Patrimony (Pip and Flinx)

by Alan Dean Foster

  Weeks later, he was on the verge of giving up when he found himself engaged in terse correspondence with one Rosso Eustabe.

  As with many of the contacts he had made, Flinx met this latest in what so far had been an endless parade of unhelpful personages in the front lobby of his hotel. There, he and various locals with whom he had worked long and hard to cultivate contact would indulge in drinks and snacks at his expense. Introductions and casual conversation would be followed by the passing of information from a visitor to the tall young man who had extended the invitations—information that had so far provided Flinx with nothing more than a multiplicity of insights into the nature of some of Gestalt’s least sociable denizens. He had encountered and interviewed enough grumpy, grouchy, disaffected, irritable, semi-sane, cantankerous iconoclasts to last him a lifetime. The fact that he could on occasion himself be accounted among their number was a detail he unconsciously overlooked.

  Eustabe did not exactly lurch into the lobby, but it was clear that his motile abilities had been more than slightly compromised by a lifetime of hard work, and perhaps also ingestion on a regular basis of organic compounds less than beneficial to one’s health. Rising from the adaptive chair that had become intimately acquainted with his backside in the course of the previous several weeks, Flinx methodically extended a hand toward this latest in the seeming endless line of nonconformist informers. His guest accepted the welcome with the one of his hands that was still flesh. The other, together with the arm to which it was attached, was wholly synthetic. Unlike the majority of people who had incurred the need for extensive prosthetics, Eustabe had not bothered to obtain one that duplicated the appearance of his real arm. The plasticine and carbonfiber webwork and synflesh overlay that comprised the fingers, hand, and arm of his artificial limb was an unrelieved, unadorned gray. Or perhaps its owner had not wanted to spring for the additional credits necessary to purchase a perfect duplicate, Flinx reflected.

  In addition to the arm, the other man’s stride suggested that all or part of his right leg was equally mock. So were both ears, and there were signs of inexpensive skin regeneration work on his neck and forehead. His face was beaten, weathered, experienced, making him look older than he probably was. Except for some filaments of light brown that had somehow succeeded in not being overwhelmed, the gray stubble that adorned his chin and the rest of his face was the same color, if not the same composition, as his prosthetic left arm. Sometime, somewhere, Flinx’s latest informant had suffered and survived a horrific accident. The man’s emotions betrayed no evidence of any personal historical catastrophe, however; nor could Flinx peer inside him to identify any possible complementary internal replacements. At his young host’s invitation, Eustabe flumped down in the chair opposite.

  “I’m Skua Mastiff,” Flinx told his guest.

  “Rosso Eustabe.”

  Flinx found it difficult to put together an assessment of the man’s feelings. One moment the newcomer seemed completely relaxed; the next his nerves knotted sharply, as if something was after him. Probably something was, Flinx decided, though whether real or imaginary he could not have said.

  “Word out is that you’re doing sociological research for an offworld data company.” Eustabe’s real fingers kept scratching, scratching, at the arm of his chair, as if trying to dig a hole in which his hand could hide. Responding, the reactive material of which the arm was manufactured kept flexing in a futile attempt to accommodate the continuously fluctuating nervous pressure.

  “That’s right.” Flinx tendered the automatic smile of a traveling professional. It appeared quite genuine. As well it should, its owner having had plenty of opportunity to practice it in the course of preceding interviews. “I’ve been assigned to gather statistics on Gestalt. As I informed you through our correspondence, we’re particularly interested in those eclectic Commonwealth citizens who for reasons of their own choose to withdraw from society at large yet continue to show an interest in changes among their own kind. Artists, for example, who frequently depict in their work different states of humanity. Or cosmetic biosurges who sometimes find themselves working outside the bounds of what is commonly thought of as good taste. Also those who shun widespread contact with their own kind for reasons that are not readily apparent.”

  “I remember.” Eustabe was nodding, his expression uncommonly like that of a wise family member who knows where all the bones are buried. “I think I might have one for you.”

