The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [54]
Not wanting to draw attention to himself, the slender supplicant slowed as he drew near. “They call me Whispr.”
“Whispr—right! Speak up, mon-man. Make yourself known.” Amused at his own sally, Righteous let out a prodigious laugh. Whispr waited until the jovial human who was still just barely identifiable as a member of the species calmed down.
“Got a problem,” he murmured.
Righteous grinned broadly. “Lady got you down? Cat got your tongue?” The flesh beneath his left arm bulged, parted, and before folding back in on itself revealed a small tongue. The musical Meldman roared again, but less stentorian this time. “Serious now, mon-man, what can old Righteous do for you?”
After one more scan of the immediate riverfront surroundings to make certain as best he could that no one was watching, Whispr turned sideways, lifted the hem of his shirt, and exposed his right side to the musician-medic’s melded eyes. Golden light illuminated the bright red spots on Whispr’s skin while the other eye scrutinized and took readings. When he had finished the examination to his satisfaction, Righteous straightened. His smile had vanished and he was now dead serious.
“Looks like you been attacked by a covey o’ drunken hummingbirds, my sibilant friend.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Either that or you done caught yourself a consignment o’ traktacs. Course, it might be nothin’ but the first stages of a bad case o’ shingles. That I can treat. And I doubt any hummers gonna mistake you for a flower.” He shook his head sympathetically. “But traktacs, now—those little screamers are bad news. Baaad news.”
Dropping his shirt hem, Whispr growled under his breath. “Tell me something I don’t know, bone-music. Why the hell d’you think I came to you?” Like marbles on marble, his eyes were in constant motion, continuously searching their surroundings for signs of approaching police.
“To avoid the official hell, I’ve no doubt.” It was a solemn Righteous who now met the anxious Whispr’s gaze. “Traktacs—damn difficult little buggers. I can hex a stall on ’em, but I can’t do an extraction. If I try without knowing the individual codes, never mind the group signature, all the procedure’ll do is set them off. Every one of them.” Tilting back his head slightly, he squinted skyward. “The Savannah strikers’ll be down on you like hail in December. They’ll pound you flat and spatula you off. I don’t want to be next to you when that happens.”
“I don’t want it to happen.” Whispr chewed his lower lip. Around the two men, who appeared to be engaging in a perfectly commonplace afternoon conversation, tourists milled contentedly while locals sauntered in and out of the upscale restaurants and shops that lined the edge of the bluff.
“If you just do the stall, what happens next? I’ve only heard about traktacs. I’ve never had to deal with them.” The slender thief’s expression was one of despair, his voice thickly beseeching. “When your stall wears off I’ll be just as vulnerable to trace as before.”
Righteous nodded agreement. “One way or another, my friend, you’ve got to get them out of your body without setting the nastily loquacious little nobbers off.”
“You said that can’t be done.” Whispr’s tone was simultaneously hopeful and accusing.
The musician-medic shook his head. “Huh-um—I said that I couldn’t do it. Don’t have access to the right tools. Expensive, sophisticated.” He performed an unexpected and surprisingly nimble pirouette. “Do I look like either?”
Whispr was crestfallen. “Then what can I do?”
“I got couple o’ names. Docs who are repute-revered for giving treatment without asking too many questions. Not because they’re off-wire like me and mine but because they actually believe the oaths they’ve taken: to render ministration without mulling. To treat without judging. Course, confronted with an officially inflicted infiltration like the one you got they might as easily turn you right in as prescribe you a pill.” He studied the other man somberly. “That said, one of them’s still your best chance. After I install