Could tell he was embarrassed, so I let him off the hook: "Guess that keeps them away from your food stores."
"Uh. Rats are food un'ground."
My stomach did a little flipflop.
"I see." Decided this was a good time to change the subject. "By the way, what does 'B.B.' stand for, anyway?"
"Baby Boy."
"Oh."
My throat was suddenly tight and achy.
Just then we had a visit from officialdom: Complex Security came calling. Recognized the uniform and the droopy-lidded face that went with it. Had seen him around the complex over the years.
"You Sigmundo Dreyer?" he asked from the threshhold after the door had been cued open. He was staring at my neck brace.
"Who wants to know?"
"We had a complaint about a foul odor coming from this end of the corridor."
"Really? What kind of odor?"
"Said it smelled like something dead."
A chill raced through my bloodstream. "Well, sniff for yourself. You smell anything?"
He shook his head. "Not a thing."
"Who made the complaint?"
Already knew the answer, but wanted to hear it confirmed.
"Anonymous."
Thought so.
"Consider the source," I said.
He smiled, gave me a little salute, and left.
"We got trouble."
"S'wrong?" B.B. said.
I'd been talking to myself — sometimes I think better out loud. Decided to bounce my thoughts off the urch.
"That wasn't a crank complaint, or a mistake. That was somebody checking up to see why I haven't been reported dead."
"How they know you not?" His face screwed up in concentration. "And how they find out where you live so they can wire door?"
Held up my right thumb. "The cashless society. You'll never have the problem, but every time a Realperson uses his credit, he leaves all sorts of vital statistics behind — name, address, credit record. They've doubtlessly been checking with Central Data to see official confirmation of my death. Naturally, it hasn't appeared. They figure my body's rotting in here so they try to get the complex's security force to do their checking for them. When my name fails to be listed as deceased tomorrow, they'll come by to finish the job."
Didn't know what to do. Still too weak to take the battle to them, but didn't want to go back to the hospital.
B.B. was suddenly very agitated.
"You think they c'mere? Really try again?"
"That's what I'd do. But don't worry," I said with a confidence I didn't feel. "We'll just keep the door sealed tight and wait till I'm fully healed up."
"W'if they blow door?"
Hadn't thought of that.
"That would make a little too much noise, I'd think."
Tried to sound confident, but if they wanted me bad enough, it was an option: Show up dressed in a holosuit, blow the door, strafe the room with blaster fire, and take off.
"N'good, san," B.B. said, up and pacing about. His speech was deteriorating by the minute. "N'good, n'good." He turned and darted for the door.
"Hey! Where're you going?"
"Y'stay, san. I go. Gots go now."
And he was gone.
Thought he'd be back soon but dark came and still no sign of him. Missed two treatments for the first time since coming home from the hospital. Finally it got late and I got sleepy and so I turned in.
Had trouble sleeping. Not much. Just a little. Kept thinking how I'd been smart all along to be alone. Have somebody around all the time and before you know it, you're depending on them. And then what? The first sign of trouble, they run out on you. Should have known better. The whole thing made me mad. Wasn't hurt. Just damn mad.
Thought I heard someone at my door during the night. Worked my way to the transparency control, hoping to see B.B. there but found the corridor empty. Probably my imagination. Besides, B.B. had the key I'd given him. He didn't need to fiddle with the door.
This whole situation was getting me spooked. Decided to sleep in the chair for the rest of the night. Left the door transparent. Usually the light from the corridor bothered me when I was trying to sleep, but tonight it was comforting.
Awoke later to the sound of the door sliding open. The pale-faced, fat-nosed fellow who had mollied my neck was standing in the hall behind the redheaded tech. His eyes were wide as he looked me up and down.
"You're really alive! It's dregging impossible!"
Felt like a half-crushed roach pinned in a flashlight beam. But all I could see was the little stub of plastic in the redhead's hand. My mouth was dry as I spoke.
"My key...?"
He smiled. "Your little friend sold it to us for a meal credit."
My fear was suddenly washed away in a gush of abysmal sadness. B.B. had sold me out for another soysteak dinner. As the pale-faced guy nudged the redhead into the room, I found I didn't really care all that much about dying. Too tired, too weak, too many troubles, too much disappointment. Sick of everything. Almost welcomed her.
As she moved toward me, her eyes suddenly bulged in alarm. She started to turn around, and as she did I saw fine crimson lines appear across her throat, across the white of the uniform overlying her breasts, abdomen, and legs. She began to fall, and as she went down she came apart like an overbalanced stack of boxes. The crimson lines quickly bloomed to blotches which became geysers and torrents of red as her head toppled to the left, her lower arms dropped straight down, and the other pieces tumbled to the right. In a matter of seconds the ceiling, the walls, the pale faced guy, and I were all dripping warm red sticky fluid. But most of the red was pooled around the still twitching horror just inside the doorway.
Wiped my eyes and looked up. Saw the guy staring dully at his former associate. Swallowed back my stomach contents and tried to think of a way out of this. An idea of what had happened here was forming in my brain and suddenly I was very anxious to stay alive.
