The Sum of Her Parts (7 page)

But nothing materialized to question their progress. Even the ubiquitous black and white crows had temporarily foresworn the travelers’ company, there being nothing for them to scavenge in such a dead, barren place. Occasionally they would stop at pools of fresh rainwater to slake their thirst, grateful for these smaller and less violent echoes of the recent atypical downpour and the chance to hydrate without having to dig into their supplies.

Both were relieved when the flat pan gave way to low hills cut by smaller gullies than the one from which they had recently escaped. True to form, Ouspel’s course followed one of these northward. Whispr especially was thankful for the opportunity to once again advance under cover. It took some urging on his part to persuade Ingrid to descend once more into a winding fissure in the
rocks. The memory of having nearly drowned in another was still far too fresh for comfort.

“We
have
to stay in the ravines,” he reminded her firmly. “They’re the only cover we have from Sperrgebeit patrols. Also, in the sun it makes for cooler walking.”

“I know, I know. It’s only … I know it isn’t reasonable, Whispr. But most psychological blocks aren’t. It’s not that I’ve turned suddenly hydrophobic. It’s just that the close call I had, that we had, is so recent.” She nodded toward the gully’s shadowy depths. “Why can’t we follow it by walking along the edge?”

“I just told you why. Because a searcher drone would be able to spot us from a distance. That’s why Ouspel’s instructions insist we go down into them. This is the kind of terrain that let him get away clean from the facility.” He marshaled more of his argument. “It would be hell to have made it all this way only to get picked up by SICK security because you can’t handle walking in a gulch that’s four meters deep.”

She stood contemplating the silent fissure in the earth for another few minutes. He said nothing more, waiting patiently. Finally she nodded and started down the slope before them, sliding and slipping her way to the sandy bottom. That it was covered with a centimeter or so of pooled rainfall did nothing to improve her mood. Feeling as though she were standing with her feet sunk halfway into a mirror and that if she took one wrong step she would sink out of sight into it forever, she looked over at him.

“If we’re caught in another flash flood you’ll save me again, won’t you?”

He smiled. “Sure. Why not? If I drown out here chances are it’ll be quicker than what’s waiting for us in Nerens.”

She made a face and allowed her pack to reposition itself against her shoulders and spine. The integrated pressure pads expanded downward to compensate for the shift.

“I’ll try my best not to inhibit your demise, since the speed with which it will occur seems to be of paramount importance to you.”

“You bet your ass it is, doc.” As he walked beside her his narrow feet kicked up rainwater. The drops hung briefly in the desert air like glass marbles. “Maybe if I die first you can time it.”

The House of Nasty. An admirably straightforward description, Molé mused. Also an in-your-face acknowledgment of what lay within.

As he stood contemplating the floating glowing sign that hovered above and just in front of the dubious establishment, the pedestrians shuffling and hurrying around him ignored the unremarkable old man in their midst. It was no different here than in Tokyo, or Newnew York, or London or Hio Janeiro or Sagramanda. He was a nonentity. Even more, he was an elderly nonentity. Clearly no threat to anyone, too plainly dressed to be worth riffling, a cipherous bit of perambulating protoplasm that posed no evident threat to man, Meld, beast, or any combination thereof.

That was just how he liked it.

Should anyone happened to have glanced in the direction of the innocuous figure who was staring at the sign over the basement entrance they would never have guessed that beneath the elderly exterior surged an occasional and sometimes lethal volcanic eruption of aggravation. It was just as well that no one did. Molé was in
no mood to suffer the inquisitive. Curiosity was intrusive, intrusion was invasion, and invaders were as likely to have their throats cut as their cheeks patted, depending on his frame of mind. At the moment the latter was as dark as the hour of night. The heavy cloud cover that had settled in over Cape Town like a thick wool blanket matched his mood.

