Manz shook his head, serious once more. “They’re not making any more progress than they were before we arrived. This last jacking has them as stumped as the previous three.” He pushed his scavenged plate away. Instantly a mechanical appeared at tableside to remove the dish.
“Dessert, sir? Madame?”
“I haven’t had homeworld food in years.” Vyra considered the dessert menu that unfolded on the mechanical’s display screen. “I think I’ll try the marzipan tart. That’s made with some kind of nut, isn’t it?”
“Yes, madame. And you, sir?”
“Something whacko, to suit my mood. How’s the Rumbutan Papeete?”
“Expressive, sir, if I may be allowed to say so.”
“Unless there’s a proscription in your programming against it,” Manz replied. The machine considered whether a formal reply was required, decided it was not, and scooted off silently in the direction of the kitchen.
“You’ll get fat on food like that,” Vyra warned him.
“Not with friends to help me work it off.”
She kicked him under the table.
Near the service entrance at the rear of the hotel kitchen, a small privacy alcove had been installed for the benefit of employees and suppliers. The smell of stale sauces and rehydrated vegetables that hung heavy in the air did not bother the lean-faced, uniformed individual who slipped into the com booth and secured the door behind him.
He keyed in a number, then another, and waited, keeping an eye on the kitchen employees outside. Intent on their work, they ignored him. A connection beep drew his attention back to the com. Though the individual on the other end could see him, his own vid was blank. He expected that, and it did not bother him.
“Yes, sir, they’re here now. No, I haven’t been questioned: this is a big, popular place and the staff’s pretty busy. You want me to proceed?”
“By all means.” The voice on the other end was muffled and electronically disguised. “And try not to botch it this time the way you did with the woman.”
“Yes, sir.” The dialer was shaken. “Could I…” A soft musical tone replaced the voice on the other end, indicating that the connection had been terminated. The man stared at the privacy receiver for a moment, then replaced it in its holder.
A live trio was mooding the diners: a female lead who specialized in South American folkada and two bored-looking young men who drew forth music from a battery of synthesizers. The music was polyphonic and strongly rhythmic, a combination of ancient tunes and modern tonal structures. It teased a few couples out onto the small afterthought of a dance floor. One offworld pair wasn’t half bad, Manz mused as he observed the kinetic display. He considered asking Vyra to dance, then decided against it. Too public, and too risky. Besides, she’d make him look bad.
In place of the mechanical that had cleared the table and taken their order, a human waiter appeared bearing a cuprothermic bowl of lightly steaming melted chocolate together with a platter of appropriate tidbits for dipping. Manz frowned as the display was set carefully on the table.
“We didn’t order this. I’m having Rumbutan Papeete and my companion …”
“Your orders will arrive later, sir, if you are still hungry.” The waiter straightened. “This is compliments of the management. Because of the unfortunate incident of the previous night, sir.” He smiled apologetically, bowed, and departed.
Okay, so I’m tempted, Manz admitted to himself. As he inspected the elegant array of dipables, the band and soloist launched into a weird Nigerian-inspired stompromp chant. The dance floor cleared save for a pair of limber, energetic teens.
Vyra eyed him disapprovingly. “Well, aren’t you going to taste anything, after all the fuss you made?”
“I didn’t make any fuss,” he protested. “Help yourself. I’m still digesting my entree.”
“I would not sample the food just yet.”
Manz blinked at his Minder. “Why not?”
“I have detected movement within.”
“Of course.” Vyra smiled perfectly as she skewered a spongy ball of yellow cake and plunged it into the fondue, stirring slowly. “Fondue is supposed to bubble.” She removed the skewer and slipped the chocolate-coated cake between perfect lips, sucking it off the skewer with a movement that could have melted more than chocolate. A sensuous smile spread across her face. Fine chocolate does that to people, even offworlders.
“Semisweet liquid satin. You really ought to try some.”
“All right, already.” He speared some cake. “Here, you try those sugar honeycombs, or whatever they are.”
“With pleasure.” She reached into the deep bowl of opaque crystalline spheres and abruptly jerked her hand back.
“Ow! Something bit me!”
A concerned Manz leaned forward slightly to eye the polished metal container. “Must be a sharp edge inside the bowl.”
“Look, I know when …”
But he wasn’t listening. He was staring at the bowl.
With incredible convulsive energy an ugly white segmented body was squirming its way free of the sugary globes. Each segment boasted a pair of small, clawed legs. The blunt, repulsive head was all dull white compound eyes and hooked jaws. Most of the body was still hidden within the candy.
Before it could twist free, a metal composite whip slashed down and smashed the head and upper quarter of the tough, armored body. It also crushed the bowl and left its imprint embedded in the tabletop. Moses cocked his limb for another blow, but the first strike had reduced the offworld arthropod to a violently contorting splotch within the crushed bowl. With the remains of its entire ten-centimeter-long body now exposed, the stinger at the tail end was clearly visible.
Ignoring the stares of the other diners, Manz had darted around the table. He was holding Vyra’s right hand and staring at the spreading redness in the center of her palm.
“How’re you doing?” he asked stupidly. Everything had happened so fast. On the tabletop the creature’s contortions were slowly winding down. Spilled fondue formed a pool of viscous brown fluid that dripped slowly to the floor.
“Hurts,” she said tightly. “My fingers are going numb.”
“Son of a bitch. What was it, Moses? Recognize the species?”
“I regret to say that I do not.”
