The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [120]
Her reply was somber. “This isn’t a vacation, Whispr. You yourself have missed no opportunity to point that out.”
He was unshakable. “That’s the deal, doc. Ingrid. I get to see my animals or you can go get yourself killed all by your smarmy upperclass know-it-all lonesome.”
She shrugged. “Animals. Okay, we’ll make time.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “Look at it this way: if we act like typical tourists, maybe no one will pay any attention to us.”
She perked up. “You believe that?”
“Not for a minute. But optimism-wise it’s the best I can do right now.” He shook his head gloomily. “SICK, Inc. We’ll just stroll in through their front gate and ask to speak to whoever’s in charge of arcane product development and nonsensical metallurgy.”
Ingrid went quiet, letting him steer the boat, pondering his last offhand comment. In subterfuge as in medicine, she concluded, there is virtue in directness. If that wasn’t a contradiction in terms. And she knew a contradiction in terms when presented with one.
It perfectly fit her present situation.
THAT HIS IRRITATINGLY NIMBLE QUARRY was utilizing automatically rotating random idents did not surprise Molé. It was not something he had anticipated, but it was something he was prepared to deal with. That employment of the mildly sophisticated technique for continuously concealing one’s identity arose from the street experience of the inconsequential Meld who had been his original quarry he had no doubt. That a Natural citizen of Dr. Ingrid Seastrom’s social strata was traveling in the company of an individual like this Whispr and was making use of the miserable Meld’s decidedly nonmedical learning was rather more surprising.
It would not matter in the end, of course. The outcome was fated. His recovery and return to his employers of the precious storage thread had suffered a temporary delay. While he disliked delays, he was quite able to accommodate them. Through their obstinacy and ignorance his quarry was only delaying the inevitable. And perhaps accumulating considerable future unpleasantness for themselves.
Though it took a little time, it had not been difficult for someone of his determination and experience to learn where the pair intended to travel next. Conveniently, the two small commuter watercraft he had seen fastened to the houseboat of the late iconoclast Yabby Wizwang had displayed vehicle identification information near their bows. The first he had traced as belonging to the interfering but undeniably interesting reptilian aficionado known as the Alligator Man. The other had been rented to a Ms. Arlene Verdoux. A little illegitimate digging through the right corners of the local box brought forth the watercraft rental company’s security image of Ms. Verdoux, whose likeness was, unsurprisingly, a close match for that of Dr. Ingrid Seastrom of Greater Savannah.
Breaking into the closed security systems of transport networks required a certain higher level of skill, but it still did not take him long to match up a Ms. Judy Davis with a Mr. Elon Danovich. Names could be altered with frequency, comparative ease, and the right program, but changing appearances took time and meldwork. While he would not have been surprised to see Archibald Kowalski subject himself to an extensive facial meld at a moment’s notice, it was something far less likely to be expected of a Natural like Ingrid Seastrom. As it developed, while their names were shifting like the wind, their physical appearances stayed more or less constant.
So it was that in due and not disproportionate time he learned that Ms. Davis and Mr. Danovich had departed on a JALAA flight to Tokyo. Why Tokyo? He would find out when he found them. With a