He had lost the trail. Lost track of his quarry. The mildly deranged doctor and her nonentity stick-man Meld of a companion had vanished from the hunter’s ken, plucked literally from under his gaze by the operator of a counterfeit elephant. While Molé had looked on helplessly from atop a hill in the backcountry of the Sanbona Preserve, the quadrupedal mechanical transport had picked up his targets, turned, and strode off to the north. That did not mean its final destination lay to the north. Once out of his sight it could have gone in any direction, further complicating his interrupted pursuit of the two Namericans.

The machine itself was the only clue he had left. He still had no idea where the two mismatched thieves were going or what they intended to do with the thread. The fact that they had come here, to the heartland of his present employers, had been a sufficiently startling development in itself. Subsequent to their arrival everything they had done had been characteristic of the classic African tourist. They had done nothing to suggest that they were travelers in possession of extremely valuable stolen property.

Did they know that it was him who had nearly run them down in Sanbona? Not that it mattered. Having been alerted to the fact that their presence in southern Africa had been discovered they would be even more on their guard than ever. Which would make his job of locating them all over again harder than ever.

Despite his frustration he did not despair. Failure was not in his vocabulary. It was one reason why he was repeatedly hired for such
difficult tasks. He had never failed to complete whatever assignment he had accepted. Nor would this be the first time. He certainly would not be bested by a pair of bumbling amateur know-nothings from Namerica who did not even understand the significance of what they had taken.

If the trail ahead disappears a good tracker knows to retrace his steps and search for overlooked clues on ground already trodden. Careful probing and questioning had led him here, tonight, to the least reputable section of Cape Town; a district so despised that the honorable citizens of the city could not wait for the planet’s slowly rising waters to overtake and consume it.

The House of Nasty, in fact, lay below sea level. The original brick walls of the basement in the old harbor warehouse had been reinforced and rendered watertight by being infused with a penetrating liquid epoxy. The result was the modern but far sturdier chemical equivalent of the Delft tiles the Dutch had once used to waterproof the lower floors of their own buildings. While not as attractive as the hand-painted seventeenth-century Dutch materials, the newer composites were considerably more hydrophilic.

Within the shimmering sign above the entrance a continuously scanning optical pickup concluded that the eyes of the small man standing in the street had been focused on the front of the building for the requisite predetermined length of time. Responding to its programming, the sign dispatched a targeted mobiad. Descending onto the street, this slowed to a halt at the psychologically predetermined optimum distance from the potential customer’s eyes. The glowing motile advertisement then proceeded to flash fire a series of three-dimensional vit images calculated to stimulate the more degenerate crevices and recesses of the singled-out viewer’s brain. For a modest fee, any and all of these advertised depravities could be had by simply strolling to the entrance of the named establishment,
suitably identifying oneself at the door as an adult, and requesting admittance.

Molé irritably waved the mobiad aside, his hand brushing through the images. Casual obscenities were obliterated, outrageous smut interrupted. If the information he had accumulated over the previous several days was accurate, he would find the individual he sought partaking of the soiled delights within. The fiercely touted attractions did not inveigle him. He was quite capable of amusing himself without having to pay an unimaginative supplier.

It was noisy inside the House of Nasty, but not oppressively so. The intense goolmech that directly tickled one’s tympanum was comparatively subdued. So was the lighting. The latter condition was a given. Although perfectly willing to pay whatever was asked in order to indulge their preferential perversions, that did not mean the participants were prepared to have them highlighted for the delectation of potential tattletales. It was all well and good to delve into the depths of depravity and splash around in the muck, but not so if the details were allowed to find their way back to a spouse or relative or fiancée.

As he threaded his way through the prattling, giggling, sucking crowd, the ambient illumination in the club’s main chamber shifted from red to purple and back again as artfully as in a properly mixed drink. Though the music being hammered out was not to his taste, he was grateful for the strings and percussion that drowned out most of the dim-witted palaver passing for conversation around him.

Two bar counters separated by a dance floor and scattered tables faced each other across the basement. If they ran true to form they would offer more than alcohol. It was a truism of humanity that once a new stimulant or narcotic became available, a thousand
people would line up to try it without a care as to whether it was effective, indifferent, or fatal. When it came to stimulants, reputation always trumped well-being. A place like this, he reflected, would stock the latest of everything. Better living through chemistry. Or better dying.

