“What … what sort of thing?”
“Attempting to defraud a physician.”
Manz took a deep breath. “Look, she got stung by this alien gruesome on the table. Maybe her condition’s changed but…
“‘Changed’?” The doctor’s tone and expression showed what he thought of that opinion.
“But she was dying. Surely you could see that, even in an offworlder.”
“Offworlder. That was immediately apparent from the arms, but my attention was differently focused … yes, it makes a certain sense. You have to understand that while I often treat offworld patients in the course of my work, offworld venomites are another matter entirely. My assumptions when I got here, her initial reactions, all were consistent with …” As his voice trailed off he smiled.
Manz found it sufficiently reassuring to say, “Then she’s not in any danger?”
“Would you be in any danger after chugging a liter of good bourbon? It would depend on your body’s ability to process the sudden rush of alcohol.” He was passing the first instrument he’d used over Vyra’s body. “I’d say the only thing she’s in danger of is one hell of a hangover. This is her system’s reaction to and way of handling the toxin. The uncontrolled hysteria’s a side effect. Hang on a minute.”
While Manz waited, no longer feeling the need to hold his companion’s hand, the physician checked the medical encyclopedia he kept in his other jacket pocket. Subsequent to that he handed Manz half a dozen tiny gelcaps.
“Here. Try to get two of these down her now. Give her two more when she wakes up tomorrow and the rest four to six hours later. They should help.”
Manz took the string of pills. “If she’s not dangerously ill, why the medicine?”
“To suppress the hangover. It won’t be toxic, but it’ll feel like it. I’m sorry I wrongly accused you, but symptoms can be faked and some people have a peculiar sense of humor. Especially where doctors are concerned.” He looked at the table. “Could I have the remains of that Qamaca thing?”
“Qaraca,” Manz corrected him. “Sorry. I think we’d better leave that for the police.”
“I miss the chance to do lab work. Ah, well.” He turned and made his way across the dining room floor, back to his table.
Moses tracked his progress while Manz levered the stillchuckling Vyra back into the booth. Her laughter was now interspersed with uneasy hiccoughs.
As the humaniform’s scanners swiveled back to his employer and companion, they caught sight of a slim figure peering hesitantly from the entrance to the main kitchen. It was staring intently in their direction. Moving silently on his precision trackball, Moses began edging in the waiter’s direction.
Unfortunately, the two-hundred-kilo, four-armed mechanical was about as inconspicuous as ketchup in a Belgian restaurant. The man spotted his approach and vanished into the kitchen. Inviting litigation, Moses forcibly shoved several humans out of his path as he made a rush for the doorway.
“Parnesh niyep fra prodem,” gurgled Vyra in a most undignified manner. Drool oozed from her perfect mouth. Manz couldn’t unravel the offworld dialect and didn’t press for explication. His companion’s condition had metamorphosed with incredible speed from one of near death to outright hilarity to its present state of slovenly indifference. Diners who had previously looked on with concern were now staring in his direction with undisguised contempt.
“Wheee!” Escaping his grasp and climbing atop the table, Vyra proceeded, with fortuitous clumsiness, to try to remove her clothes. It set Manz to wondering what might have happened had the Qaraca stung her more than once.
He tried to drag her back down into the booth. Drunk or not, she was all lean muscle and difficult to restrain. One hand smacked him playfully across the chops.
Frustrated and out of patience, he glared up at her. “Look, I don’t want to belt you, Vyra, but if you try that again …” He managed to pin one arm behind her back. She gleefully swatted him with the other, no problem for someone with arms jointed at shoulder, elbow, selbow, and wrist.
He finally succeeded in getting her off the table and staggering more or less in the right direction. She was now discoursing loudly and belligerently in her home dialect.
“Just keep it unintelligible and maybe we won’t get asked to leave the hotel,” he warned her, well aware from previous experience of her uninhibited proclivity for inventive obscenity. “Moses!” A quick survey showed that the mechanical was nowhere to be seen. “Damned unreliabled … probably off conducting ‘research’ somewhere.”
Vyra halted suddenly, swaying, and turned to squint at him, as though he were standing far away and not right up in her face. “I feel dizzy again, Broddy.”
“Good,” he growled. “One thing I know for sure: you’re not hurting anymore.”
“Nope. Not hurting. Not …”
He never found out what else she wasn’t, because for the second time that evening she collapsed in his arms. With a quick duck-and-flip she went up and over his left shoulder, head and feet facing the floor, derriere aimed in the approximate direction of her distant homeworld. In that fashion he conveyed her to their newly assigned rooms, ignoring the stares of fellow hotel guests distinguished and otherwise.
Startling mechanicals and humans alike, the infiltrator had stormed through the kitchen, obliterating two orders of Venison Wellington and a damned good cheesecake in the course of his flight. Ripping at his appropriated waiter’s attire as he ran, he ducked down a narrow service corridor, through a storage area, and out into a clean but feebly lit alleyway. Without hesitating he raced for the distant street, slowing only when he found himself back among ordinary pedestrians. The hotel lay far behind him, facing the main boulevard that ran through this part of the Port District.
He was sauntering along unconcerned and deep in thought when two flexible metal limbs as thick as his arm slapped around him to pin his arms to his sides. Wide-eyed, he looked back over his shoulder. Plastic and metallic glass gazed coldly back at him.
“Put me down! Right now, or I’ll see to it that you’re flatwiped! Who the hell do you think you are?”
Pivoting on his trackball, Moses ignored the stares of passersby as he accelerated down the street toward the hotel. “A few moments ago you tried to murder my employer and possibly also his companion. You will tell me who engaged you to do this and for what purpose, please.”
The man struggled futilely in the constraining tentacles. His tone was strained, dripping with outrage. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Put me down!”
“I will do so when you have complied with my requests.”
Relaxing, the trapped figure struggled to gather his thoughts. “I have no intention of saying anything else to you.”
“It will go easier for you if you comply.”
The man’s eyes widened slightly as his captor left the main boulevard and turned down a dark serviceway. “Are you threatening me? You’re a mechanical; you can’t hurt a human.”
“Want to bet? You don’t know who’s been programming me.” Moses slowed. It was nearly pitch black in the serviceway.
“You’re bluffing.” The man was breathing hard now, acutely conscious of his isolation. The main street with its fellow human beings suddenly seemed very far away.
A powerful tentacle wrapped itself delicately but irresistibly around the imprisoned figure’s face. “Am I? On the contrary, I consider this merely an instructive extension of my research.”
“I can’t tell you. It’d mean my life.”
