The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [32]
“What are my options today?”
Chaukutri turned and beckoned. “Come. Let us go shopping.”
The makeshift surgery’s scanner took the measure of every part of Whispr’s naked body inside as well as out. An analysis was performed. Options were put forward that took into account his height, weight, age, bone and muscle density, visual acuity, hearing, sexual competency, follicular health, status of vital organs, and everything else from a physiological standpoint that might in one way or another either permit or compromise any one of thousands of available melds. As the scanner generated a final tally, melder and customer passed the time discussing aesthetics.
“If you are trying to disguise yourself I suppose the first thing you want is to add some beef. Or perhaps chicken, or fish?”
Whispr shuddered as he relived his recent agonizing slog through the swampland south of the city. “No fish. I’m not particular about the protein base, so long as it’s mammalian. I’ll settle for something unobtrusive that doesn’t smell. Even plain whey derivative.”
Chaukutri nodded. He took no notes nor did he need to. Everything they were saying was being recorded.
His customer continued. “How about semi-orientalizing my eyes along with a color change? Thin out the hair and make it black instead of blond. Give the muscles a tune-up and while you’re at it, add a couple of extra leg tendons.” Having always been jealous of Jiminy’s leaping ability, as long as he was going under the carver he might as well put a little extra spring in his step. Literally.
When they had concluded the discussion Chaukutri printed out a hard copy and studied the ramifications. “This is simple stuff, Whispr. Are you sure it is all that you need?”
His visitor nodded. “I want to look like myself, but just different enough to fool the monitors. More …”
“… Natural?” the biosurge finished for him.
Whispr sighed. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“It is your money.” Chaukutri let out a short, contented laugh. “Well, actually I am quite certain it is somebody else’s money, but that does not matter because soon it will be my money.” Leaning forward, he winked. “For a small additional cost I can embed a special pheromone synth that will make you irresistible to the ladies. It comes with a verbal activation system so you only turn it on when you want to—you know. A reputable supplier offered me six of them a few months ago. Knowing a good thing when it is presented to me, I bought them all. And what do you know—I only have one left. It is a meld you cannot fail with.”
“Thanks but no thanks.” Whispr was firm. “Personally I think all that stuff is overrated. I don’t want to draw attention to myself, ’Cuda—not for any reason and not in any way.”
Spreading both hands wide the melder shrugged. “As you wish. I suppose therefore I cannot talk you into letting me make you better-looking either?”
Whispr had to grin. Ever since the advent of cheap melding anyone could look like anyone else. When a thousand men looked exactly like Admiral Nelson and a thousand women like Lady Hamilton such visages ceased to be distinctive. Not to mention the innumerable and fatal faux pas that occurred at social gatherings when two exact equals accidentally confronted one another. Far more intriguing to members of the opposite sex to flaunt an idiosyncratic rather than classic visage.
This development led to a burst of originality among facial sculptors. For a time it was not unusual to see everything from Frankenstein monsters to frogmen to sharp-tailed succubae wandering the streets of the world’s more cosmopolitan capitals. It was yet another meld fad that soon faded as people quickly learned that paying for a Frankenstein or a succuba meld only gave one the appearance of such beings. As yet, no one had figured out how to meld personality.
There was nothing worse than paying for a meld that was at obvious odds with who one really was.
Someone wishing to avoid the attention of the authorities