The Complete LaNague

  I didn't hesitate a microsecond. "'Luncheon.' I said, 'I still have time to make a luncheon.'"

  "Oh," she said and nodded, but I knew she didn't believe me. Got out as fast as I could and headed for Elmero's, hoping Doc was there.

  11.

  "Seems kind of a waste to me," Doc said, his black face gleaming in the bright lights of Elmero's office. "I mean, we've already been into Central Data once and found nothing useful in the p-m report. Why go back?"

  "Because I don't think we asked the right questions."

  While I argued with Doc, Elmero was already at his console, working his jacking procedure. The super NDT was still buzzing through me. My thoughts were flying.

  Doc shrugged. "Well, it's your money."

  "Right. So tell me: Is a cerebrospinal fluid analysis done on a routine post-mortem?"

  "Of course. Protein, glucose, chlorides, bacteria, viruses, toxins, and other sundry things."

  "Neurohormones?"

  "Hell, no!"

  "Why not?"

  "Be like checking for subcutaneous fat on your ass: Everbody's got it to varying degrees. Why should they check for neurohormones? Everybody's got those. Besides, those assays are expensive. You'd have to expect a problem along those lines before trying to justify that kind of expenditure. Certainly wouldn't do it on a John or a Jane Doe that's undoubtedly an urchin."

  That was what I had figured.

  "How long do they keep tissue samples in the coroner's dept?"

  "Depends. On a Doe case, probably a month, tops."

  "We're in," Elmeror announced from the console.

  "Can you requisition a test on one of the dead kids' CSF?"

  Elmero gave a me a look that eloquently mixed disgust with annoyance.

  "Sorry," I said. "Don't know what came over me. Get a nordopatriptyline level."

  He told the coroner's computer to run the test, then leaned back in his chair and glided it back to the desk. Doc went out to the barroom for a fresh whiff, saying this would take awhile. His timing was perfect: The result of the NDT assay popped into view just as he returned. He stepped over and looked at it.

  "Damn me!" he said.

  I joined him and scanned the result: "NDT level in subject CSF = 2.7 ng./dl. Normal level in age group = 12.5 - 28 ng./dl."

  "Figured that," I said.

  Doc gave me a sour look. "And just how did you 'figure' that someone had sucked off this kid's NDT?"

  Told them how B.B.'s "comet" had led us to NeuroNex, what the tech had said about the super synthetic NDT, about my earlier guess that NeuroNex might be testing a new substance on the urchins.

  "But if that's the case, the kid's brain should have been loaded with NDT!" Doc said.

  "Not if the assay doesn't pick up the synthetic," Elmero said.

  Doc scowled. "Then why the depressed levels?"

  Waited a few beats, then said, "Because everything the tech told me about the new synthetic super NDT was true, except the part about it being synthetic."

  They stared at me uncomprehendingly. Nice to be the smart guy, the guy with all the answers for once. Allowed them to stew for awhile. Finally:

  "Think about it. NDT is a normal component of the CSF. It's necessary for normal cognitive functions, and in increased concentrations it can enhance those functions. Now... at what time in your development is the brain most actively sorting, analyzing, filing, matching, compounding, linking, correlating, and so on?"

  "Childhood," Doc said.

  "Right! The whole world is new. The mind is relentlessly bombarded with a seemingly endless flow of new data."

  Doc bit his lower lip. "I don't like where this is heading."

  Elmero said nothing. He just sat there and absorbed it all.

  "Bet there's an obscure piece of research somewhere that recounts the remarkable enhancing power of toddler NDT on adult cognition. Quadruple bioactivity."

  Doc whiffed and exhaled slowly. "NeuroNex is a reputable company. I can't believe it would get involved–”

  "It's not," Elmero said. "If this was being done on a corporate level, I'd have heard about it."

  Nodded in agreement. A big operation would cause supply problems, creating a black market in toddler NDT, and there wasn't a black market in Sol System that Elmero didn't know about.

  "Right. This is strictly small time. The tech and the local franchise owner are probably working it on their own, snatching the kids, siphoning off their NDT, and bartering it away as an 'unapproved synthetic' at a very stiff price per nanogram."

  That explained the holosuited customers this morning – they wanted to remain anonymous.

  "There's people who want it that bad?" Doc said.

  "Definitely."

  The effect of my test dose was fading a little now and I could see why you'd want some more. Especially if you were a businessman or analyst. Never thought so clearly, never saw so many relationships and correlations between seemingly unrelated facts in all my life. Like being terribly nearsighted since birth and then having your focal length corrected – a whole new world is suddenly available to you. Probably never feel this way again. Would miss it.

  "And then they kill the kids?" Doc said. His face was drawn and tight. Real anger there.

