The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [45]
Slightly awash, a sturdy platform extended outward from the bottom of the last step. A flick of a concealed switch accordioned the stairway upward until it lay flush with the underside of the residence. At Gator’s command two of the largest floating shapes, driven by lazy sweeps of enormously powerful tails, approached the platform. Unlike those of other crocodilians their ebony scutes stood up like those of a dragon. The black caimans in Gator’s basement, however, were not creatures of imagination. They were very real. A squinting Whispr could just make out the control box that had been melded to each of their spines just aft of the skull. He had expected to see something of the kind. What he had not anticipated was the other equipment that was fastened to the broad, armored backs.
Gator was already in the water. “Hurry up! My decoys are already out in the river. They should draw the boats and airborne hunters away and hold their attention long enough.”
“Long enough for what?” Hesitating only briefly, Whispr eased himself into the black water. Kept perpetually in shade by the house above, it was unexpectedly cool.
If he had known he was going to be spending this much time running from the police through water, he mused, he might have asked Chaukutri for a fin meld.
“Long enough for us to get away,” Gator told him.
Further verbal instruction proved unnecessary. Whispr simply emulated his host’s actions as the Alligator Man removed and donned gear from the long narrow container secured to one caiman’s back. Mask for the eyes, compact oxygen extractor and minirespirator for the lungs. Puzzlingly there was no sign of foot fins, webbed gloves, or an underwater scoot. As he soon found out, these appurtenances would not be needed.
The rubberized grip ring that had been melded to the caiman’s back just above its shoulders was sturdy and wide. Because of the caiman’s sluggish metabolism the ring’s presence did not harm it. Slipping the oxygen extractor’s respirator into his mouth, Whispr fumbled with the mask. He barely had time to clear it before Gator gestured to him (or maybe at him) and plunged downward atop his own scaly mount.
Lying down and forward Whispr let his body stretch out along the caiman’s spine as his saurian steed took him beneath the surface. Guided by signals from Gator the pair of powerful six-meter-long crocodilians and their human riders passed beneath the plastic overhang that formed the lower exterior rim of the compound and shot out into the open river. The pressure of water pushing against his mask prevented Whispr from guessing whether they were traveling upstream or down.
Something bubbled off to his right. At first he thought it was a big fish that had been startled by the passage of the two predators. Only when the noise and disruption was repeated several times in rapid succession did he realize the cause.
Projectiles, moving fast through the water. Whether auto-hunter or actual police, someone was shooting at them.
Following Gator’s directions the caimans went deeper and initiated evasive action. Quick as they were, they were organics and not mechanical submersibles. They were not even as agile as otters.
He knew it immediately when Gator got hit. The Alligator Man nearly lost his grip on his mount. Even in the murky water the trail of darker liquid that started to swirl from his left hip was identifiable. Whispr had seen too many men bleed not to recognize the source.
His host gestured one last time. Perhaps he also conveyed further instructions to the