Figuring it was now or never, I started my chair toward the drawer where I kept a small popper. The movement must have shaken Paleface out of his shocked stupor. Suddenly he was reaching into his jump and pulling out a mean-looking blaster. As he raised it, I heard a shrill cry from down the hall. He turned, I looked.
B.B. was in full charge toward Paleface. The kid caught him off balance half way through his turn. He fell backward, his arms whirling like flywheels. Did him no good. He stumbled through the wired doorway and went to pieces. More pumping, twitching sections of body bounced and rolled along my compartment floor.
Looked away in time to see B.B. skid to a halt at the threshhold, then to my horror, saw him slip on a splatter of blood and lose his balance. One hand grabbed onto the jamb while the other flailed —
— and crossed the plane of the door.
Saw his hand fly off, saw him drop to his knees and stare stupidly at the geysering stump of his wrist.
Without even thinking I had the chair in motion toward the door but it caught up on the bloody meat all over my floor.
"Grab it!" I shouted. "Squeeze it off!" But he didn't seem to hear.
Stumbled out of the chair and up onto my feet. My legs gave out after two steps so I crawled on hands and knees through the gore, praying that my brace would hold my head on and that I'd healed up enough inside so that nothing would slip around. Shouted encouragement all the while, but he just sat there and stared at the stump.
Reached the threshhold and stretched my arm through, holding my breath and hoping I was between the wires. When none of my fingers fell off, I grabbed his forearm just above the amputation site and squeezed, working my fingers and thumb into the scant flesh, trying different spots until the blood stopped pumping out, then held onto that spot with every ounce of strength.
He looked at me and blinked. His face was death white and his eyes seemed to have retreated into his skull. "Got'm, yeh. Won't hurt y'no mo, san."
Then he slumped to the floor in a heap.
Held onto his wrist and started
shouting at the top of my lungs. When doors started opening down the hall, I turned back to the kid and said,
"You die on me you little bastard and so help me I'll wring your skinny little neck!"
Thought he was dead or in a terminal coma at best but swore his lips curled into a tiny smile.
-15-
Had a lot of explaining to do. Two neatly sliced up bodies on the floor of one's compartment tends to raise questions among officialdom. Leaving out all mention of the super NDT, told them that I'd learned about the pair's urchin-snatching activities — said I had no idea why they did it — and that they'd tried to kill me with molly wire.
Because I had an investigator's licence and had the wound to prove prior assault, and because Redhead and Paleface still had blasters clutched in the hands at the ends of their severed arms, I managed to stay out of confinement. But the incident was still under investigation while the bodies were being pieced together and posted, and I was not to leave the Megalops until all questions were answered.
Didn't matter to me. Wasn't going anywhere for some time anyway.
My arms and legs were stronger now and I could walk around and take care of myself. Even worked the window garden a little. Doc still wasn't allowing me out of the brace, though.
B.B. had come through fine — I'd guaranteed his medical expenses to make sure of that. His right hand was grafting on nicely but it was still in an immobilizing brace. He had full use of his left hand, though. Together we made one marginally competent person.
"Fine pair we are," I said as we watched the vid.
B.B. popped a cheesoid into his mouth and tossed another to Iggy.
"Lazy."
"Yeah. Lazy. Got to get back to work someday."
Work. Reminded me of my only client — Mr. Earl Khambot.
A number of local urchingangs had checked all of their females in the age range of the Khambot girl and had found no one with footprints that even came close to the infant prints the father had given me. Didn't know if I could trust their comparison skills, but had no alternative. A retinal check would have been better but that was impossible.
Time to call my client and tell him I was still looking but had come up with zero. Strange...it had been weeks and he hadn't called once to check up on my progress. Doubly strange after his generous downpayment in gold.
Called his number but the man who answered was not my client and he'd never heard of Earl Khambot. Spent the rest of the day calling every Earl Khambot in the Megalops. There weren't too many, and none of them was my client.
"What's going on?" I said as the holochamber faded after the last call.
"S'wrong?" B.B. said.
"Hired by a paying customer who doesn't exist to find a child who can't be found. That make sense to you?"
"Maybe no child."
"Maybe right."
"S'mystery, san."
" 'Mister Dreyer.' And yeah, it's that all right."
"S'okay. Got friend for life, right?" he said, pointing to himself and tossing me a cheesoid.
Laughed and winged it back at him. Maybe that was enough. For now.
PART THREE
Kids
"It's anytime. Do you know where your urchin is?" (datastream graffito)
-1-
After a few weeks, my head and neck rig came off. B.B.'s wrist brace came off about the same time.
And all the while I'd been thinking about the guy who had called himself Earl Khambot. What can you say about a client who didn't exist?
Further, what can you say about a client who didn't exist who paid you in hard to find someone else who also didn't exist?
Severe neuronal dysfunction, right?
But that's what appeared to have happened. Earl Khambot had lied to me about his own name yet had paid me in advance in good metal to find the fictional daughter he had supposedly given over to the urchins as a babe.
Why?
Couldn't think of a single reason.
Couldn't complain, either. Had his gold, and that was not exactly what one would call a heavy burden.