  As he had done during so many previous interviews, Flinx methodically detached his communit from his service belt, activated it, and instructed it to record. “Go ahead.”

  Eustabe scratched at his steely chin stubble with the fingers of his real hand, seeking tactile feedback. “There’s the matter of payment…”

  “The terms of which you agreed to when you responded to my request for information.” Trying not to appear overly indifferent, Flinx forced a repeat of his earlier smile. “And also as agreed,” he continued perfunctorily, “if your information leads to a usable contact, a further bonus will be paid—by my company.”

  Eustabe nodded thoughtfully. “I’m a private contract transporter. I’ve got a long-range heavy-lift skimmer and I make a living delivering supplies to backcountry residents. Quite a few of those here on Gestalt.”

  “So I’ve learned,” Flinx responded noncommittally.

  The oldster shifted in his chair. Though he could not be certain, Flinx thought he heard the man’s right leg whine when it moved. An integrated servo in need of maintenance, he decided. Eustabe probably needed money.

  “Okay then. There’s this one fella, about me age, goes by the name of Anayabi. That’s all, just ‘Anayabi.’ Uses only the one name.”

  Feeling suddenly tired, Flinx sighed. “I’m afraid that’s not enough to qualify an individual for my company’s study. Or to meet the criteria for a bonus payment.” Relaxing on his neck and shoulder, Pip glanced up sleepily. No one was looking in their direction. By now the hotel staff, mechanical as well as human, was used to (if still not entirely comfortable with) the minidrag’s presence.

  “I’m just telling you.” Eustabe’s tone turned slightly defensive. “As you might have noticed, meself, I ain’t quite all there natural-like, if you know what I mean.” When Flinx’s silence indicated that he did, indeed, know to what his guest was referring, the other man continued.

  “Most times, most folk, they don’t react openly to the prosthetics. Or if they do, they try not to show it. Polite being, they are. But this guy, this Anayabi moke, after a couple of deliveries I make to him, he up and right-out starts chattering about it.”

  Flinx perked up slightly. “About it?”

  “You know.” Eustabe leaned toward his host. “The nonmeat parts of meself. Me arm”—he raised the cybernetic limb in question—“and the other parts. Starts asking me all kinds of questions about them. How did I come to need the synthetics, how did they feel. How did I respond to their presence emotionally as well as physically, that sort of stuff.”

  Interesting, but—not much more, Flinx felt. And hardly conclusive of anything. The kinds of questions any curious albeit admittedly tactless person might ask. Or more specifically but in no wise especially revealing of anything other than his profession—a physician, perhaps. Having nothing else planned for the next hour, anyway, he decided he might as well let Eustabe ramble.

  “Go on.”

  “It wasn’t just the questions. I’ve dealt with plenty of the like before, many times occasioned.” Leaning forward, Eustabe lowered his voice slightly, as if he was about to impart something significant as well as unexpected.

  “What was odd about this fella was that he didn’t just ask questions with his voice. He asked them, too, with his eyes. The first couple of times, I didn’t pay attention much. Then it started growing creep on me. I mean, he was making me feel like a specimen in a lab, or something.”

  Deep inside Flinx, something tightened ever so slightly. “Please, continue.”


  Eustabe sat back in the chair, which morphed to accommodate him. “By the time I made my fifth delivery out his way, I’d had enough. So I straight-up called him on it. All the questions and the staring. Wasn’t worth the tip. I told him outright to back off. Well, he right up and apologized. Insisted he didn’t mean to offend in any way, that it wasn’t at all in his temperament. That it was just his nature to ask questions about things that interested him, and one of the things that interested him mostest was how human beings can change themselves to make themselves better.”

  Flinx swallowed hard. Sensing the surge in her master’s emotions, Pip awoke and lifted her head to locate the source of the disturbance. Whatever it was, she decided, it was clearly not the harmless human seated nearby. “Better people?” Flinx asked tentatively of his guest.

