The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [33]
Not only was Chaukutri good—he was fast.
Having been maniped before, Whispr required no instruction on how to prep. One advantage to his current meld was that his body could fit in nearly any size surgery. The bustling Chaukutri left his customer to get ready as he prepared himself to operate.
While a portion of the vehicle was given over to the preparation of Indian fast food, the bulk of the interior housed a completely portable melding theater. Disinfecting as well as illuminating, a pale lavender glow highlighted Whispr as he stripped to his skin. He had no compunction about leaving his clothes and backpack outside the sanitation tube. Chaukutri would be too busy to riffle through them. Even if he chose to do so he was unlikely to find the artfully concealed storage thread that was still the principal object of Whispr’s curiosity. At present the thread’s container lay concealed in a hidden pocket of his shoe. This was the safest place since the forthcoming meld might require him to purchase some new clothing. While the surgery healed, Chaukutri or his wife or a hired runner could fulfill that more mundane need. The additional forthcoming expense caused Whispr no distress.
An occasional need for a new wardrobe came with the job.
Nor did Chaukutri’s unconcealed desire to get the work over and done with and get rid of him worry Whispr. After all, it wasn’t as if the melder was actually going to touch him. Whispr knew there had been a time long ago when surgeons actually made personal physical contact with their patients. A time when incredibly delicate corporal manipulations, excisions, and embellishments had in fact been performed by shaky human fingers. The very thought of it made him shudder as he stepped into the cylinder. The transparent curved door slid tightly shut behind him.
Tilting back his head he allowed a thin tube to slide between his parted lips. It halted partway down his throat. A second tube entered his body via his anal canal and a third through his urethra. In each case there was no pain, no discomfort. Like the anticoagulant in a vampire bat’s saliva, the intruding probes released salving emissions of their own. He felt soothed, not violated.
In less than five minutes his entire body had been properly sterilized, cleaned, and prepared, without harm to any of the useful bacteria in his gut. Responding to a musical tone that rose above the sanitizing tube’s soft, steady beeping, he stepped out of the prep cylinder through a portal on the other side and entered the equally meticulously hygienic operating chamber. Off to his left Chaukutri waved at him from the other side of the transparent barrier. Lights on the console in front of the biosurge were alive with readiness.
Giving a nod to indicate that he was doing fine, Whispr turned, lay down on the bare, internally heated, sterilized platform, and closed his eyes against the subdued illumination. It was almost dark within the chamber. A gentle rising hum was accompanied by a tingling sensation as the maglift took hold of the iron in his body and raised him two meters off the platform. By controlling the magnetic field Chaukutri or the instruments in the chamber could rotate the patient’s suspended body into any position.
The melder’s voice reached Whispr through a speaker. “What kind of sleep would you like, my friend? I can offer you quite a selection.”
“Something Ceylonese,” the already half-anesthetized patient replied contentedly. “Surprise me.”
Chaukutri nodded and proceeded to program the remainder of the sedative. As soon as the Ayurvedic anesthetic took hold he set to work programming the chamber.
Behind the transparent barrier a multitude of extraordinary instrumentation went to work on Whispr’s levitated corpus. They performed their