s milk-white thigh extending out of her robe, and he imagined her hamstring tensed within, poised to end him.

“Size isn’t everything,” she said, “but it’s still something.”

Her smile grew wider as she slowly shifted more of her weight to her left foot.  He grunted as his last breath was squeezed from his lungs.  His innards felt as if they had turned to scorching lava as they were compressed into an ever-tighter volume.

Melissa’s mouth opened slightly and her tongue played on her teeth as she saw Sid’s head fall back in agony.  She felt his ribs start to snap, her cheek twitched, and she brought her full weight down on him.  Blood gouted from his mouth and nose, and his bones shattered as she ground her foot into the tile.

When Melissa finally lifted her foot, she saw that Sid’s tiny corpse clung to her sole with no more substance than a discarded condom.  She scraped her foot on the rim of the toilet bowl, and he barely made a splash.  She mopped the bloody tile with a tissue, then flushed all that remained of Sid out of this world.

“No matter how many stars a hotel gets,” she said shaking her head in disappointment, “roaches always find their way in.”