The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [72]
“That’s your opinion. I still think I can solve it without you. And when I do, I’ll keep my promise to pay you.” He started again toward the console, looking around for something heavy with which to shatter the protective transparency that now covered the plug-in.
Her thoughts raced. She knew she couldn’t deny him physically. Anyway, if she tried to do so she might end up losing more than just an opportunity.
“I can also help you to hide from the authorities.”
That gave him pause. Even absent the matter of the mystifying thread, it would have given him pause.
She rushed on. “Just because you’re rid of the traktacs doesn’t mean they won’t run you to ground tomorrow. If everything you’ve told me is true they’ll still be hunting you because they want the thread back.”
He nodded slowly. “That’s—right. What exactly did you have in mind?”
I don’t have anything in mind, she told herself a bit hysterically, because I’m sure by now that I must have lost it.
“I’ll—I’ll hide you. I have a big codo. There’s plenty of room. While we try to solve the thread you—you can stay with me.”
There, she thought. Four successive terse statements; all true, half of which marked her as self-designatedly certifiable.
“No one will even think to look for you in a private residence, much less in my place.”
“You’re kidding,” he shot back. “You’re just trying to stall me until you can think of something else. Or call the police.”
“I swear it—Whispr. You can live in my place. Until we unravel the insides of that thread.” Seeing that he remained doubtful she tried to think of a rationale that would appeal to him on his own terms. “Besides, your promise to pay me will mean a lot more if I can keep an eye on you and the relevant property.”
“I’ll be damned.” A hand featuring heavily weathered, impossibly slender fingers stretched out toward her. “You’ve got a deal, Ms. Doc. And to show you that I mean to keep my part of the bargain I promise not to kill you in your sleep.”
As she shook his hand, feeling the coiled strength in the serpentine digits, her responding smile was twisted. “I’m relieved to hear it, Whispr.” She let go of his hand and the fingers slid away from her flesh like so many snakes slithering back into their den. Dividing her attention, she walked back over to the console that was now dominated by the shuttered receptacle.
While he watched her work the instrumentation, he admired the play of muscles and other things beneath her clothing. She was moderately fit, but he wouldn’t have called her athletic.
“You have my label,” he murmured softly. “What shall I call you? You’re a Natural, so you don’t have a Meld moniker. I can’t keep calling you ‘Ms. Doc.’ What’s your first name?”
Concentrating on reopening the receptacle, she barely glanced in his direction. “Why don’t you just call me ‘doc’?” Not wanting to irritate him this early in their new business relationship, she added, “Until we get to know each other better.”
He was disappointed, but accepting. “All right—doc. Only problem with that is it makes me think of some old guy with a long beard wearing a white coat. You got the white coat but you don’t look anything like an old guy with a long beard.”
“I can see that you could’ve made your way through life on flattery alone,” she replied absently. “There.” The protective panel slid back to reveal the silvery thread. Plucking it carefully from the flex plug receptacle, she slid it back into its protective capsule. A quick check of another instrument revealed that the device was still generating its minuscule emission. To what end and for what purpose remained as much a mystery as its composition and contents.
Feeble as the output was, perhaps the device was some kind of limitedrange homing signal, she mused. If that was the case then she might have the opportunity to learn the nature of the thread’s contents from its owners themselves. At which point, if such a get-together eventuated, it might be reassuring to have someone of Mr.