Dollinger was already seated in the observation room, notepad in hand, as Smith entered. One of the mirrors in the experiment room was a thick one-way glass, through which Smith and Dollinger observed the course of the experiment. As Smith took his seat, Dollinger said, his eyes on the glass, "I've been meaning to ask you, why all the mirrors?" He had seen many repetitions of the experiment, but never stopped wondering about it.

Smith, picking up his own pad and writing some preliminary notes, responded, "I want to maximize the sexual tension."

"Seems like just sitting together like that ought to do it."

Still writing, Smith said absently, "Emotional extremity is a key feature in the experimental design. The threat of death itself is not enough for certain types of subjects. When it is not, visual sexual stimulation may replace or enhance it. Quiet now."

Two quick intakes of breath followed the two clicks that emerged from the mechanisms on their necks. The clocks now said 1:59:59, and counted down.

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Lisa chanted, "Oh God why me why me. . ." Robbie's breath rasped.

Lisa's hands jiggled in time to her lamentation, and a beep emerged from behind Robbie's neck as a link of the chain was drawn in.

"Hey! Please, you've got to stop moving."

"Shut up, you little prick! Get out of me!"

"I can't, there's no way. We'd both probably die."

"Maybe I'd rather die than be here with you. I'm going to try to get off you."

"NO, don't. . ."

Lisa tensed her arms around Robbie and pushed down hard with her heels to try to lift her weight off Robbie's lap.

"Oh, God, stop, you'll. . ."

Lisa's feet skidded on the padded floor a couple of inches before she had lifted herself any noticeable distance upward. As her weight shifted back onto her butt, her heels were yanked back against Robbie's back, and with a series of beeps, Robbie's chain was reeled in about an inch.

Both of them gasped. Lisa automatically tried to move her hands to her mouth, and stopped suddenly when she remembered. Her hands were pulled back down, as Robbie's chain lost another inch.

"Don't you see you can't MOVE? Please, you could kill me, please stop." They both sat trembling.

Lisa said in a small voice, "I'm sorry."

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes. Lisa finally said sulkily, "Stop looking at me."

"I wasn't looking at you."

"Stop looking at me in the mirror. You think I can't see you?"

"There's no place else to look. There's mirrors everywhere."

"Close your eyes then."

"I can't. I get dizzy."

Lisa rolled her eyes. "Well, at least stop looking at my boobs. Look at my legs or something."

"I was."

"You've just got no right to look at me. You don't even know me." She looked harder at him as she said it. "Wait. I think I remember you. In Mr. Henderson's, I think. Junior High."

"Oh. Yeah."

"Yeah, I do remember now. Ronnie?"

"Robbie."

"You were the guy who got 96. Nobody else got over 75. You wrecked the curve, you asshole! I would have passed if it wasn't for you, I was that close."

"You can't really blame your grades on me."

"Yes I can! My Dad grounded me for a month: no dates, no parties. All thanks to you."

"Did you study?"

"You jerk." She jiggled her wrists enough to produce two more beeps from Robbie's collar. Another half-inch.

"Hey, I'm sorry, okay? Please don't. . . don't keep doing that."

"Well, what else am I supposed to do if I'm mad?"

"Not kill me! How could your grade be worth that much?"

"You ever get grounded?"

"Yeah, sure. Everybody does."

"You? Mister Genius? What did you get grounded for?"

"I lost one of my Dad's books."

"So what'd you get?"

"A week. No TV. No computer."

She rolled her eyes. "Computer. Big deal."

"I bet it's as important to me as your dates and parties are to you."

"Doubt it."

"Look, everybody's different."

"No. Just you are. Now shut up. I don't want to hear about your life."

"Okay. Just don't move, okay?"

"Shut up."

Ten minutes gone. A display in the observation room indicated Robbie had lost three inches. He'd have about a half-hour to live at his present rate. The two subjects were quiet for the moment.

Dollinger muttered quietly to Smith, "Think we'll lose him?"