  “No-so,” Eustabe replied. “Better human beings. Those were his exact words.” Letting out a derisive snort, he reached for the bowl of snacks the hotel had set out on his chair’s end table. Detecting the heat emanating from his open palm, the snacks obediently leaped upward to fill it. As he munched something then moaned pleasurably, he squinted at the tall young man seated across from him. “He sufficiently interested in human changes to qualify him for your survey?”

  Change. Make better. Keywords underlying everything the members of the Meliorare Society stood for. The members—and possibly also those who, while not formal members of the organization, had freely assisted them in their work. Assisted them by contributing their own knowledge, expertise, experience—and in more than several cases, genes.

  This hermetic Anayabi could be nothing more than a retired physician or decertified gengineer, or perhaps a curious biologist with a hobbyist’s interest in general eugenics. “What does this Anayabi look like?” Flinx could not keep himself from asking. “Skin color, eye color, body type, approximate age…hair color?”

  Eustabe’s face screwed up slightly. “That all relevant to your survey?”

  Though he was much younger than his guest, Flinx had in his comparatively short lifetime seen a good deal more. This experience informed his brisk response. “Does it matter to you if it is?”

  The older man sat motionless for a moment. Then he nodded understandingly. Any additional words or queries would have been superfluous. “Couple centimeters taller than me. Average build, pretty solid for someone his age. Living away out where he does, I imagine he gets some serious exercise. Or uses a good toner. Skin color about like yours.” Flinx’s heart skipped a beat. An unjustifiable reaction, perhaps, but an irrepressible one. “Didn’t notice the color of his eyes. Black hair, cut real short. He and I are about the same length of sentient existence, I’d guess.”

  Eustabe’s description made the subject sound as if he was also the appropriate age. “Any accent?” Flinx remembered to maintain the illusion that this was a proper scientific interview by feigning interest in the operation of his communit, which continued to record the interview.

  “Unadulterated Gestalt, insofar as I could tell. If not native, then someone who’s lived here a long while. Long enough to sprinkle his chat with Tlel terms. That’s as clear a mark of a long-termer as you can find.”

  Would his father give himself away as a possible collaborator of the Meliorares by showing such explicit interest in the adaptability and improvement of another human being? On the other hand, who on Gestalt would have reason to suspect that such questions might have their origin in such an illegitimate history? This Anayabi’s questioning and studying of someone like Eustabe might be perceived locally as nothing more than the tactlessness Eustabe himself had initially felt it to be. Harmless, if tasteless, chatter between one of hundreds of recluse settlers and a deliveryman. To ascribe to it anything of greater significance one would have to look at it from an entirely different perspective.

  The perspective, he knew, of one all too familiar with the Meliorares and their work.

  Though she was unable to locate the source of it, Pip fluttered her pleated wings as she shared her master’s increasing excitement. This Eustabe was presenting him with a long shot, Flinx knew. An extreme long shot. Almost as great a long shot, albeit on a much reduced scale of physical values, as relocating the perambulating Tar-Aiym weapons platform. His lips pressed against each other. If he could take off across a sizable section of the Arm in search of the latter, he could damn well spend another day or two checking out the former. More than one long shot in his past had proven worth the pursuing. Clarity Held, for example.

  “Young Mr. Mastiff, sir?”

  “What?” Dragging himself back from contemplation of several unrelated curvilinear forms, Flinx remembered that he was supposed to be conducting a formal interview for an unidentified employer. “Yes, this Anayabi, uh, fella of yours certainly sounds like he might fit the profile of the kind of folks we want to include in our survey. Do you happen to have any additional information on him?”

  Eustabe shook his head. “I just made my scheduled deliveries, that’s all. I never had a hundredth the interest in him-wise that he did in me. You can try researching him through the Shell, but it’s my experience that folks who like that much physical privacy take care to shield their personals as well. If you go looking, I don’t think you’ll much find.” He smiled broadly. “If he can fit into your survey, then I expect your bonus will fit into my account.”