Someone stepped in front of him to block his path. In her late thirties, the Meld was still attractive, with a voluptuous body whose gym and pill-toned attributes included three breasts that threatened to erupt from her single-piece cerulean dress like toothpaste from a broken old-fashioned tube. He eyed the various regions of bulging tanned flesh distastefully while drifting spheres of lime-green light ambled across them. Having no time for such diversions he impatiently tried to step around her. She sidled sideways to intercept him once again.

Already bent slightly forward at the waist to emphasize his fragility, he twisted his torso into an even more damaged posture. “Please excuse me, madam. I am here only to quietly imbibe and perhaps have something to eat.”

Putting hands on hips she struck a pose that was at least five thousand years old and threw him a lecherous smirk. “What, all supping and no tupping? Don’t you find me attractive?”

“Even at my age and with my poor vision I can still say yes to that, my dear. Surely you do not think the same of me?” Before she could respond he raised a trembling hand to forestall the rote response that he knew would be forthcoming. Anything to get rid of her. “Please, no falsified flattery. I am not ashamed of my natural condition. Find yourself someone who can muster at least a minimum of endurance to match your intentions and leave me to drown my musings in peace.”

The leer she wore like a carnivale mask widened. “So drinking’s your thing? Want to know what mine is?” Before he could demur
she leaned toward him, multiple cleavage on ample display. “I like old guys,” she whispered and then straightened. “Want to know why?”

He did not, but neither did he want to cause a scene and possibly scare off the person he was really looking for. “Why, my dear?”

“Because I get off on their gratitude. It gives me a chill thrill. That’s a fair swap, isn’t it?” Reaching out she rested a hand on his left shoulder and squeezed, the nails that had been permanently bonded to the finger bones digging slightly into his flesh. “I know I’ll get mine. I guarantee you’ll get yours.”

The vast variety of decadent tastes exhibited by humankind never failed to sadden him. “I know I could give you a surprise, madam, but I have neither the inclination nor the time nor the strength.” He took a step forward. A pale yellow orb drifted past his face and for the barest instant was reflected in his eyes. Had the trolling slummer blocking his way seen it she might have fled. Instead she stood her ground.

“A surprise?
You?
That would be a first, but I like firsts. Maybe you’re not up to much, but you strike me as someone who’s been around. I’m willing to take my chances.” She gestured to her right. “We could rent a gas tube. I’d split it with you.” She grinned. “Then you can split me, old man.”

Her leering persistence had become intolerable. Mustering a smile, he caught her gaze with his. Peering into his eyes she sensed rather than saw his right hand slide up the front of her body. Convinced she had made a sale she relaxed, expecting the hand to go higher. Instead it halted below her breasts in the vicinity of her solar plexus. Unexpectedly powerful melded fingers moved and thrust. Her eyes bulged. Her mouth opened in a wide “O” and she inhaled sharply, only to find that her lungs wouldn’t work.

“Will this do for a surprise?” he murmured softly.

Eyes still wide she continued to stare at him. Then they fluttered
shut and she crumpled to the floor like a pile of overcooked yams. Two nearby couples interrupted their simulated coitus to look over in surprise. Molé smiled at them.

“I think she took too strong a stimcomb. She’ll be fine.” He stepped over the motionless body that had contracted into a fetal position. “Let the staff handle it. They are paid to do so.”

The two couples eyed the speaker, who was patently too old and feeble to have done anything untoward, and returned to their loveless playacting. Having dealt with the brief nuisance, Molé worked his way through the gyrating crowd to the nearer of the opposing bars.

It was crewed by two mixologists, one Natural and one Meld. The latter flaunted a pair of double-length arms, the better to reach the high shelves and distant reaches of the container-laden jet-black back bar. Each of his hands featured eight nimble fingers capable of handling the most complex components of the bartender’s art. For several minutes Molé watched both men at work before sidling over to sit across from the Natural. Being less busy than his counterpart he would have more time to observe, and more time to talk.