As you crawl towards the gauze, a rich smell of melting chocolate wafts up into your nostrils.
Must be the kitchens, you think, breathing in sensuously. And it sounds like they're in full flow.
Sure enough, as you peer carefully down through the grate you're greated with a birds-eye view of a truly enormous gleaming, uber-modern kitchen complex - and it's a hive of activity. Stacked racks of gleaming ovens line the walls, humming and beeping periodically and huge silver pans bubbles on raging gas hobs. Across the room, a line of deep fat friers sizzle with piles of greasy chips and burritos. Buzzing industriously around all this like worker bees are no fewer then twelve beautiful women in short skirts and aprons. They bustle about the hot room, passing each other like ships in the night as they stir pans, decant trays of melting strawberry sauce onto towering cakes, tug trays of roast beef and glistening lamb shanks from the ovens, spray whipping cream onto rows of cupcakes, stuff chickens, pasting hams, shuffle baskets of french fries - marshalling mountains of food with almost military efficiency as they slowly but diligently transfer plate after plate, platter after platters, tray after tray and bowl upon bowl of edible delights to the enormous granite island in the room's center.
Despite the heat a shiver goes up your spine. From the firm lean bodies and the way they move, you realise that the women are moving like military because they are military. Soldiers captured on the front lines by the men, and put to work as slaves in their kitchens, toiling endlessly to produce what must be the great feast those two scientists mentioned. You notice the metal bracelets around their slender ankles - some form of imprisonment device, you reason, to stop them running off.
Suddenly an enormous rumble causes the air vent to shake. You look down at your narrow waist with horror - but no, the sound was much too loud to be hunger.
At least, too loud to be your hunger.
"Mar-ia!" The voice booms across the kitchens like a cannon. "Aren't those deep-fried enchiladas ready yet?!"
Your eyes follow the voice to the far side of the room. There, lounging on an immensely large and soft looking armchair, with one hugely fat leg dangling over the padded chairarm, sits a man in a tall chef's hat. His white outfit, pulled across him and held together by huge black buttons, is blotched all over with food stains.
"Yes chef!" calls a cowering voice from near the deep friers. Soon a tall woman with ponytailed blonde hair is hurrying over to the chair, a plate of freshly fried enchiladas in her hands, oozing sauces and bright with colour of fresh meat, refried beans, guacamole and tomato. As she approaches the chef's chair, he leans back, licking his lips and opening his mouth wide.
You watch the woman push a whole enchilada into his mouth, taking care to swiftly remove her fingers before he starts chewing.
That explains the stains, anyway, you think, watching a huge glob of guacamole drop from the chef's lips. Though he seems more a taste-tester than a chef - and judging by the size of his belly, which sticks out so far that the descending glob simply sits atop of it - you reckon he's tested a lot of food today. The big black buttons on his overall are stretched to busting over an impractically massive paunch.
The serving girl has to feed the greedy chef all three enchiladas on the plate before he delivers his verdict.
"Needs more guacamole," he snaps, picking at his teeth with a toothpick and then belching awkwardly. Only because you spilt half of it on your top, you pig! you think, clenching your fists. As Maria bows and scurries off, the "chef" places places a hand on his mighty paunch.
"Jennifer, bring me a tube of that chocolate sauce."
Figures, the lazy lug wants something sweet to finish off his meal.
"Yes chef - just let me get the consistency right" says a voice directly below you.
Looking straight down for the first time, you realise right above an enormous pot - or more accurately a massive vat of thick, brown liquid chocolate. Twenty or thirty feet wide and bubbling and glorping noisily. Four women, including the redhead who spoke (Jennifer, presumably) are standing around it, stirring the mixture with a huge wooden spatulas and grunting with effort as they do so. You can see why. The mixture looks as thick as tar.
The chef frowns in displeasure at the delay. Reaching to the table next to him, he picks up what looks like a TV remote. "I said now Jennifer," he speaks evenly, but with menace. "Gateau du Chocolat Supreme is His Exellency's favourite dish. The sauce must be absolutely perfect. I need to test it immediately."
Such is your shock that you almost bang your head on the roof of the vent. His Excellency? The Emperor of Men is coming here?! It makes sense when you think about it. If this is where the men's new ultimate weapon is situated, the Emperor would surely want to inspect and announce it in person.
Meanwhile the chef's patience is at an end. He points the controller towards Jennifer and, with a demonic grin, presses a fat finger onto a large blue button.
There's a sizzling sound, but not from the bacon. Immediately the redhead releases her spatula, fingers splaying as she yelps in agony, an electric shock coursing through her system.
"Coming chef!" she squeals, reaching for a transparent cannister as long as her torso and as wide as her thigh. She thrusts it into the vat of chocolate sauce, letting it bubble away until it's full.
As the poor girl scuttles across the floor, several strands of her hair still vertical from the electric shock, the cruel chef shifts in his chair in excited anticipation of the treat. The second she reaches him he leans back to let her pour the treat down his throat. She lifts the cannister and he begins to chug.
You screw up your face in disgust. Even with the cannister tipped up almost vertical he's slurping and gulping at the chocolate, greedy to get it all inside himself as soon as is absolutely possible.
Still, it's a slow process. There cannister is huge, and its contents incredibly thick. You realise the room has fallen silent, but for the gurgling gulps of the chef. All the women have stopped to gaze at in fear and awe at the gradually rising bulge of their oppressor's monstrous white stomach. Now would be the perfect time to strike, you think, he's so intent on his eating. But the women make no move. Clearly cowed into fear by the ankle bracelets - and surely the infinitely worse punishments they would receive for open rebellion.
But you're not amongst them. You're primed for action. Moving as quietly as possible you unzip your rucksack and pull out three of the four cookies you swiped from the lab. Specimens, eh? You muse, recalling the fat scientist's warning to his colleague not to eat them.
Making doubly sure no-one is looking, you drop them into the huge vat of chocolate.
There's a hiss and a bubble, but that's all. No one notices.
Bon appetit, your excellency! You whisper with a grin.
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