But it became clear to me after a while that I was going to have to find the guy who'd called himself Earl Khambot or go crazy. Not that I'd have a great deal of trouble squeezing the search into my busy schedule. After all, I'd been out of the business for a pair of years, and hadn't been all that terribly busy when things were in hyperdrive, relatively speaking.
So I used my copious slack time to apply my sector-renowned tracking skills to hunting down Earl Khambot. Knew it wouldn't be easy, but I was getting first-hand experience with the concept of obsession" and had to keep going. It wouldn't let up on me.
Why?
Everybody tries to gain in some way by whatever they do. Even if they give a trinket to an urchin beggar, they're getting a feelgood in return. Even crazy people have their reasons for doing things. Plenty of times they're rotten reasons, but at least you could see what they were after. With Khambot I couldn't even guess. The trail was cold but it didn't matter. I had to know. And to know, I had to find him.
Wished I could have traced him through his thumb, but that was out because he'd paid me in gold. That had impressed me at first as a gesture of trust and good will, and a sure sign that he didn't want our business relationship recorded in Central Data. Perfectly fine with me. And perfectly consistent with the job he wanted me to do: Locate a supposedly illegal child.
Who apparently didn't exist either.
Started driving me crazy.
What had been Khambot's angle? What did he get out of our little transaction?
Didn't know, but was damn sure going to find out.
Or so I thought.
Came up blank all over the Megalops. No one could recollect ever hearing his name before; and although a fair number said he looked vaguely familiar, no one could say where they'd seen him. B.B. even had a couple of urchingangs looking for traces of Earl Khambot but they came up null score.
Looked hopeless.
So imagine my surprise when I find him in my home.
Right.
I was sitting in my polyform contour chair in my cozy little compartment; the picture of modern domestic tranquility: Me, the urch, and the iguana around the vid.
That was where I found him. On the vid during good ol' Newsface Four's datacast.
It was a VersaPili commercial. The one where the guy up front starts off swaying back and forth in completely hairless holographic splendor, then grows a little moustache, then some chest hair, then a heart-shaped pubic bush, then starts with hairy designs all over his body while the back-up chorus dances and chants:
It's automatic,
It's enzymatic,
So pragmatic
You'll be ecstatic!
Stimulate or numb your hairy molecules!
Hirsutize or dormatize those follicules!"_
A certifiable classic. Everyone remembered it because it used real people instead of digital constructs. And guess who I spotted prancing around in the chorus?
Right.
Started shouting like a black holer: "It's him! Damn the Core, it's him!"
Scared the hell out of B.B. who was visiting again after one of his periodic sojourns home to the Lost Boys. He spilled half a cup of green FlavoPunch all over himself.
"Wha? Wha?" he said, twisting that boney body this way and that, bright brown eyes popping. "Who's him? Who?"
"That guy there in the back on the right! The one with the cubed hair! It's him! Khambot! Earl dregging Khambot!"
"Sure?" he said. He was trying to wipe the green goop off him but succeeded only in smearing it deeper into the fabric of his jump.
"Pretty sure."
Moved closer for a better look but the commercial faded from the holochamber to be replaced by Newsface Four again. Told it to retrieve the commercial and ordered it to freeze when the guy in question stepped forward for a spin. Checked him from a couple of different angles.
Khambot all right. Or his clone.
> Told the vid to relocate the leading edge of the datastream, then sat back in the chair and considered: mystery man Earl Khambot — low odds that was his real name — was really a song-and-dance man. Wasn't too sure how happy I was with that revelation.
"How you gonna find him, Siggy-san?" B.B. said.
Sometime during the past week he had stopped calling me Mr. Dreyer. Wasn't something I liked but wasn't about to make an issue of it, either. He had found a way to clean the green gook off his jump by letting Iggy lap it up with his big coarse tongue. Never dreamed an iguana would take to FlavoPunch. Maybe it was a nice break from the compartment's roaches.
"Could be I'll go into the commercial business."
-2-
Finding Khambot wasn't as easy as I'd thought. Took me days to snake my way through the various departments of the VersaPili division of the Leason Corporation until I got to someone who had the name of the company that had produced that particular commercial for them. Turned out to be one of these avant guard artsy groups that was dedicated to using live actors. From them I got the names of the five guys in the chorus — nobody there seemed to emember the name of the second guy from the right so I took all five names and began searching them out.
Got lucky with number three.
Earl Khambot turned out to be Deen Karmo. Lived alone in a small compartment in an old complex in Queens. A small building, holographed up to look like the top half of the old Chrysler Building. That alone told me it was old and seedy — the Chrysler had been the most popular of the very early envelopes — and the lobby confirmed the impression.
Waited till he left one morning, then let myself in. Easily. His security rig was rudimentary. And once inside I knew why. The guy didn't have anything worth taking. Made my place look like a palace.
Being a flesh-and-blood song-and-dance man these days obviously didn't pay well.
Made myself at home and waited for him to come back. Was resigned for a long haul but he surprised me by showing up in a couple of tenths.
Didn't even look up as he came in. He was humming a tune and dressed in the latest style just as he'd been when showed up at my office that one time. Still a real pretty-boy. The door had already slid completely shut behind him before he spotted me.
Dydeetown World Page 11
