The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [80]
“No you are not, Inny.” Despite his unmistakable frailty his tone was firm. “I not in my office. Thanks to recent ingestion of very pleasantly enervating cocktail of designer pharmaceuticals I am actually at present resting a number of floors farther down. Level Four, to be exact.”
She felt more than a little insensate herself. “You’re in the hospital.”
“To be exact, yes,” he acknowledged. “I am afraid I currently too anesthetized to fully appreciate irony of situation. Or the location.” As his head came slightly off the aerogel pillow that was supporting it his tone grew more intense. “Listen to me, Inny. These female but decidedly unfeminine Melds who confront me last night—they know about the thread that you gave me to research. They wanted to know if I had learned anything about it.”
Reaching for the ready cup of instant caffeine Ingrid nearly knocked it out of its bracket. “What did you tell them?”
“I tried joke with them. Maybe when they receive their melds they also inoculated against irony. Notice I still not laughing myself. Doctor’s orders. No muscle spasms, not even to laugh.
“Smart people best at playing dumb. I tell them nothing. Not even about possible MSMH construction. Nothing.” He tried to sit all the way up, failed, then had to wait for a scolding beep from one of the instruments near him to cease before he could resume talking.
“I can access my office from this bed, Inny. Is nice that I am in same hospital as my own home and offices. Will make for short commute when they letting me walk again. First thing after I regain consciousness and can think straight, I erase from here what not much I had recorded about your suddenly problematic little thread. I even revoke indication of its existence.”
She inhaled sharply. “The thread! It’s still in your—”
“No is not,” he exclaimed, interrupting her. “I use office remote to order it sent out via our building’s internal delivery system. System works good for groceries, medications, toys, toxic storage threads.…” A hint of alarm crept into his voice. “You not receive it yet?”
“I just—your call woke me up. It’s Saturday, you know.”
“Thank you for remind me, Inny. I not have to cancel any appointments. Maybe come Monday I am unexpectedly called home to Vladivostok for indefinite period of time. Family emergency. Is not lie.” He managed a painful smile. “I am member of my family, no?”
She was trying to get dressed, chug the remainder of the cup’s contents, and carry on the distressing conversation all at the same time. “I’m on my way to check my delivery receptacle right now, Rudy.”
“Good. I will wait to hear confirmation.” He lay all the way back down. “I in no hurry.”
The floating portrait followed her out into the main living area as she ran a forefinger up the front of her jumpsuit’s seal. Unnatural rumblings sounded from the vicinity of the airbed that had been inflated on the far side of the room. A wraith or her houseguest, she mused. One and the same. Believing she heard her name called, she ignored the faint query.
With relief she saw that her codo’s delivery container was not empty. It held several small packages. Two were pharmaceutical samples that as soon as she picked them up began to squeakingly explain why she should start to prescribe them for her patients. Another was a greeting from an old boyfriend that began to unfold and enlarge even as she slapped it down. The last was …
Running her thumbprint over her name unsealed the package and exposed the interior. Inside an inner, padded box was a small transparent capsule containing a single by now all-too-familiar storage thread. One that had in the brief interval out of her possession seemingly turned toxic.
“G’morn, doc.” The wraith had awakened. Sitting up and straining to see over the crest of the intervening couch, Whispr ran a hand through his disheveled