The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [50]
No one needed to project any images. The man on the bed immediately stopped fighting.
“Before we go any farther, let me assure you I mean you no harm.” The oldster smiled reassuringly. His appearance was that of a favorite uncle or doting grandfather. “Odd as it may sound at the moment and under the present circumstances, I don’t want to hurt you. I only want something you have. Do you understand?”
Still wide of eye but beginning to calm down, the man on the bed nodded slowly.
“Good. My name is Napun Molé.” He sighed as he saw the man’s brows furrow in confusion. “It is pronounced ‘moe-lay,’ not ‘mol.’ The word comes from the Aztec and refers to a sauce made with cacao or chocolate and spices—not to the little burrowing mammal of which you are doubtless thinking. Nor, for that matter, does it have anything to do with the unit of measurement that represents Avogadro’s number and is used for weighing atoms, molecules, and elementary particles.” His expression tightened. “I am Mol-é, not ‘Mole.’ Please do not forget that when you address me. If it is easier for you to do so you may use my first name, which proffers no such confusion.” As he spoke he continued to play with the neuralizer, passing it from the fingers of his right hand to the bizarre tentacles of his left. These continued to extend and retract as he talked.
“As I am sure you are already well aware the police have also been looking for you and for the item of interest in your possession. Please don’t insult me by telling me you don’t have it. If you had not taken it and it was not in your possession or at least under your control, you would not have been striving so strenuously these past several days to avoid the attention of the authorities. Those who want it back—my employers—have no interest in you, your future relationship with local law enforcement, or anything else. For all they care you can go blithely about your business and on your way or find yourself helmeted beneath a truther. It is of no consequence to them, or to me.” His eyes gleamed and suddenly he did not look as old as he was.
“But I will have it, or you will suffer. I am very adept at what I do and I can spend many hours making you believe you are dying. Except that you will not. You will wish that you were, but you will not.” He paused. “Do we understand one another, Mr. Kowalski? Or Whispr, if you would rather be addressed by your Meld name.”
Behind the sealant, the figure on the bed was making violent muffled sounds. Molé nodded perceptively. “I will remove the sealant now. If you scream or yell for help, I will be forced to silence you. It will be unpleasant for you. It will be more unpleasant the next time you regain consciousness.”
Reaching forward and down he used the tips of his melded tentacle-fingers to peel back the sealant that covered the man’s mouth.
There was some coughing and sputtering before the figure said, “I don’t know what you talking about and I don’t know who you talking about! My name is Ali al-Thuum! I am a part-time cook at the Ghadames Restaurant on Mirabile Street. Please, I have a family in Sahara States who rely on the little money I can send them. What is it you want from me?”
The old man considered. Reaching down, he unzipped the shirt beneath the cheap coat he wore. As he passed the palm of his right hand over his belly the accessible chipped library that had been installed in his stomach came to life. While the bound man on the bed looked on with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, his elderly captor proceeded to verbally access his own stomach. The flesh that framed the storage insert was aged, but all muscle.
The conclusions Molé drew from querying his internalized database were irrefutable. He had the correct address and apartment, all right—but the wrong man. Shutting down the library he zipped up his shirt and regarded the immigrant cook.
“I regret this episode of mistaken identity, Mr.…?”
“Al-Thuum.” Visibly relieved, the younger man’s heart rate began to slow, his blood pressure to drop, his excessively dilated pupils to contract.