No easy way out

CHAPTER ONE

"This is absolutely absurd! It's ludicrous! It's abhorrent!"

"No, it's not. Actually I've never seen the Hollywood Freeway
less congested. In fact, we're only forty minutes late. Of course,
I wouldn't want to make the run from San Pedro to Beverly Hills
every day," Diane answered offhandedly.

"No rational, intelligent person would ever be involved in this
travesty!"

"You'll change your mind once you get there. Quimby's estate in
the Hills once belonged to a silent-screen star. Thirty-two
fantastic rooms, tennis courts, pool, and a view that is
breathtaking."

"Diane Stephens, you're ignoring my every word!"

"That's because I didn't bring my Funk & Wagnall's to
translate whatever it is you've been saying!" Diane retorted, her
lips forming a wide, unrepentant grin. "You know something, Ginger,
you sound remarkably like the robots you came here to work on."

"Really, Diane, that is a magnification of the issue. Stop at
the next intersection; the undoubtedly simple solution is a taxi
back to San Pedro."

"In that outfit you'll be dragged into the bushes by the first
man who comes along," Diane countered dryly. Totally ignoring the
preemptive command, she competently guided her VW bug around the
knotlike exit ramp that led off the Freeway onto Santa Monica
Boulevard.

"Stop complaining." Diane reached out to pat her companion's
rebelliously folded arms. "Relax, loosen up, I guarantee you'll
have a good time. Halloween comes once a year, and Jerome Quimby's
masked costume party is
the
event at AVELCOMP."

"Not being an official employee of AVELCOMP Industries, there is
absolutely no reason for me to attend this party. This . . . this
disgusting outfit you rented is thoroughly demeaning to a woman of
my stature."

"Oh, I don't know," Diane parried blithely, her grinning
features illuminated by the amber lights on the dashboard. "Only a
woman of your stature could fill that costume out so well." She
laughed out loud as a disgusted groan assaulted her ears.

"When you're exhausted with this whole preposterous evening,
you'll find me in the car."

Diane expelled an unladylike snort. "You know what I've noticed
about you, Ginger? You never use the word I Not only that, but I've
come to the conclusion that the reason you haven't got a single
wrinkle on your forehead, not a hint of crow's-feet around your
eyes, and not one laugh line by your mouth is because you never
move any muscles when you talk. It's really amazing. It's like
talking to the AV 615."

"The AV 615 is a computer."

"I'm positive the two of you are bloodless relatives," Diane
stated in a sober, emphatic tone. "I realize you came here to work
on robots, Ginger, but you shouldn't get so carried away that
people can't tell the master from the creation." She pursed her
lips and exhaled a musical sigh. "Ginger, oh, Ginger, whatever
happened to that fun-loving girl I went to high school with in
Boise, Idaho?"

"That was years ago. I am now a doctor of physics, an
electronics expert, and a mechanical design engineer. And stop
calling me Ginger!"

"Oh, pardon me." Diane rolled her dark blue eyes heavenward, her
voice dripping with sarcasm. "It is the illustrious Dr. Virginia
Farrell, Phi Beta Kappa, Mensa society, and all 'round dull,
dreary, boring facsimile of a human being who is sitting in my
car."

"Honestly, Diane, you sound the same as you did in the seventh
grade. It's time you grew up."

"In some ways I am very grown-up," she announced with smug
superiority. "And yet there's a part of me that will never grow up.
That's why I love working for AVELCOMP. We get projects from toy
and game manufacturers and now, Disney-it's perpetual fun."

Diane stopped the yellow Volkswagen for a traffic signal. Her
glittering blue eyes turned to study her friend's impassive
features and rigid posture.

"There's something exciting about a costume party and wearing a
mask. It brings out all your baser instincts. You feel wild and
reckless, daring and wicked. There's even a full moon. Tonight we
are really going to howl!" Her low voice lilted off in ringing
laughter as she sent the tiny car lurching forward.

