The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [8]
“Eight.” Jiminy was hopping in small circles, wary of banging his head against suspended product or the exposed fiber rafters. “Whispr and me, we took on a lot of karma to get this hand. We gotta have at least eight.”
“I shall be fortunate to get eight on resale.” Swallower was less exercised than his visitor and no less resolute. “I can offer thee no more than three.”
“Three!” Oversized leg muscles contracting, Jiminy literally hit the ceiling, albeit it was only a glancing blow. “For three I’d just go ahead and turn myself in to collect the citizen’s tip! Save all this time and trouble.”
Unfurling a viewer from a pocket, Swallower nudged it to life and proceeded to consult the lambent screen. “I should sayeth three and a half, but I will go four in memory of the business we have done prior to this and the business that I expect will come after.”
“Four. Four is a four-lettered word.” Jiminy was not mollified.
“No it is not—four is a number.”
The Cricket eyed the fat man unhappily. “You’re playing games, Swallower.” Holding out the dismembered meld hand he waved it in the proprietor’s direction. Secured in place, the fingers did not jiggle. “You want it or not? You’re not the only dealer on the coast, you know.”
It was then that Whispr remembered the thread he had plucked from the dead man’s clothing. Should he mention it now? Swallower would likely have equipment capable of reading the contents of the unobtrusive sliver of storage media. Information was always worth subsist. But without any idea of what was on the thread, he and Jiminy had no way of pricing it. Relying on a prospective purchaser to tell you what your article was worth was a poor way to begin negotiations. Maybe they could hire someone just to read the thread. With this idea in mind he started toward the two arguers. He badly wanted Jiminy’s thoughts on how they should proceed. Besides, judging from the volume of perspiration rolling down their faces, both men could probably use a rest from the ongoing bargaining.
The necessary break was supplied by a source other than the advancing Whispr when all hell broke loose.…
2
Like Swallower himself, the alarms whose shrieking suddenly filled the shop were anything but restrained. They howled, they clamored, they screamed for attention. And they got it.
Wrangling forgotten, owner and visitor instantly ceased their haggling. Unsettled by the cacophony, panicked cats scattered among the rafters and merchandise in a flurry of tailed shadows and militant hissing.
“What be the freak?” Exhibiting speed and agility that belied his bulk, the startled Swallower turned from Jiminy and lunged in the direction of the control counter behind him. By the time he and his visitors reached it, holos relayed by several remote pickups were already dancing in the air above the projectors. A couple of the more confident cats paused to watch, their attention caught by the internally illuminated hovering images.
Whispr’s gaze went immediately to one particular oval holo. Uptaken from a unit hidden in a power tower or maybe a tree, it showed a line of high-power scoots traveling silently and at a high rate of speed down a narrow roadway. Even the dim light did not prevent Whispr from recognizing it immediately. It was the same elevated roadway he and Jiminy had recently used to access Swallower’s enterprise. He stared silently. There were an awful lot of scoots, and they were transporting an awful lot of police.
They were coming this way.
Face flushed, four eyes all but alight, a furious Swallower turned rising rage on Jiminy.
“Treachery! Perfidious betrayal! Thou hath sold me out!”
Crouched down behind his upraised knees, a manifestly perplexed Cricket struggled to make sense of what the concealed security monitors were showing.
“I—I don’t understand. We were careful! No one saw us—no one!” He stared down at the amputated hand. “This doesn’t make any sense. It’s not even a whole limb.” His bewildered gaze shifted to another of the hovering holos. As the flotilla of