  "No. Those two were accidents. My theory is that adults can donate a unit of NDT without much after-effect, but kids really notice the difference. They're dull, dim-witted, mentally sluggish after their NDT's been siphoned off. At least that's the way B.B. described the kids that were snatched, then returned to the gang. I think the two dead kids were going to be returned like the others but got loose. They were dopey and disoriented and I think they just fell by accident."

  "Sounds to me," Elmero said, "that killing them would be safest. No trace."

  "There's no trace anyway," I told him. "An urch has no legal status, and besides, these kids don't remember anything about the weeks preceding and following the time they're robbed of their NDT."

  Elmero was insistent. "Still safer dead."

  "But don't you see, Elm? They're the Golden Geese. Put them back with their urchingang and they'll gradually replenish their super toddler NDT over a period of months, and then they'll be ripe for milking again, like a herd of cows."

  This, unfortunately, elicited a smile from Elmero. "Good plan!"

  "It's a monstrous plan!" Doc said, the dark skin of his face getting darker. "It's got to be exposed! They're doing untold damage to those kids! NDT deprivation at their age, even for limited spans, has to curtail their intellectual development, may even retard it permanently. And an urch needs every bit of brain he can muster to make it in this world. No, this can't go on. I've got to bring it to the attention of the medical authorities." His head snapped up, as if startled by a thought. "Why, they may even reinstate my license for this!"

  "Got to invoke privilege on this, Doc," I said.

  He looked crestfallen. "Really? Why?"

  "Client's wishes."

  In a way, that was a lie. Mr. Khambot didn't know a thing about this super NDT angle, but I was sure he wouldn't want it spread around. Publicity would only encourage open season on little urchins by NDT vultures. Had to figure out a way to settle this quietly, on my own.

  Settled up with Elmero and Doc, then headed home.

  That was when the molly wire beheaded me.

  12.

  Had to hand it to Doc – he didn't waste any time getting to my place. My head was still on my shoulders and my fingers were still clasped around my lower neck, although I'd lost all feeling in my hands when he arrived, black bag in hand. My chin and the front of my jump were soaked with saliva. Wanted so bad to swallow something.

  "Siggy, Siggy," he said in an awed whisper as he inspected me. "Who'd do this to you?"

  Resisted the temptation to shake my head as I whispered, "Not sure. NeuroNex a good bet."

  He nodded. "Maybe."

  "Why'm I still alive?"

  "I don't know," he said. His hands were trembling as he
dipped into his black bag. "I've heard about cases like this, read about them, but never believed I'd ever see one. I think you're alive due to a mixture of fantastic luck and good balance, combined with more fantastic luck and surface tension."

  "Surface–?"

  "Makes wet things tend to stick together. There's a natural cohesiveness between cells. I'll venture to say that your would-be assassin used pristine new molly wire. That was luck on your part. The older stuff picks up molecules of garbage on its surface that makes it relatively dull. Still sharper than anything else in Occupied Space, but nothing like the fresh stuff. Your cut is so fine and clean that all your blood vessels and neurons and other tissues have stayed in physiological alignment. The chair, the gentle pressure from your hands, the fact that you haven't turned your head or done much swallowing and, of course, surface tension, have kept things lined up where they belong."

  "Can talk."

  "The wire passd below your vocal cords."

  "Still don't see how–”

  "Look: Molly wire's only one molecule thick. Mammalian cells can pass particles much much larger right through their cell walls. It's called pinocytosis. A lot of your cell walls are probably healed up already. Why – why I'll bet most of those cells don't even know their membranes have been ruptured!"

  He was babbling. "Doc–”

  "Do you realize that your neurons are still sending impulses from the brain to your arms. Oh, this is amazing, simply amazing! There's a little hematoma by the right jugular, but in general this is–”

  Wanted to kick him but didn't have the strength. "Doc. Help. Please."

  "I am helping."

  He pulled out some gauzy stuff and started wrapping it around my throat, working it under my fingers and finally pushing them out of the way. Reluctant as hell to take my hands away, but it was an immense relief to finally let them drop to my sides.

  Doc continued to babble as he worked.

  "Amazing! Just amazing. I've got to hand it to you, Siggy. You showed real presence of mind. I mean, to know what had happened to you and assess the situation and do just what you had to do to keep your head on straight. Took real guts and a computer mind. Never knew you had it in you. I'm proud of you."

  Thought about that and realized it must have been the residual effects of the super NDT that helped me zero in on what had happened and what to do about it so quickly. Doubt very much I could have done it purely on my own. Kind of liked the irony in that.

  Doc looped the gauze under my arms and over the top of my head, then sprayed the whole mess with a pungent liquid. It hardened.

  "What–?"

  "It's a cast of sorts for your neck. It'll hold everything in place until I can get you to a hospital."

