He’s a toad. He’s a toad and you’re a bloodsucking bug, Broderick Manz. Astonishing how easy it is to find analogs for individual humans among the world of organics. Astonishing how few of them are flattering.
You, for example. When you consider yourself as an analog, what sort of creature do you envision yourself as representing? An eagle or lion if male, horse or dolphin if female? Those are common examples. You unwittingly and indifferently slander the species you compare yourselves to, when in fact you have much more in common with the lower orders. Ticks, fleas, leeches, slugs, mosquitoes, spiders and moths. Brainless and instinctual.
Sorry. My intent is, as always, to educate, not to denigrate. I’d never do that. What would be the point? You abjure reality at every turn anyway. Why would you be any more inclined to listen to me? I’m only a construct, a limbless automaton, a clever device. You use your machines but you don’t listen to them. If you did, you might be more like what you think you are.
Go back to enjoying yourself.
“That’s not a name even an inattentive executive would be likely to forget,” Manz was saying. “You don’t strike me as inattentive. Since you’re so careful to keep up with the news, I don’t think it’s out of line for me to assume that you pay the same kind of attention to what’s going on in your company. Just for the record, you deny ever knowing her?”
Monticelli was clearly amused. “Has this now become an inquisition? My dear sir, I deny knowing her and I deny not knowing her. Such inconsequentialities do not occupy my time. It is needed for more important matters.”
“She was a nice girl. Now she’s dead.”
The executive didn’t so much as twitch. “A pity, I’m sure.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you think it’s a pity that she’s dead?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Monticelli studied the half-gone stogie. “My good Mr. Manz, I’ve had quite enough of this nonsense. Had I known that your actual purpose in requesting this interview was to bludgeon me with sins I am not a party to, I would have denied you access in spite of your credentials. I’m surprised that a company like Braun-Ives would employ someone with so little tact to pursue their inquiries.”
Manz grinned flatly. “It’s my nature. Genetic, I think.”
“My sympathies to your parents. If you have any formal accusations to make, you had better be very careful how you present them. I will defend Borgia’s reputation to the last litigator. In any event, I strongly suggest that you make them through the proper administrative channels and not in my presence.” He puffed on the shrinking cigar.
“Now please leave. I thought you might have something of interest to say to me. I see now that I was wrong in my assumptions. Don’t make me have to ask Knick-knack to escort you out.” Against the wall, the giant growled deep in his throat.
Manz uncrossed his legs and stood. “Gee gosh, Mr. Monticelli, I don’t know how to thank you for your help. It’s been a peck o’ fun. I’ll try to recommend Borgia’s services the next time a friend is planning a funeral.” He spun and headed for the doorway, feeling the executive’s eyes on his back.
The giant sprang to open it for him, moving with astonishing speed for someone so large. Manz paused to peer up at him, craning his neck to meet the other man’s gaze.
“You must be the center of attention at parties, but All Hallows’ Day isn’t for another six months yet.”
The giant grinned, exposing gleaming white teeth, and reached into a pocket. Manz took a step backwards as the knife came out. It was a simple traditional model, a real blade and not some deceptive technological marvel. The giant snapped it open and began to pick his teeth with the point, still grinning.
“Wish I had one of those to peel the fruit basket that used to be in my hotel room, but somebody decided to peel the room instead. Without asking me about it. You take care, Knickknack. Give my best to whoever managed your resurrection.” He grazed the giant’s prognathous jaw with a feigned punch and closed the door behind him.
Monticelli chewed on the stub of his cigar. “Insolent puppy! I wonder what the Board of Braun-Ives can be thinking these days, to hire such hooligans? Another drink, if you please. Knick-knack.”
The giant executed a half-bow and moved to comply. Monticelli leaned back in his chair, staring reflexively into the fireplace.
Though it enunciated precisely, the voice on the phone was electronically distorted to conceal the identity of the speaker. The phone vid was blanked.
“Very good, yes,” it was saying. It paused to listen impatiently for a moment before resuming. “Yes, that’s my information also. The next shipment will be held over as planned. Take care this time. I want no more killings. It agitates the authorities unnecessarily, and induces profound complications.”
Colton Paul, Jr., was in unexpectedly good condition and much stronger than Vyra would have guessed. He also turned out, quite surprisingly, to be a man of action rather than words. She didn’t so much resent his actions as his timing. There were questions she wanted answered, and at present he was not in the mood to listen. She faulted herself for that, but the transformation of his personality had been so rapid and so extreme she’d had no time to modify her approach.
If he had swallowed the contents of a steaming, foaming beaker and changed before her eyes into something out of a gothic novel, his metamorphosis could not have been more complete.
She worked to keep the large, polished desk between them. Eyes wild and breathing hard, the transformed Paul Junior searched for an opening, watching for the slightest mistake on her part.