"I would not care to guess at this point. Many different things have happened in the course of the experiment."

"I was just thinking it usually speeds up as time goes along. That sure puts him in deep shit right now."

"Time will tell."

Dollinger for the moment had nothing to do. It was his job to record a log of events: the gist of any conversation, the causes of chain-shortening: anger, cold calculation, accident. They had it all on videotape, of course, but a log prevented their having to look through hours of video for a particular occurance.

Smith took for himself a less straightforward task: recording subjective impressions, such as the apparent strategies and motivations behind each action taken by either subject, and something he called the "animosity index": the level of anger of the two subjects at each other, as it related to the possibility that they might try to murder each other. It usually started in a moderate range and steadily grew through the experiment. In today's session it was unusually high.

As the silence in the experiment room went on, Dollinger asked, "You always set it up with these incompatible types. The truck driver and the opera singer. The minister and the prostitute. Ever plan to use subjects that might get along with each other better?"

Smith, his eyes fixed on the two subjects, replied, "Incompatibility is part of the experimental design. It is also a ubiquitous feature of our social structure. If the race is to survive, all of us must find a way to tolerate each other, not just those for whom it comes naturally. Exploring the most explosive features of the social mixture is the purpose of the experiment."

"That one with the football player and the lesbian was kind of interesting."

"Not really. She showed little compunction towards killing him. I suspected that before the outset."

She had killed him in about fifteen minutes. He was not at all the only fatality in their study. The most frequent scenario in the experiment, occurring in nearly 70 percent of all cases, was what Smith referred to as the "arms race," in which frightened subjects tried to stay caught up or a little ahead of their partners. The race often accelerated as time went on, leading to death within the first hour.

In 100 percent of all cases, one or both subjects died. Smith thought it was a sad commentary.

The clock showed 1:40:20 now. Robbie suddenly exclaimed, "Ow, God. My nose itches. Could I rub it against your shoulder?"

"No. Scratch it yourself."

"You know I can't. Please? It's driving me nuts."

"NO. You just want to get a closer look at my boobs. Forget it. See 'em?" She arched her back and thrust her breasts towards him. "Take a good look. This is as close as you're gonna get." Her own collar beeped twice, the chain reeling in a couple of links.

"Hey!" She glared at him, and kicked her feet outward a few inches. A series of beeps announced the loss of about an inch and a half in Robbie's chain.

"I didn't do it, I swear! You're the one that moved. My hands just slipped."

"Yeah, right."

She wiggled her butt slightly. "God, this is uncomfortable. Your thing up in there. Look, I've just got to move a little." She rocked left and right slightly on her buttocks, trying to relieve the small muscle aches from sitting so long in one position.

"No, don't. Look, I don't have a lot of chain left."

"Nothing's happening, see? No beeps."

"Just don't." His erection, which had subsided considerably during Smith's horrifying "explanation," was coming back to throbbing life with the stimulation of this wonderfully sexy naked girl rocking back and forth on his lap, the walls of her vagina rubbing roughly against the sensitive nerve endings along his shaft.

"Why not? Nothing's happening, you little dork. My legs hurt, my butt hurts, and it's not costing you anything."

"Pleeease. . ." He closed his eyes and tried to will himself not to feel, not to go over the edge. His breath coming in gasps, he knew it was too late. His arms convulsively pulled her against his chest, her collar beeped twice next to his ear, and he felt, as if in slow motion, every inch of the progress of a stream of semen travelling up his penis until it burst out of the head of his penis, followed by another, and another.

Her collar had beeped two more times. She looked at him in fury.

"What the hell did you do?! Did you just cum in me? You asshole, you jerk, you schmuck! You're going to make me pregnant! NOBODY's ever done that to me before! My boyfriends always use protection! And you just spill your stuff into me like you own me." She was shaking with anger, and both collars were beeping.

"Stop, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, stop moving, please, oh God. . ."

