The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [38]
“Your sticky buns are very good.”
He swallowed and fought to maintain his composure. “We bake most everything ourselves, right here.”
“Commendable.” Looking past him, she nodded. “You also do other kinds of cooking.”
He managed to force a smile. “Man cannot live by papadams and sticky buns alone.”
“Neither can woman. Our information is that you had a recent visitor named Archibald Kowalski, né Whispr. Information about him is as thin on the ground as he is reputed to be.” She leaned forward. “I’m going to take a stab in the dark and guess that he didn’t come here for your wonderful food. What did you do to him? A partial meld? Full makeover?” She straightened and popped something into her mouth. Chaukutri couldn’t see what it was, but her pupils dilated sharply. He tried to swallow again but his throat had gone dry.
“You are mistaken. We are old friends and he comes often to eat here.”
The Natural nodded. For a second time, she looked past him. “You know, when I was young I gave some thought to becoming a melder. Circumstances led me into another line of work, but I never completely lost the desire.” She gestured.
Picking him up chair and all, the two Amazons hauled him backward. Into the surgery. Chaukutri’s eyes widened without the aid of chemical stimulation.
“Wait! What are you doing? There are sensitive instruments in here. Be careful, you could damage something.”
“We wouldn’t want to do that.” The Natural’s voice had fallen. “We don’t want to damage anything.” She waved at the nearby bank of instruments. “If you’re a careful little people-baker you won’t have kept any records. No records means no trails for the authorities to explore. No trails for the authorities to explore means that if your little hobby is discovered, in the absence of any examples or evidence to produce in court, they can’t haul you in on charges of performing dangerous melds. Which means that the only records are likely to be in your head.” As the two bigs stepped out of the surgery, the Natural scowled at him.
“It’s time to perform some information recovery. What did you do to, or for, this Whispr? It is vital that we talk with him. He and a friend stole something many others are looking to recover. There is much at stake, I am informed, besides money. My sisters and I hold no unreasonable expectations: we will be quite content to settle for the money.” As the door to the surgery slid shut she strolled over to the bank of darkened instrumentation. “It’s last chance time, little baker.” She giggled unpleasantly.
Even as he struggled against his bonds Chaukutri was watching her intently. “You know I cannot tell you anything about meldwork that has been performed in confidence. I am sure that if you continue to ask questions of relevant parties you will make Mr. Whispr’s acquaintance soon enough.”
“We don’t want to make it ‘soon enough.’ We want to make it yesterday.” A hand reached down, elegantly ringed fingers dancing over buttons and switches without quite making full contact. “I think I remember what this one does, but I’m not sure—”
“Don’t touch that! It …!”
When his wife returned from shopping and found him slumped over inside the surgery, she started screaming very loudly. Chaukutri was not dead. The meldwork that had been performed on him reflected an expertise that belied the operator’s inexperience. His arms had been modified into wings, his eyes enlarged beyond practicality, his mouth replaced with a beak. Coarse feathers erupted from his skin while his now permanently bent legs terminated in feet that were broad and webbed. His mouth-beak had been widened into a permanent smile the writer Hugo would have recognized instantly.
Taken in toto the extensive meld was not unappealing—at least to children. Chaukutri now resembled a well-known and widely popular children’s cartoon character. Such animated melds were not unprecedented. A few were eagerly sought-after and costly. There was only one drawback to the far-reaching work that had been carried out on the man slumped unconscious in the chair.