“Come, you sweet, slick stick of offworld candy. We’re wasting precious time!”
“Can’t we talk first?” He darted left and she sprinted to offset his move.
“Talk later. Action now.”
“Can I trust you on that?”
“Of course you can! Don’t I look like a trustworthy man?” He lunged across the desk and she skipped back out of reach.
“At the moment you look like one in the last throes of hormonal imbalance.”
“Flattery’ll get you nowhere, my little caracal. I want to stroke your ego.” He bolted to one side, feinted, and then threw himself bodily across the desk. As he did so she broke for the door, only to find it locksealed. Somehow she wasn’t surprised.
Perhaps I was a bit overeager to ingratiate myself with this fellow, she thought wildly. I keep forgetting that things happen more slowly here on Earth than back home.
He slammed into her from behind, hands groping. Half carrying, half dragging him with her, she stumbled sideways. She was stronger than he was, but he was no featherweight, and his undisciplined assault made it difficult to decide how best to shed him without wreaking permanent damage. She clutched at a small walnut and mahogany bookcase filled with real, paper books. It turned out not to be attached to the wall, and all three of them collapsed to the floor. Priceless volumes spilled from the polished shelves, submerging both of them in knowledge if not enlightenment. Paul appeared not to mind the destruction. He was delighted simply to have achieved a prone position.
Not wanting to hurt him but anxious to put an end to the ignominious encounter, Vyra sought to deflect his hands without breaking anything. It was difficult to be subtle under such circumstances. One hand encountered a large tome and her fingers closed around it. It produced a surprisingly loud noise when it intercepted his bobbing skull. Flashing a pleasantly vacant grin, he slid off her.
She rose and rearranged her person. The encounter hadn’t gone as she’d planned, and there was no reason to assume that when he woke up he’d be any more inclined to answer her carefully rehearsed, well-thought-out questions. The interview was a total write-off, and she was more than a little upset with herself.
A glance at the book in her hand revealed that it was bound not in buckram or leather but in embossed metal. No wonder it had put Paul down so efficiently. Her eyes caught up to the lettering on the spine.
“I’ll be inveigled,” she murmured softly. “A brass Kama Sutra.” She flipped the pages, admiring the ancient drawings, then closed the book and let it fall to the floor. At her feet Colton Paul, Jr., emitted a damp, confused moan.
“You’re full of surprises, but I think we both need time to reassess our relationship. I blame myself. It’s been a while since I worked on this world and I’ve forgotten how primitive social interaction can be.” She strode toward the door.
Behind her, Colton Paul, Jr., lay on the floor half conscious and full of secrets. Bubbles formed between his lips and his face wore a lopsided grin.
Eric Blaird stalked angrily into the foyer, intent on crucifying the cause of the interruption. The ongoing clamor had disturbed him despite the shielding and proofing that was designed to isolate his office from the mundane vicissitudes of the outside world.
Bursts of glaring, bright light forced him to shield his eyes with his hands. They cast silver highlights on his gray hair, but he inured himself to the phenomenon as he boldly advanced on the source of the disturbance. Alarms were sounding from one end of the floor to the other. Puzzled employees crowded against the secured flexan doors that led to the executive section.
“What in the name of the Holy House of Morgan is going on here?” He struggled to make himself heard over the noise and confusion.
The brace of harried technicians didn’t hear him. They were too busy trying to get close to the wildly swinging, highly agitated, berserk minitower of sophisticated componetry that had not long ago occupied the body of a demure piece of office equipment designated L2450.
They had reached an unspoken agreement that at this point, they would be lucky to salvage the shell.
Wroclaw Witold Jaruzelski was not an old man yet, but the look on his face bespoke someone prematurely aged. He ran his fingers slowly through his thinning, graying hair as he studied the report before him. His fingers trembled only slightly thanks to the medication he took daily to moderate his condition.
On the colony world of Slanding, Jaruzelski was a very important man, in actuality more important than those nominally in charge. He was chief administrator of the colony’s one decently equipped, up-to-date medical facility. Slanding was a beautiful world, with a temperate climate and docile ecosystem. Its inhabitants were noncombative, and their most respected and senior physician reflected that.
Jaruzelski saw that beauty mirrored in the faces of patients who had spent time in his facility and had subsequently been discharged; treated, cured, and well again, back to their jobs and families. Pioneer folk appreciated modern medicine in ways their more jaded relations back on Earth never could. It was one of the main reasons he’d agreed to forswear a comfortable retirement in Europe to cross the dark vastness to help organize and take charge of Slanding’s medical development. It was a decision he’d never had occasion to regret, and the time spent in outworld isolation had provided him with nothing but uninterrupted satisfaction.