She froze suddenly, knowing she was about to kill him. Maybe I should, the little peckerhead. But she remained motionless, took several deep breaths.

He opened his eyes. Still here, head still attached, he thought. He looked in the mirror to his right. Oh God, God, God, maybe two inches left. Her own chain no longer reached into her cleavage, and it looked like she might have eight inches. The clock said 1:27:30. I can't make it. I'm not going to make it. Please don't let it hurt too long. "Uh, what?"

"I said if I do have a baby, I'm going to name it Little Prick."

"I'm sorry. I couldn't help it."

"Yeah, like I can't help having your cum inside me now."

"I said I'm sorry."

Her vagina had contracted around his defenseless penis. It felt like it was going to be squashed.

"Is there any way you can. . . open up, a little?"

"Open up? Open what up?"

"Your. . . you know, your vagina. It's so tight."

"Guess you should have thought about that before you came, Chester."

"It's. . . never mind." The imminence of death made it a small matter.

He just tried to freeze every muscle, praying she would do the same. He watched the countdown. Every minute that went by uneventfully seemed like a minor miracle.

The sight of the image in the mirrors, the figure that was recognizably himself, coupled with a glorious naked cheerleader, brough his penis back to life before long. It wasn't hurting anymore.

"Want to make any bets, doctor?"

"I have no interest in frivolity."

"Well, he's lasted longer than some of them, but I don't give him another fifteen minutes."

Smith wrote observations, in silence.

At about the 1:10 mark, Robbie allowed himself to think he might make it after all. Nothing had happened for seventeen minutes. Seventy more to go.

He shifted his weight slightly, and then felt a warning twinge in his thigh. His bowels turned to water.

"I think I'm --- OW! Omigod Omigod! I've got a cramp in my leg. Help me Lisa, please!"

She looked sharply at him. "Is this some kind of trick?"

"NO! Ow, oh God, don't you get it? If I straighten my leg out, you'll die! Help me!"

Her face was suddenly ashen. "What, how? Help you, how?"

"Um, look. . . lean back a little --- don't move your hands, ogodogod. . . lean back and. . . okay, see where my knee is? No, my right knee. Press your elbow against it, press it into your side with your elbow. Okay both elbows, both knees. Press them hard into your side, give me something to push against. Now please, hurry, and don't move your hands. I can't hold it still much longer." There were several beeps, he couldn't tell whose.

Trembling, she squeezed inward with all her might with her elbows. Looking down she could see the inside of his right thigh, and a small knot that hadn't been there before.

"Okay, keep squeezing, I've got to push. Hold them tight!" He gritted his teeth and pushed outward with his knees, against the resistance of her elbows. Her elbow holding his right knee wavered, and she drew in her breath and tried harder. Sweat streamed down both their faces.

Slowly, he felt the muscle relax. He kept pushing, his breath coming in great heaves, as the lump disappeared, the muscle unknotted.

"Okay, okay, let go now," he gasped. "I'm okay, I'm okay."

Disbelievingly she stared at his face. "You sure?"

"Yeah, sure. I'm okay."

"I'm going to sit back upright now. Bring your hands along with me, okay?"

"Yeah. . .yeah." She sat forward very slowly, carefully, her own breathing labored but now slowing.

"Just sit still and calm down, Robbie. Okay?"

He looked at his image in the mirror. It was hard to tear his eyes away from the image of the chain around his neck. He might have a half-inch left, not more.

"You'll be okay, Robbie. We'll both be okay. You don't have to move, and I don't have to move. We'll make it." The clock showed 0:57:20.

"Never seen that happen before. You, doc?"

Smith shook his head. He recorded a new animosity level.

"Robbie?"

"Yeah?"

"You. . ." She didn't quite know how to express it. "You. . . saved my life. You know?"

"You did all the work."

"No, you knew what to do. You told me what to do. You could have saved your own life instead. You know that?"

"I guess."

"You just had to straighten out your leg, and I'd be dead and you'd be on your way home. Were you thinking of that?"

