neck and hands that are much too young. And there are other differences. Irena was a little taller, believe it or not, and she has to wear higher heels all the time. Irena, of course, was more buxom...."

"We will explain away her thinness," Salluca cut in, his wink making the new Irena tremble as she tried to walk like a model in her tight, slim skirt. Even her long fingernails be- trayed feminine sensations as they brushed the top of 'her' sheer, skin-toned stockings.

"We'll have to keep her well away from everyone who knew her well," said Consuela firmly. "A really good comparison of her photographs of today and a month ago would show lots more..."

"I've already arranged that no new photographs of Irena will be published until she says so," said Salluca impatiently. "Now let's get on with what we've planned to do, Consuela. We've come this far by being bold enough to try. Let's not even appear apologetic or arouse any suspicions by our actions. She is Irena. She's lovely as she always was. No one will look beyond that, mark my words. It was how she trapped us all in the first place."

He had reached 'Irena' by the time he had stopped speaking. His hand took hers immediately. He couldn't help but smile at the startled look in her heavily madeup eyes. 'She' blinked 'her' false eye- lashes rapidly as Salluca squeezed her hand reassuringly. But 'she'

was

not reassured, only by the contact. 'She' looked wildly to Consuela for help. Her hair and earrings began to quiver rapidly at her smooth, bandaged neck.

Consuela looked away in disgust, even while she heard Isabel snigger from the doorway where she was lounging. Con- suela couldn't believe what she was seeing. Was the Vice-Presi-

dent totally corrupt? Surely he knew that this 'Irena' was a boy but he was treating 'her' just as if 'she' was really a 'girl!' Consuela had tried to get Isabel to treat 'her' in a female way, but this was too much.

Salluca guided the slim- skirted 'Irena' to the doorway, which Isabel opened with a par- ody of a curtsey. Suddenly, 'Irena' was out of the Presiden- tial apartments in the bunker beneath the Residence. People crowded about, technicians, soldiers, aides and the like, their faces staring at her. 'She' felt the urge to run in panic, as fast as her high heels and tight skirt would let her, back to the safety of the sheltered rooms. 'She' turned, even as Salluca stopped to explain to the director of the telecast how it must be staged, but there was Consuela behind 'her.' barring 'her' way.

"You are Irena," hissed Consuela, her dark eyes boring into those of the novice 'girl. "You look like a woman. You are as beautiful as any woman in the world. You are a woman, woman, woman!"

If her words were meant to relax or resolve Esteban's seeth- ing, distraught emotions, they did, in fact, accomplish almost the opposite effect.

"You have come this far," Consuela went on, seeing the 'girl' in front of her licking at her red, glossy lips. There was near-hysteria too in her wide- open, darkly-fringed eyes. "For all our sakes, you must go through with Irena's part now. We have committed ourselves and we are all dead if you are not the woman you are intended to be, right now.'

Esteban shook with fright. His waist was surely too tightly constricted by the waist-cinch. He was so tense that he felt his real chest muscles pressing against 'his' bra, as if what was filling the bra was really his. For a moment, he felt as if he did

indeed have real breasts, as if he was a woman. His knees almost crumpled beneath him, tighten- ing his garter belt and panties. How he was able to walk to the place where Consuela showed him to sit, he never knew. He rearranged his skirt as she had made him practice, his heart beating so loudly in his ears that he was afraid he might explode at any moment. Panic seized him as he thought of doctors attending him, stripping of the clothes he was now wearing, to find . . . . .

He glanced up as the girl opposite him did. She looked as strained as he felt. It took him a moment to realize that he was seeing himself in the mirror. The pretty girl was 'him' and 'he' was Irena. 'Her' legs and figure were as shapely and beautiful as ever. His face, figure and hair were gone. They were all 'hers' now. The strain went slight from 'her' face as Esteban relaxed, thinking of Consuela's words. If he was any- thing but Irena now, then 'she,' this girl in the mirror, would undergo embarrassment and tor- ture such as 'she' could recall from the days in San Martino.

"Yes," said Consuela as she stopped behind 'her' to look at her own image. "You are definitely our Irena now. Pull your skirt down, dear. There's no need to be showing quite so much leg. You already have enough men here panting after you, without them taking action to fit their thoughts. After all, dear, we want our men to make war, you know, not to make love. Ah," she smiled as he frantically tugged at his skirt to lower it across his stockinged knees, "but I forgot. To Irena, making war or making love is the same thing."

Ciudad Domingo had be- come a rubble-city before the invading forces finally came to