The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [64]
She chided herself. Her knowledge of the facades of convicted murderers had been acquired from casual perusal of the news and popular entertainment. Bodily dysfunctions she could diagnose with little effort. Mental ones lay outside her realm of expertise.
To her surprise she heard herself saying, “I don’t know what you’ve done, but why don’t you turn yourself in? Do the right thing, assume any debt you owe to society. Turn your life around. You don’t strike me as addled. You’re slim but based on what I see not physically impaired. Good health is a windfall for which even the most elaborate melds can’t compensate, and you seem blessed with it.”
How much of what she was saying came from the heart, she wondered even as the words left her lips, and how much from a desire to assuage any lingering guilt over the service she had just provided to someone wanted by the authorities?
Whispr knew he ought to have felt insulted by her rebuke, no matter how well intentioned the sentiments. Had any of his street acquaintances ventured such unsubtle advice he would have told them promptly and in no uncertain terms where they could file it. But coming from her, after what she had just done for him, the suggestions left him feeling not angry but—uncomfortable. He chose to test their veracity by seeing just how far he could push her.
“There’s one more thing you could do for me, doctor. Ms. Seastrom.”
“ ‘Doctor’ will do nicely,” she replied tartly. “And for some reason you’re still here.”
He held up the little bag of traktacs. “I can lose these before the stall gives out. Dump them in an estuary, down a public toilet. Mail them out of the country. But no matter where they fetch up, sooner or later and most likely sooner the authorities in the area will catch the signals and they’ll be traced back to their point of origin. To Savannah. I know traktacs.” He spoke with confidence. “Try to destroy them and they’ll rightquick broadcast their location, even if they have to punch the signal through a stall.” He was eyeing her intently.
“The one thing that would really help me out now, now that you got them out of my body, would be if they could be deactivated.” He indicated the examination room. “You got all kinds of advanced gear here. I guess some of it would let you turn medical implants on or off remotely. You probably do it all the time as part of your work.” He jiggled the contents of the envelope.
“I bet you can turn these off.” He eyed her somberly. “That would really set me free. If I sent these to Istanbul, Interpol would pick up their signal and notify the police back here. Then they’d be able to trace them to the point of mailing and they’d know I’m still around. But if the little bastards never start broadcasting—nobody would know where to begin looking for me again. I’d have my life back. Or at least some freedom of movement.”
He was pleading with his eyes as well as his voice. By now she was having serious second thoughts about what she had already done. “I think you’d better leave, Mr. Whispr.” The words emerged hard and unyielding from between her lips as she edged toward a particular console. “I’m starting to think maybe I might have made a mistake, Hippocratic oath or no oath. Consider yourself fortunate that I’ve helped you as much as I have. What happens to you now is none of my business and none of my concern—except that you’re still here in my office. Get out, Mr. Whispr.” One hand hovered over the contact plate that would summon an emergency surgical crew. They weren’t the police, but their presence should be sufficient to forestall any trouble.
“Just ‘Whispr.’ ” His whole body gave a despondent heave. Was he going to cry?
“Whatever. Leave, while you still can. If you can’t accept that I can’t and won’t do anything more for you, appreciate that compared to most of the street folk who come in here you’ve