"I just was thinking, I. . . couldn't let you die. You're. . . I, I couldn't let you die."

She looked down, clearly struggling within herself. "Robbie, I'm really sorry about the things I said."

"What things?"

"All the things."

"Forget it. I don't. . . well, I'm used to it."

"Oh, you shouldn't be. Nobody should say things like that about you. Robbie. . . do you think I could give you a hug?"

"Um. . . let's just say you did, okay?"

"Okay."

They sat still for a time, watching minutes tick by.

She had been watching him intently for several minutes, and broke the silence finally. "Robbie? What do you do for fun?"

"My computer, mostly."

"Computer? What kind of things do you do with it?"

"I write video games. I don't mean I play them --- well, I do that too. But I write them. I put them on disks, and the guy down at Computer Heaven buys them from me."

"Oh, gee. Robbie, that's really creative. I always wished I was creative. I can't do anything like that."

"Where do you get your cheers from?"

"You mean at the games? Those were all written years ago. We just learn them and do them."

"What about the dances, at halftime?"

"Oh, yeah, we make those up. We take turns. Were you there at the last game of the season? The one we did to `Beat It,' that was mine."

"See? You're creative too."

"Oh, yeah, I guess." She looked down and smiled.

They sat for awhile again. 0:42:00.

"Robbie?"

"Hm?"

"When we get home --- well, tonight's going to be a busy night, what with our parents going crazy and all --- but tomorrow. . . See, my parents don't get home until 6:30, and. . . after school, do you want to come over and we could. . . you know, make love?"

His eyes goggled. "For real?"

She nodded. "Yeah, Robbie. For real."

"So is that like a date?"

She laughed. "Yeah, Robbie, I guess you could call it that."

He smiled. "My first date."

"Oh, no, you're kidding!"

"No, honest."

"Maybe you should count today. We've already had sex, remember?" He laughed, then.

The clock passed the 40 minute mark.

At 24 minutes, he said, "Lisa, I've got to move a little."

She looked worried. "Okay, let's talk about how you're going to move, so I can be ready for it."

"It's my knees. They started throbbing about ten minutes ago, and now they're killing me. If you could slide back just a couple of inches, that'd help."

"Can't you just wait?"

"I don't think I should. I'm worried about another cramp."

"I can't slide back, not with you inside me."

"I think you could let it slide out."

"No! You're not pulling out of me, Robbie, and that's final. Don't even think about it. We tried that before, remember?"

"Yeah, but it's smaller now. I think it'll work." He grimaced in pain.

"No it's not, it's bigger than it was then. I can feel it in there, and it'll never work."

"Okay, you got any ideas?"

"Let me think. . . what if. . ." She looked over at the mirror, accustomed by now to seeing herself and Robbie together naked. She studied the image of the chain hanging loosely around her neck.

"Okay, look: I've still got a lot of chain left. Push your feet out away from me, about. . . six inches. Push them out really slowly, remember the gizmo will pull them back as soon as you stop. That'll help, won't it?"

"No! I don't want to take a chance like that with you."

"You've got to, Robbie. What happens when you can't stand it anymore? Look, I'll be okay, you'll feel better, we've only got. . . 22 minutes more to get through. We can make it, but you have to do this first."

"Are you positive?"

"Yes, start doing it now. Just six inches, no more, remember."

He started moving his feet, straightening his knees, sliding his heels along the soft surface of the floor at a snail's pace, feeling the tension ease. Was that about six inches? He was afraid to go any farther. He stopped, relieved. Instantly her collar jerked and emitted a quick series of beeps, and his feet were yanked back against her back with more force than either of them expected, knocking her forward. She felt her head collide with his chin, both collars now giving out a further set of beeps. She whimpered with terror as she felt the chain drawn snugly against her throat, then heard him gurgle.

She screamed. "Robbie! Hold still. Can you breathe?"

He croaked, "Yeah. Hard, though. It's hard."

