The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [86]
Surrounded by the wreckage of the codo, Napun Molé took stock of his surroundings. He was not pleased. He had arrived in silence and, he had believed, in secrecy, only to be grabbed and confronted by three women about whom he had immediately been certain of one thing: they were not members of the same profession as Dr. Ingrid Seastrom. He had not needed to wait for their questions to divine their purpose in invading the good doctor’s living quarters. Self-evidently not representatives of the local police, their presence and attitude could only point to an objective similar to his own. They were also after the thread.
Very disturbing, he thought as he walked into the kitchen to get himself a drink of water. He was careful to step around the spigot of blood that continued to pump in steadily decreasing volume from the neck of the tall, bony-headed, already dead Meld whose throat he had pierced. For one thing, the appearance on the scene and attempted intervention of outside interests was a most unwelcome infringement on the claim to the thread that had been staked by his employers. For another, in the course of the preceding squabble his suit jacket had been torn in at least two places. It was all most disconcerting.
Word was slipping out where knowledge of the thread should be inviolate, he mused. Too many people were learning of its importance, if not what was on it or what it signified. Unlike what those lying dead on the codo floor and the now carmine-blotched street outside believed, a great deal more was at stake than the mere abstraction of wealth. A great deal more. Everything tonight had happened too fast. There had been no time for assimilation; only reaction. As a consequence he had been forced to make a mess. Those who had charged him with the recovery of the thread would not be pleased.
He was none too happy himself. Downing the last of the water he initiated a swift, methodical, and professional search of the rooms. Even a basic residence would boast at least one basic box outlet. Someone of Seastrom’s persuasion was likely to have access and a projector in every room.
The main living area and the kitchen having been largely destroyed, he had to go into the bedroom before he found an intact vorec. That was all he needed. Utilizing the usual omnidirectional pickup it would enable a resident to command access from anywhere in the codo.
Removing a special and highly illegal convertor from a pocket, he started speaking softly into the tiny but sensitive diaphragm. There was no immediate response from the codo’s box. That was to be expected. It would take time for the ware inside the convertor to detect and decipher the codes and tonalities that were specific to the codo’s owner. Only when that had been compiled could he then proceed to the next step of having himself recognized as an accepted user by the doctor’s residential programming.
He was patient and prepared to wait for as long as required—or at least until Security put in an appearance. Helpfully, the coughing of the tall Meld whose throat he had lethally perforated had finally ceased. The choking sounds had been a minor distraction.
The amplification and sensitization meld that had replaced the normal organic hearing apparatus in his right ear alerted him to the presence of numerous moving figures in the distant hall well before they arrived.
His hearing told him that they were advancing cautiously. That was only common sense, given the amount of destruction that must by now have been reported by other residents living in the vicinity of the badly damaged codo. As he rose from the bed he strained his specialized hearing meld to the utmost, but he could not tell from cursory analysis of the still distant footfalls whether those making the semistealthy approach were building security