The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [87]
Anger and frustration in equal measure surged within him. He eyed the convertor. He was close, real close to breaking the codo’s individual coding. He could sense it. But proximity was not resolution, and if he was hauled in to jail or shot, having come close to what he was after would be small consolation. Muttering invective that was in shocking contrast to his homely appearance, he pocketed the convertor, flung the vorec onto the bed, and abandoned the room. No one saw him leave.
Just as no one saw the diminutive but stocky figure making its way through the jagged-edged breach in the exterior wall of the codo and around the smooth, sheer side of the tower, where it proceeded to scurry down the back side of the building on two pairs of very expensive and ultra-secure gecko pads.
The methodical approach of the tactical squad that had been dispatched in response to calls from several frantic residents of the tower whose residences bordered that of the respected Dr. Seastrom allowed the single remaining live occupant of the codo to depart the devastated premises unseen and in silence. By the time the armored police entered the ruins, the only ones left to greet them were two female Melds, both very dead. Initial supposition was enough to tie them to the shattered remains of a third woman whose body had been found splattered on the pavement eighty-five floors below. Only after a quick, efficient search revealed that the codo was now devoid of any threat did the arriving police allow themselves to relax.
“Wonder what happened here?” the sergeant-in-charge muttered to himself as he flipped up his protective visor. As Forensics arrived and began their work, a corporal kicked at some of the debris that lay scattered across the living-room floor. Her gaze rose to the hole in the tempered glass wall opposite, through which the clammy night air of Greater Savannah was presently entering.
“Maybe the one on the street lost a fight with the two Melds.”
The sergeant grunted and rubbed at his melded left eye. It was a highgrade Mark I-Five police issue, but from time to time it still bothered him. “From the looks of this place, they all lost. No sign of the owner yet?”
The corporal murmured into the vorec that hung by a thin wire just in front of and below her lips. An audio meld would have eliminated the need for both the support wire and the pickup, but she was a Natural.
“Not yet. Nothing from air or land Scanerch. For all we know she could be out on a date.” A thin smile creased her lips. “Or an overnight. Communications is presently trying to make contact with another physician who works in this building—a Dr. Rajeev.”
“I hope they’re both out canoodling on a paddle boat somewhere.” Walking over to the gap in the wall, the sergeant looked out and down. Having spent eighteen years on the force he had no fear of heights, or much of anything else. “According to Records she’s a well-regarded and long-established physician. She’ll have good insurance.”
“She’d better.” Raising her forearm-length riot gun, the corporal used the muzzle to indicate the surrounding devastation. “She’s gonna need it.”
Her superior sighed. “Might as well get out of Forensics’ way. You know those guys—always telling us that no matter where we step, we’re infringing on potential evidence.”
“Yeah.” Turning her head slightly, the corporal sipped cold Boost from the tube that projected from beneath her armor. “It’s been a slow night. Maybe HQ will just let us hang out here until shift’s over.”
The sergeant nodded approvingly. “Nobody has to shoot, nobody gets shot. My idea of a good way to end a night shift. If we’re lucky, they’ll locate this doc and bring her here. Be nice to see if she can shed some illum on this mess.”
The corporal readily agreed, but they were to be denied.
Despite the best efforts of Greater Savannah Central to find her, Dr. Ingrid Seastrom’s location was not established by sunrise, at any time in