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Tipping himself forwards, he touched his forehead to the tile and kicked into
the air. He straightened out, feet extended towards the ceiling, and rose into
a handstand. Then, balanced on the fingers of his left hand, he put his right
into the pocket of his labcoat and brought out a packet of sweets. He poured
one into his mouth and offered the pack to her.
"Showoff," she said.
He pushed the floor, and flipped over in the air, landing on his feet.
Straightening up, he was a middle-aged, rangy black guy again.
"Yes, of course. I don't get much chance to, you know, out here in the sand."
"Couldn't you...?"
"Go back?" Wrinkles appeared on his forehead. The fun sapped out of him. "No.
GenTech doesn't forget. Zarathustra won't forget. One day, he'll try to take
me out, you know. That's the real reason for all these 'improvements.' One
slip, and you're excommunicated. He's not like he seems on the talkshows. They
called me a Frankenstein, but his ambitions go further. He's a Faust, a
Prometheus... and, in the end, I'm afraid he's a Pandora."
"You've lost me. Frankenstein I know from the videoshockers, but who are the
others?"
"It doesn't matter, Jessamyn. I'm not like him. I've changed your body, and I
tried to rewire a few of your neurons, but I've left you alone where it
counts."
"And Zarathustra?"
"He doesn't want to improve the quality of an individual life. He wants to
recreate the human race in the image of his ideal. Zarathustra isn't his real
name, you know. It's something German, really."
"He's a... what was that old gangcult called... Nazti?"
"Nazi. Maybe. There are still a few left. The Mayor of Berlin, for instance,
Rudolf Hess. Zarathustra has certainly dosed himself on some of his own
miracle rejuvenators."
They left the surgery, and Doc Threadneedle locked up that part of the house.
He had a large place, with as many modern conveniences as a sandhole like Dead
Rat could offer, but it wasn't what someone with his skills could rate in a
PZ.
He didn't seem to miss the gadgets and gizmos, though. His house was full of
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things she had only ever seen in old films with Rock Hudson and Doris Day: a
vacuum cleaner, which did the work of a suckerdrone; a gramophone, which
played unwieldy round black musidiscs with added scratch and hiss as part of
the music; an electric kettle that took ages, maybe two minutes, to heat up
enough water for a cup of recaff, and didn't do anything about the impurities
and pollutants.
Buzzsaw, the cat, curled around Jessamyn's legs.
"I've got you some clothes," said the Doc. "Your desert gear was more holes
than hide. Magda ze Schluderpacheru had something surplus down at the Silver
Shuriken."
He indicated a neat pile of drab-coloured garments.
"The Silver Shuriken?"
"It's the local saloon. A yakuza operation, naturally.
They're the only people who can keep anything open out in the sand, and not
be closed down by the gangcults. Magda is a honey. You should meet her."
"I'd like to. It's been so long since,.."
The Doc grinned. "... since you saw anything but my ugly mug, I understand.
It's time you got out of the house. You must be stir crazy."
She wandered over to the chicken-wired window, and looked out. It was a clear
night. The constellations twinkled.
"You should be with young people your own age, get yourself back into the
swing of society."
"Uhh?" She had been distracted, looking out the chicken-wired windows at the
half-disc of the moon. "I'm sorry. You're right. I need to... to do
something."
She felt funny, as if things were happening inside her.
"I meant to tell you about that. Your body is like an engine. If you don't
turn it over regularly, it will complain. With all the alterations you've had.
you'll need to take vigorous exercise for several hours a day. I'd prescribe
running, dancing, fighting, healthy eating and athletic sex."
"You could get to be very popular back in the city-states, Doc."
Doc Threadneedle smiled sadly. "Yes, but not with the right people."
Jessamyn picked up Buzzsaw, and felt the tingle of static from the cat's fur.
It was like a mini-rush in itself. She realized she was down from the
morph-plus, and that her senses were sharper than they had ever been before.
"Suck your finger and stick it in a light-socket sometime," the Doc said.
"You'll be surprised."
She stroked the cat. It squealed and struggled from her grip. It disappeared
upstairs.
"You don't know your own strength yet. You'll have to be careful. Here, try
one of these."
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He tossed her a thick yellow-covered book. She held it between her
forefingers and thumbs and neatly tore it in half.
"I lose more telephone directories that way."
IV
Dead Rat,Arizona . What a place for an Englishman to end up, don't ch'know?
Bloody buggering ha-ha-ha, eh what? Of course, Sarn't Major James Graham
Biggleswade couldn't exactly go back to Blighty and expect them to hang out
the welcome mat in Fulham, not after that tricky bit of bloody buggering
business down in the Falklandsmdashoh, excuuuuse meeee, the
Mal-bloody-buggering-vinasmdashback in '81. Bit of a blooming sodding disgrace
really, in actual fact, eh? These fakenham days, nobody hupped, frupped and
trupped when the older Mastsarge yelled. Fact was, nobody knew who James [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]