"You
can howl all you want. I'm staying in the car,"
Virginia Farrell stated coldly. "I refuse to walk in to that party
dressed like this. I don't know how you managed to talk me into
wearing it in the first place!"

"You put it on because beneath that computerlike brain and
armor-clad skin hides the real you. Ready to flout convention, be
spontaneous, live dangerously. It's that old Ginger creeping out,
ripe for adventure and anxious for action."

Virginia shuddered, her light blue eyes rolling in mute appeal.
"I'm beginning to believe you've gone crackers!"

"Ha, ha," Diane yelped, her palm slapping the steering wheel in
excitement. "A slang expression! There's hope for you yet." A
satisfied hum of pleasure escaped her lips. "When you arrived last
week, I couldn't believe the change in you. I was expecting the old
Ginger Farrell. The girl who took any dare and welcomed any
challenge; the girl who held the record for sitting in detention
hall; the girl who was expelled for putting a smoke bomb in the
cafeteria trash can; the girl who successfully hid in the boys'
locker room and watched the football team shower-"

"That was fourteen years ago," Virginia interrupted with
considerable asperity while she wriggled selfconsciously against
the plaid bucket seat. "You couldn't possibly have expected the
same person."

"Well, maybe not as crazy, but certainly not such a . . . a . .
. stuffed shirt," Diane admitted with reluctant candor. "When
Quimby asked Briarcliff International for a consulting engineer, I
never expected an old high school friend to arrive. Gosh, we had
such fun together." Diane sighed. "I was hoping it would be like
the old days."

"Diane, it's not the
old
days. I've got more pressing
concerns than exploding smoke bombs. I came to California to help
with design problems your company was having with the Century
Three Project for Disney. When those problems are solved, I'll go
back to Florida and Briarcliff will send me out on another
consulting job."

"You make yourself sound like a piece of equipment instead of a
person," Diane grumbled. "It's really a shame the school officials
had to discover that the reason you were such a problem was because
you were bored and had an IQ of one hundred sixty."

"One hundred seventy three," Virginia corrected
automatically.

Diane groaned and rubbed her pert nose in irritation. "That's
what I've been trying to tell you, Ginger, you're too damn
cerebral."

Virginia couldn't help but chuckle at her girl friend's sudden
language advancement.

"I wouldn't laugh," Diane cautioned in a serious voice. "The
other day I heard two of our mechanical engineers describing you as
a lab coat, glasses, and bun. That's why I picked out that costume.
No one will ever guess it's you. They don't think you've got legs,
let alone a body!"

"Well, they aren't going to see either the legs or the body,"
she retorted sharply. "Why couldn't you have picked out something
else, like . . . like Minnie Mouse?"

"That would be typecasting," Diane grinned, turning the car onto
a posted private road. "You're mousy enough at work."

Virginia moaned and leaned her head against the window. "There
is no way I'm getting out of this car."

"I realize that, at five-foot-one, I am ten inches shorter than
you, Ginger, but believe me, I'm strong. You are going to the
party, and you're having a good time," Diane threatened in a low,
deadly voice. "You are dressed like every woman's fantasy; that
costume was made for your body."

"What are you talking about?" Virginia shouted, staring at her
with wide, incredulous eyes. "My body keeps falling out of this
damn costume! You could have picked up another harem outfit like
yours. At least all those scarves cover up more than this . . .
this . . ."

"The Playboy bunny look." Diane readily supplied the words that
refused to be dislodged from her companion's throat. "You look
darling. You've got the perfect figure for the costume, long
slender legs, a tiny waist, and plenty of . . ."

"But I don't have the personality to carry it off!" Virginia
seethed each word through clenched teeth.

"Hmmm." Diane's smooth forehead puckered in resolute
concentration, then one blond brow arched delightedly. "You know,
with that gigantic brain of yours it seems to me you could be smart
enough to play dumb."

"What?"