  Setting a secure, private link between their respective communits, both men worked in silence. While Flinx transferred the specified bonus credit to Eustabe’s personal account, his guest provided Flinx with what little additional information his personal sybfile contained on the hermetic Anayabi. The mostly speculative peripherals did not interest Flinx half so much as the coordinates of the settler’s residence.

  A quick check showed that the locale in question lay at the extreme limit of a standard skimmer’s range. Its very remoteness was a good sign, though pre-arrival research had indicated how seriously many of Gestalt’s iconoclastic artists, writers, and self-proclaimed philosophers valued and protected their privacy and isolation. So, too, Flinx knew, would anyone who had once had professional intercourse with the Meliorares. Anyone with any common sense, that is.

  He had to force himself not to utilize his own communit to link to the Shell, but to wait until he could once more access a public terminal to research the cryptic Gestaltian resident named Anayabi. He was at once disappointed and pleased to discover that Eustabe had been correct. There was nothing in the public records beyond the most basic listing to be found on anyone by that name. Only a single, terse, uninformative identification string through which Mr. Anayabi could be reached via the Shell. Nor did inputting the coordinates Eustabe had supplied produce any information beyond a location on a topological abstract. There was no description of the inhabitant of said location or his occupation; no mention of any family or category of abode. Like so many of his fellow settlers, the secretive Anayabi had elected to disclose nothing about himself beyond what was necessary to identify and record him as resident on the planet.

  Was this notable lack of information simply typical of Gestaltian reclusiveness, Flinx pondered restively, or just possibly indicative of a man with something to hide?

  As it turned out, it would take him at least one additional day to find out.

  The headache that woke him before sunrise the following morning defeated his every effort to moderate the pain. The medications he always carried with him, the precisely programmed neural stimulator he wrapped around his head—nothing worked. He spent the morning, then the afternoon, then the evening lying in bed, alternately medicated to a stupor and uncomfortably asleep, as wasted as the day itself.

  As always during such excruciating episodes, a fretful Pip watched over him. Though she had witnessed her master in the throes of cerebral agony many times before, she suffered through such repetitive episodes with as much concern as she had when he had first experienced them as a child. By the time both the pain in his brain and the side effects incurr
ed from his efforts to mute it had diminished sufficiently for him to function normally again, night had fallen, along with any hope of accomplishing anything of significance in the small remnant of what had been a thoroughly dissipated day.

  Even though he awoke the next morning feeling physically drained but otherwise all right, he held off proceeding until he was reasonably sure his head was not about to launch from his neck. Such punishing events would not drive him from Gestalt, and they would not deter him from his goal. Though it was hardly a reassurance, he knew he could die from a cerebral hemorrhage just as easily on Earth or Moth or New Riviera as he could on Gestalt. History and experience had taught him that no medical treatment extant could alleviate his condition.

  However crippling his headaches became, he was not leaving Gestalt until he had exhausted every possibility attendant on the dying Cocarol’s words. Though he would resume by investigating the lead Rosso Eustabe had given him, it by no means represented the only prospect. Anayabi was not the only eccentric living in isolation on this world. Further digging might well turn up others.

  The skimmer that arrived at the hotel in response to his requisition was not new, but it looked perfectly serviceable. He could have called forth his own transport, bringing it into town from its docking bay in the shuttle, but such a display of obvious independent wealth might have occasioned unnecessary and unwanted comment. No youthful, midrange fieldworker for an offworld company would be likely to have access to such an extravagance. Instead, it would be expected that he would have to hire the necessary vehicle locally. So that was what he had done.

  Preliminary research had also suggested that it would be good form, as well as socially proper, for him to engage a native escort. He did not need a guide, of course. Once the coordinates Eustabe had supplied had been entered into its AI, the skimmer would navigate its own route to the described destination. While Flinx would have preferred making the journey on his own with only Pip for company, his extensive travels had demonstrated on more than one occasion not only how important it was to adhere to local customs, but how frequently they tended to prove unexpectedly useful as well.