Inherit the Earth - Brian Stableford [51]
Lenny answered his own phone, but his machine was also rigged to use the caller’s VE—presumably because the boy didn’t like to advertize the fact that he didn’t have a customized VE of his own. The block-patterned VE didn’t bother him at all, though—when his image formed, his eyes were still fixed on the virtual readout telling him where the call was coming from.
“Damon!” he said, as if Damon were someone he’d known all his life. “What are you doing in Kaunakakai?” He stumbled over the pronunciation of the last word, but that was probably because he was excited rather than because he didn’t have a clue where Kaunakakai might be.
“Personal business,” Damon said. “Why did you want me to call, Lenny?”
“Yeah. Personal business. Sure . . . yeah, about that.”
“About what?”
“About personal business. Madoc came to see me in hospital today—I got carved up a bit in the fight . . . internal damage. Nothing serious, but . . . well, anyhow, Madoc mentioned you were worried about a snatch—your foster father.”
“Did Madoc give you a message?” Damon put in impatiently.
“No, of course not,” the boy said. “He didn’t want to talk about it at all—but that woman with him wouldn’t let up. He wasn’t talking about you, Damon, honestly—he just let slip that your foster parents were biotech people. When I got back here a little while ago, it wasn’t difficult to put snatch and biotech together and come up with Silas Arnett’s name. I’m not trying to interfere or anything . . . it’s just that being a fan and all . . . I had no idea that I’d find anything I knew something about . . . but when I did I thought you’d want to know. It may be nothing. Probably is.”
“What are you talking about, Lenny?” Damon said as patiently and as politely as he could.
“Cathy Praill,” the boy replied, coming abruptly to the point.
It took Damon a second or two to remember that Catherine Praill was the young woman who’d been with Silas when he was abducted.
“What about her?” he asked.
“Well, like I say, nothing really. It’s just that I know her. Sort of.”
“How?”
“Silly, really. It’s just that we’re the same age—both seventeen, although I guess she’s nearer eighteen than I am, probably past her birthday by now. Kids the same age, even approximately, are pretty thin on the ground. Foster parents tend to shop around their acquaintances making contacts, so that the kids can get together occasionally. You know the sort of thing—a couple of hundred adults getting together for a big party so that a dozen kids can socialize with their peers.”
Damon did know, but only vaguely. It wasn’t the sort of thing his own foster parents had ever gone in for. They’d never worried about his social isolation and lack of peer-group interaction because they thought of him as one of a kind. In their eyes—even Mary’s eyes and Silas’s eyes—Heliers had no peers. Most groups of foster parents these days, at least in California, were ten or twelve strong, and they usually did their parenting strictly by the book. They took care to ensure that their children had other children to interact and bond with. It was possible that Lenny Garon had at some stage in his brief life made contact with every other person of his own age within a hundred miles.
“How well do you know her?” Damon asked.
“Not that well,” Lenny admitted. “It must be two years since I actually saw her—but she was still posting to the Birthdate 2175 Webcore when I dropped out of all that.”
She was only just eighteen, Damon thought. Silas was a hundred and ten years older than she was. What on earth was the point . . . ? He strangled the thought. It was obvious what the point was. The fact that they were a hundred and ten years apart was the point. “Get to the bottom line, Lenny,” he said aloud. “Exactly what have you got to tell me about Catherine Praill?”
“Nothing definite—but I tried to get in touch with her. I tried hard,