The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [105]
“I think it would be reasonable to assume that every one of these devices was implanted as part of the process of ‘fixing’ a previous bad meld. Such treatment would provide the perfect opportunity for participants in this scheme, whoever they are and whatever it may be, to install the implant while carrying out repairs to the existing broken meld. Of course, just because that appears to be the logical modus does not mean it is the only way this has been done. There may be thousands of Melds, but apparently not Naturals, who on examination would also reveal the presence of one of these implants.”
“But why?” Whispr repeated. Though intellectually well out of his depth, he was not afraid to show it.
“Why indeed, stick-insect?” Though he was replying to Whispr, Wizwang’s attention remained focused on Ingrid. “To paraphrase Clausewitz, ‘Medicine can just be war by other means.’ ”
That comparison caught both of the houseboat’s visitors off guard. Was their host simply trying to shock them? “What are you talking about, Yabby?” Whispr mumbled.
“Large-scale clashes between nations and groups of nation-tribes has for some time been recognized as impractical and counterproductive. It’s bad for business and destroys or uses up that which war was once fought for, namely resources. But cultural conflict remains an issue for our wretched joke of a species, a philosophical appendix. Contemplation and consideration of a possible eventual conflict between Naturals and Melds has long been a fashionable subject among overwrought academics in search of a topic that would guarantee them publication. Perhaps these implants are in some way related to preventing that possibility.” His voice dropped but did not deepen. “Or preparing for it.”
“Oh, come on!” The outrageousness of Wizwang’s speculation took Ingrid aback. “Ever since the first full cosmetic meld was auctioned off by Singapore Surgeons, Inc., there’s been nothing to suggest the existence of that kind of controversy.”
“Not on a governmental level, no. But there’s plenty of it among and between individuals, doctor.” Off to one side, a solemn-faced Whispr was nodding knowingly.
“There are laws against Meld prejudice in every country,” Ingrid continued angrily.
“Laws are sufficient to stifle many kinds of antisocial behavior, but not bigotry. Prejudice is like stomach bile: controllable to the point of invisibility, but always present and just waiting for a chance to blossom and consume its host from the inside out.” Turning sharply, he strode over to the customized reader that held the enigmatic silvery storage thread and leaned forward to examine a single readout.
“Nothing. Either this precious artifact of yours is empty, or else my equipment has so far been unable to break its encryption. I can’t tell because the instrumentation is still working. It hasn’t given up. Or your encapsulated thread could be a maguffin.”
“A what?” Whispr exclaimed.
“Something designed to throw the curious off the real track. To divert attention from this plague of—so far—harmless-seeming vanishing implants.”
“I don’t think it’s that,” the slender visitor opined softly.
Wizwang’s response was more indifferent than contemptuous. “Why not?”
“Because a good friend—well, a friend, anyway—of mine died because of it. Because I’ve nearly been killed in the process of hanging on to it.” He cast a self-conscious glance sideways at Ingrid. “Others have been hurt, too.” One slim arm rose to gesture in the direction of the reader that presently held the thread. “I don’t know what if anything is on that thread but in my experience people don’t kill to recover something that contains nothing.”
Wizwang nodded pensively, no longer indifferent.