"It's done all the time," Diane told her cheerfully. "I've seen
the most bubble-brained women capture the attention of an entire
party by talking and saying nothing that makes the least bit of
sense." She cast Virginia a wicked glance. "All you have to do is
coo, bat those long mascaraed lashes I created for you, keep
licking those hot pink lips, gush, and take lots of deep
breaths."

"If I take even one deep breath, I'll be arrested," Virginia
replied sarcastically.

"You'll be the hit of the party."

"Diane!"

"Ginger!"

The yellow VW came to a halt behind a queue of cars. Jerome
Quimby's Hollywood Hills mansion, a sprawling Spanish-inspired
multilevel house, was coruscated in lights.

Towering palm trees and sculptured hedges were cleverly lit with
colored spotlights that cast the grounds in eerie, primeval
shadows. Ghostly wails, hooting owls, clanking chains, and
bloodcurdling screams from a sound effects record knifed through
the partially open windows of the parked VW. The perfect
accompaniment to the arguing women inside.

Diane drummed five fingers against the dashboard. She decided to
try a new tactic. Twisting in her seat, she looked at her friend.
"Ginger, when was the last time you had any fun? When all your
senses tingled and you felt energized and alive?"

"You know, you're beginning to sound like Lady Macbeth, obsessed
not with death but with my popularity."

"You are evading my question," Diane accused in a gentle tone.
Her hand touched Virginia's shoulder. "I may not have your IQ, but
I can add two and two. You're attractive, intelligent, and have an
exciting career. But you're all work and no play, and that Phi Beta
Kappa key may be a nice memento, but it won't warm your bed at
night. It's better to get hurt occasionally than to become numb
from constantly playing it cool and aloof. You're in danger of
becoming permanently frozen."

Virginia turned her head away. Her eyes caught the movement of
her reflection in the passenger window. My God, she breathed, it
didn't even look like Dr. Farrell, the eminent physicist. It did
look like a Ginger!

A pair of hot pink rabbit ears was perched rakishly on her
shoulder-length brown hair. After a chase around the bedroom Diane
had even managed to highlight Virginia's tresses with blond spray,
giving it a shimmering, halo effect. Diane had also done her
makeup. Skillfully applied, the cosmetics had turned the proverbial
plain Virginia into a sultry, sensuous Ginger.

A black bow tie circled her slim throat, and then came an
enormous expanse of naked skin. The soft, creamy swells of her full
breasts were enticingly exposed while the intoxicating scent of
night-blooming jasmine wafted from graceful shoulders and slim
arms. On her wrists were wide black cuffs. The rest of her lithe
body was poured into a very tiny pink satin costume with high,
French-cut legs. Sheer black stockings and black high-heeled pumps
completed her provocative attire.

The makeup and exotic costume formed an illusion-a total
antithesis of Dr. Virginia Farrell. That woman was a lab coat,
glasses, and bun; that woman had the mind of a computer and the
feelings of a machine. That Dr. Virginia Farrell wore drab,
oversize clothes, no makeup, and cared little about her appearance.
That woman was loaned out by Briar-cliff International, one of the
nation's most famous think tanks, like a piece of equipment.

Dr. Virginia Farrell
was
a boring, dreary, dull
nonentity-a passive creature much like an earthworm: miserable,
pathetic, creeping along.

A wave of desolation engulfed Virginia. She took a deep breath,
then exhaled a long, almost tragic sigh. "The last time I felt a
little jolt of excitement was when a ground fault indicator shorted
out, and I got one hundred seventeen volts of electricity circuited
through me from the motor I was repairing." Her voice trailed off
in a listless whimper; her eyes stared out of the window, searching
the shadows harbored by the night for something that seemed to be
lost.

Diane moistened her dry lips self-consciously. "Ginger, I'm
sorry. I'm not trying to pry or push, but the change in you is
extraordinary. I realize we've been out of touch for nearly ten
years, but you were so ... so bouncy and energetic, so ... so full
of life and now ..." Her hand made a series of loops in the air.
"We really haven't had a chance to talk since you arrived. What has
happened to you? I remember coming home late from school and my
mother telling me you were gone."