The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [7]
Swallower belched softly as he turned from studying a heads-up display to confront them. He did not ask if they were armed. If they were, shop security would never have let them past the parking area, much less across the raised walkway that led to the front door. Shadowy of skin, though not as black as a Martian, the wildly bearded mass of man was bigger than Whispr and Jiminy put together. When asked why he didn’t have his obese form melded, or at least suctioned, he declared with satisfaction that not only did he take pride in his appearance, he took pride in being naturally fat.
“When I eat a good meal,” he had once explained without hesitation, “I want the results to show.”
The world, Whispr knew, was replete with inexplicable perversities not all of which stemmed from the endless inventiveness of melding.
The proprietor’s unwillingness to fine-tune his body did not extend to his profession. Above the natural eyes with which he had been born, two specialized ocular melds coldly examined the world around them. Their installation and grafton had necessitated a slight raising of his forehead. One eye was a magnifier of considerable range while the other saw into and registered sights far into the ultraviolet. Together they enabled their owner to ascertain the veracity of numerous items that were offered to him for sale, from fine meld componentry to estate jewelry that had been unwillingly liberated from various estates. More for show than need, Swallower had commissioned a pair of customized old-fashioned spectacles—with four lenses, two set above two. When worn, they helped to soften his otherworldly appearance. This was useful in business dealings, since there was nothing soft about the man himself.
Thick fingers wrapped around and enveloped Jiminy’s much smaller hand. “I know thee, Cricket.” Releasing their careful grasp, they flicked in the direction of the other visitor. “As be your companion, how is the sad-eyed soda straw these days?”
Jiminy’s head inclined toward the silent, staring Whispr. “Jolly as always. We just had ourselves a most fine dinner at the Bug Shack.”
The proprietor’s doubled brow rose. “Eating out? Do not tell me you boys hath been working?”
Jiminy winked and swung his backpack around in front of him. “Nothing special. Just another fluky salvage pickup off the street.”
“Knowing thee and thy predispositions, I should rather say savage pickup.” A quartet of eyes peered downward. “What hath thee brought for me this night?”
As soon as he heard their host murmur his approval of the ampuscated hand, Whispr lost interest in the negotiations. Wandering toward the rear of the shop, he lost himself in idle contemplation of the assortment of merchandise. Some of it he recognized, some he wished he could afford, some meant nothing to him. One of Swallower’s many cats ambled by, paused, and whistled a merry tune. In the course of the surgery necessary to save its life it had been given a throat meld. Now it could sing like a canary, or a mockingbird. Poetic justice, Whispr thought. Bending down, he let his hand stroke it from head to hips. Its tail came up and purring commenced to alternate with birdsong.
Hundreds of containers, individual bits of machinery, partial scavenged melds, and other merchandise hung from the ceiling. Swallower’s shop was a bargain-hunter’s as well as a cat’s paradise. Whispr figured that Swallower could have done twice the trade if he had located inland on dry ground in the commercial district of uptown Savannah. But had he chosen to do so, his business would have been subject to more than twice the official scrutiny it presently received. Like a number of other kindred independent businessfolk whose establishments operated under ambiguous circumstances, Swallower preferred