For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [92]
“I wish I were as sanguine,” her associate murmured, chewing on his lower lip. “There’s been nothing leisurely about this business from the start.”
“I didn’t know,” the injured man was babbling. “I didn’t know they were Meliorares. None of us did, none of us. I just answered an ad for a technician. No one ever said a word to any of us about—!”
“Take it easy, I told you,” the older man snapped, disgusted at the other’s reaction. People panic so easily, he thought. “We’ll see that your leg is set properly, and there’s food in the mudder. One thing, though: you’ll have to undergo a truth scan. There’s no harm in that, you know. And afterwards, it’s likely you’ll be released without being charged.”
The man struggled to his feet, using his crutch as a prop. He had calmed down somewhat at the other’s reassuring words. “They never said a word about anything like that.”
“They never do,” the woman commented. “That’s how they’ve been able to escape custody for so many years. The gullible never ask questions.”
“Meliorares. Hell,” the man mumbled. “If I’d known—”
“If you’d known, then you’d never have taken their money and gone to work for them, right?”
“Of course not. I’ve got my principles.”
“Sure you do.” He waved a hand, forestalling the other man’s imminent protest. “Excuse me, friend. I’ve developed a rather jaundiced view of humanity during the eight years I’ve spent in MO. Not your fault. Come on,” he said to the woman named Rose, “there’s nothing more for us here.”
“Me, too? You’re sure?” The younger man limped after them.
“Yeah, you, too,” the Peaceforcer said. “You’re sure you don’t mind giving a deposition under scan? It’s purely a voluntary procedure.”
“Be glad to,” the other said, eager to please. “Damn lousy Meliorares, taking in innocent workers like that. Hope you mindwipe every last one of ’em.”
“There’s food in back,” the woman said evenly as they climbed into the mudder.
“It’s strange,” her companion remarked as they seated themselves, “how the local wildlife overran this place just in time to allow our quarry to flee. The histories of these children are full of such timely coincidences.”
“I know,” Rose said as the mudder’s engine rose to a steady hum and the little vehicle slid forward into the, forest. “Take this flying snake we’ve been told about. It’s from where?”
“Alaspin, if the reports are accurate.”
“That’s right, Alaspin. If I remember my galographics correctly, that world’s a fair number of parsecs from here. One hell of a coincidence.”
“But not impossible.”
“It seems like nothing’s impossible where these children are concerned. The sooner we take this one into custody and turn him over to the psychosurgeons, the better I’ll like it. Give me a good clean deviant murder any time. This mutant-hunting gives me the shivers.”
“He’s not a mutant, Rose,” her companion reminded her. “That’s as inaccurate as me calling him a monster.” He glanced toward the rear of the mudder. Their passenger was gobbling fond from their stores and ignoring their conversation. “We don’t even know that he possesses any special abilities. The last two we tracked down were insipidly normal.”
“The Meliorares must have thought differently,” Rose challenged. “They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to try and catch this one and look what’s happened to them.”
They were well into the forest now, heading south. The ruined camp was out of sight, swallowed up by trees and rolling terrain behind them.
“Some big native animals did them in,” her companion said. “A maddened herd that had nothing whatsoever to do with the boy or any imagined abilities of his. So far, his trail shows only that he’s the usual Meliorare disturbed youth. You worry too much, Rose.”
“Yeah. I know. It’s the nature of the business, Feodor.”
But their concerns haunted them as night began to overtake the racing mudder.
The woman manning the communications console was very old, almost as old and shaky as the small starship itself, but her hands played the instrumentation with a confidence born of long experience, and her