"Don't talk, just breathe. Let me look. . . Robbie, it's hung up on your Adam's apple. If you could push it up past that you'll have more room." Oh, God, she thought. Push with what? She looked at the clock. It said 4:30, which seemed impossible. Then she remembered.

"Robbie! My collar is shut down! For the next five minutes. Use your hands, you can't hurt me. Reach up with your hands and push the chain up!"

He pulled upward and she felt the pull through her waist-belt. He couldn't budge the chain. "Not. . . working," he gasped.

"Oh, God! It must lock the chains when it shuts down. Okay, wait. Pull me towards you really, really slowly. Tell me when you're starting, I have to keep my hands from moving. No, I mean I'll tell you when to start. Ready? Okay, go, slow."

She looked at the clock as he started pulling. 3:40. It's okay, that doesn't mean I only have that much time. It just means my collar will start working then. Take it slow. "Pull me farther. I'm trying to get my mouth up to your neck." Like Dracula, she thought.

2:50. She could feel his arms losing strength, and then he went limp. She knew he had passed out. The chain holding his ankles against her butt was stretched taut, and she could feel the tension in her belt, while her collar felt the dual strain of holding both the ankle chain and the one holding up his limp hands. He was still drawing slow, rasping breaths, not enough air to keep him conscious, and she knew he wouldn't die immediately, not in the next three minutes, anyway. And she followed the thought to its logical conclusion: if I don't revive him in the next. . . two minutes and 25 seconds, then I'll die instead. She felt the light tension in her own chain, gently but threateningly pressing against her flesh all the way around her neck. Her mind refused entrance to the thought that she could kill him first.

She saw his face starting to turn blue. She took over the job of pulling herself towards him, closer, terrified that her hands would slip and end his life. She finally managed to get her mouth next to the chain, and tried using her lower lip to push it up. It wasn't working. She pushed her face hard against his neck and bared her teeth. Her lower teeth kept slipping against the chain. She took a deep breath and tried again. Finally: she could feel her teeth hook themselves under the chain, and she carefully pushed it upwards. 0:55.

He gasped and choked, and pulled in a shaky breath, then another. The frightening blue hue was slowly replaced with a bright red.

"Robbie, do you hear me? Can you answer me?" He was still unconscious. "Robbie, you've got to wake up, you've got to wake up. Robbie? Robbeeee!"

She was still up against him, her face pressed against his, her arms tightened in an iron grip around him. She was afraid to move. She kept her eye on the clock, and desperately started licking his neck, trying to get his attention. At 0:30, he stirred weakly.

"Robbie? Can you hear me?" She licked his neck again, her body trembling. "Robbie, answer me please!"

"Hm?"

"Robbie, you've got to pull your feet back against my butt! Do it now, please, do it!"

She felt his feet now, the heels cool against her backside. 0:10.

"Oh, God, Robbie, lift your hands up, they're still pulling on my collar, you've got them a couple of inches too low!"

She felt his hands slip upwards along her back, the tension going out of the collar, which clicked as the clock flickered and changed to 0:16:38. The time left in the experiment.

She let her pounding heart gradually wind down. For him it felt good to be breathing. Even better to feel her kiss his neck, feel her breasts pressed against his chest.

"Love you, Robbie."

"Love you too, Lisa."

"We're even now, huh?"

He smiled. "Yeah, even." They held tightly to each other as the clock slowly clicked down to zero. They counted off the last seconds together, heard their collars give out a final clicking sound as the mechanisms switched off.

She kissed him on the lips for the first time, and held the kiss as she started rocking rhythmically on his lap. Robbie found it was a lot different with lubrication.

A few minutes later they leaned against each other, exhausted. Robbie smiled. "He shoots, he scores," he mumbled to himself.

They sat together in the back seat of the car, blindfolded and handcuffed again, fully dressed. They would never find the place where they had taken part in the experiment.

Lisa twisted in her seat, her hands behind her back reaching out for his behind him. They held hands the rest of the way back.