The Human Blend - Alan Dean Foster [97]
Like the spokes of a wheel, individual boat slips radiated outward from the round island’s circumference. Unlike in Macamock, here there were no streets, no walkways. The islet was neither large enough to require them nor important enough to warrant them.
Passing the first structure, which had been slapped together out of poly paneling and sealant, they encountered what appeared to be a man in a bear suit. Or a bear in a man suit. Either way, an appalled and slightly intimidated Ingrid reflected, here was an individual who would unquestionably have benefited from a meld. Not to mention a bath.
Surprising her yet again, Whispr blocked the shambler’s path. “Looking for a lady understated of profession and name of Tomuk Ginnyy.”
Man-bear growled at the visitor. Looking at him, it was impossible to tell where his briar patch of reddish beard ended and his flourishing chest hair began. “No fishing here, wub-bub. No sights to see.” Raising a massive, hairy arm that protruded from a short dirty sleeve, he pointed eastward. “Miavana’s that way. This ain’t no tourist stop.”
“Really? A long Meld named Molpi told me this Tomuk is a good guide to local sights.”
The large local blinked. “Molpi the strider? He sent you this-a-by?”
“No,” Whispr snapped by way of reply, “we picked this architectural highlight out of a waterland guidesite.” He took a long, deliberate peer past the man. “Or maybe I ought to say archaeological.”
Anger flashed in the local’s eyes, only to be replaced almost immediately by amusement. Raising his other hand, he jerked rightward a thumb the size and color of a decomposing crawfish. “Third house over. Go circumspect, be polite. Folks hereabouts tend to snack on surprises.” With that he pushed past them, lurching toward a nearby dock. To Ingrid’s relief, it was not the one where they had berthed their rental craft.
From the outside the dwelling to which they had been directed was less than imposing, but in the limited time she had spent in Whispr’s company Ingrid had learned not to judge anything, be it people or possessions, from appearance. Money flaunted was money waiting to be stolen. Power displayed was power inviting a knockdown. From somewhere within the habitation a querulous voice responded to Whispr’s query.
“Molpi sent you?”
When Whispr nodded affirmatively, the woman who had materialized in the doorway stepped back inside. A low lintel forced them to bend as they entered. It would also, Whispr reflected appreciatively as he pushed through a second inner door, make awkward the aim of any unwelcome intruder.
Inside the double entrance Ingrid twitched in delight. The temperature within the residence was not merely cooled—it bordered on the arctic. A visitor who stayed for twenty minutes or so would start to shiver. The astonishing artificial climate bespoke not only eclectic taste but also the ability to pay for it.
The interior of the main room was a cross between an electronics lab and a Mongolian yurt. Seemingly according to whim rather than any well thought-out decorative scheme, assorted primitive devices shared space with far more modern ones. In the center of the domed, circular chamber’s ceiling an ancient but dead-silent splay of jointed fan blades pushed frigid air downward. Ingrid quickly edged off to one side, where if not warm it was at least less glacial.
A short stout Meld in her midforties, their host revealed in the course of making introductions that she was an immigrant from Thule. How a Greenland Inuit had ended up in the steamy South Florida waterlands was a tale she did not seem inclined to elaborate upon. She looked perfectly Natural, Ingrid saw, except for her feet. They were enormous, rough-skinned, and clad in custom sandals. The initial meld had been for snow-shoe feet. In the course of her permanent move to the waterlands, she had decided to