The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [60]
He didn’t bat an eye and his expression did not change. If she had been carrying an old-fashioned antique clipboard she might have written down, “Note patient’s prior surgery: sense of humor removed.”
Sitting back in the self-powered wheeled chair that motored around the office in response to slight shifts of her weight, she studied the readouts as information became available and was transmitted from the body scanner. Blood pressure: slightly elevated. Heart rate: faster than it ought to be but within tolerable parameters given the visitor’s claimed age. Presence of detectable melds: leg tendons upper and lower, hair follicles, ocular orbits … it was neither a long list nor a distinctive one. Very minor biosurge work compared to what she saw and dealt with every day.
Body fat, sectional proportions, muscle density, presence of required trace elements in the blood, kidney-liver-spleen-heart-testicular function, neural activity, cognitive functions, digestive system—one by one the scanner broke down, analyzed, and reported back on the general condition of the subject. As she perused the flow of information and used it to build up a picture of the visitor’s health, Ingrid’s mind was already turning to thoughts of lying on a warm beach in as little as possible while doing as little as possible and imbibing as much as possible. She managed to lose herself in coastal reverie while absorbing, digesting, and contemplating the visitor’s condition.
Right until the alarm went off.
9
Ingrid’s daydream vanished consciousness like at a concert. The same inoffice experience that allowed her to diagnose and deal with patients while paying only half her attention to them abruptly jolted her back into full awareness of where she was and what she was doing. Muting the audible alarm with a verbal command, she now turned all her powers of observation onto her visitor. In sharp contrast to her response, he had been neither surprised nor startled by the alarm. His nonreaction spoke volumes. If anything, his attitude verged on the apologetic. She grew tense.
“You knew that was going to happen.”
Whispr nodded without meeting her accusatory stare. “I had a pretty good idea something might. I mean, I knew they had to show up sometime during the exam. I just wasn’t sure how soon or under what circumstances.”
She blinked uncertainly. “ ‘They’?”
Taking a deep breath, he turned sideways to her and pulled the hem of his shirt out of his pants. Raising it toward his armpit exposed a smattering of tiny red bruises on his back. Her inspection was fleeting.
“Not chicken pox and not fleas. But I suspect you’re already aware of that.” She was more upset by the unanticipated revelation than she cared to admit. Adopting a professional approach in the presence of the unexpected allowed her to remain calm. “Why do I have this uneasy feeling that you know full well what set off my system?”
He let the shirt hem fall from his fingers. Neither was particularly clean. “I’ve been shot.”
“So I infer.” Inclining her head slightly, she nodded toward her instruments. “From the looks of your skin and the readouts I’m seeing, my guess would be police traktacs. But if so then they should be broadcasting. They’re not. At least, not on any frequencies detectable by my equipment.”
“I was able to arrange a three-day stall. The instant it expires I’ll start blasting out signals all over the southeast.” Unexpectedly limpid eyes locked on hers. “There’s no way to stop the transmissions. You know that. All I can tell you is that I have plenty good reason to believe my life’s at stake. It would sure help me out if when these little pieces of electronic shit resume broadcasting, they do it from someplace other than my ribs.” He risked a smile.