  "No hospital."

  "No choice, my friend."

  "They think I'm dead."

  Wanted to keep it that way until I was fully recovered.

  "They'll think right if I don't get you to a facility where somebody can staple that split vertebra together, reanastomose your major blood vessels and nerve trunks, and repair the damaged musculature. Even if you live, your spinal cord could start demyelinating and leave you a paraplegic, or a best a paraparetic."

  "They'll come to finish me."

  "I know a small private hospital where we can hide you away indefinitely. They'll–”

  There was a thump on the door. I glanced over – with eyes only – and saw B.B. the urch slumped against my door, half-heartedly pounding on it. He was sobbing.

  "Open it," I told Doc.

  The door slid open and dropped one surprised urchin into my compartment. He looked at me and his reddened eyes fairly bulged out of his tear-streaked face.

  "Dreyer-san! You...you're..."

  "Alive?" I said.

  "B'see'm spray, see'm smilee–”

  "You were out there?" And then I remembered the blur I'd seen behind the guy who mollied me. Must have been B.B.

  "Foll you fr'Elmero's, see'm spray, den foll'm all way back."

  Wanted to cheer. "Back where?"

  "Boed North. NeuroNex."

  All right. That clinched it. My slip about urchins in front of the tech had put me on a hit list. Would have to risk Doc's private hospital. And when well enough – if I ever got well enough – I'd have a score to settle.

  B.B. came over and gabbed my hand. Could barely feel it. There were fresh tears in his eyes.

  "S'glad y'live, Dreyer-san."

  "Mister Dreyer, urch."

  13.

  A week later I was home. They hadn't wanted to let me go but I didn't care. Enough was enough. Would've had me living there for months if I'd allowed it but was more than ready after a week. They'd put everything back together the first day, then started electrostim treatments to make the bones and nerves heal faster. Felt like a lab rat after a while. They all wanted to talk to me, examine me. Sickening.

  Made them send me home, but they insisted on rigging this steel frame around my neck. It was screwed into my collar bones, the back of my neck, and my skull. Couldn't rotate my neck at all – had to turn my whole upper body to look left or right. Felt like a cyborg.

  All the medics wanted to write about me, but Doc had first call on that. Said it would help him get his license back. How could I refuse after the way he'd shown up when I needed him? Put two restrictions on him, though: He couldn't use my name, and he had to wait til I'd settled the score with the NeuroNex people.

  Doc brought me home. The urch opened my compartment door before we reached it. Iggy was sitting on his shoulder.

  "Mr. Dreyer, Mr. Dreyer! You're back home!" He was fairly trembling with excitement. "So glad, so glad!"

  "What're you doing here?"

  "Living. Keeping clean. Feeding doggie." He stroked Iggy's flank.

  "That's not a dog, that's a lizard."

  Doc said, "B.B.'s going to help take care of you, Sig."

  The urch tried to take my hand and lead me over to my chair. Shook him off.

  "Don't need help." Eased myself into the chair and let it form around my back. It accommodated the brace easily.

  "You most certainly do," Doc said. "I'm going to teach B.B. here how to apply the neurostimulators to your neck to keep the healing process going at its accelerated rate."

  Glanced around my compartment. It was clean – much cleaner than the autoservice ever left it.

  "How'd you get in here?" I said. The door was keyed to my palm. There was a key I could give to someone else if I chose, but I hadn't given it to anyone.

  "Never left."

  "You mean to tell me you've spent a whole week here without leaving even once?"

  He smiled at me. "Sure. Got food, got bed, got shower, got vid. Lots of vid. Watch all day and night." He spread his arms and turned in a slow circle. "Filamentous heaven."

  Looking at his scrubbed, happy face I could see that he really believed he had found heaven. Maybe he had. He must have been living around the vid set, and must have been practicing his Realpeople talk because he was much better, much smoother. And his body looked a little plumper. He was still a stick drawing, but with heavier lines.

  "Leave me any food?"

  "Oh, yes!"

  "Think you can fix us some lunch?"

  "Lunch? Oh, yes! Most certainly yes!" He said as he scurried over to the kitchen console.

  He had definitely been watching a lot of vid.

  Doc winked at me. "He's going to work out just fine!"

  Said nothing as I watched that skinny little monkey dart around my compartment like it was his own. Didn't like the idea of living with someone but could see I was going to have to get used to it, at least for the time being.

  14.

  Had to admit it: The urch came in handy. He learned to handle the bone and neurostimulators in nothing flat and was religious about the treatment schedule. He massaged my slowly strengthening limbs, maintained the compartment, and ran errands.

  He also kept up a constant flow of chatter. Mostly que
stions. The kid was an information sponge, a black hole for knowledge. He knew next to nothing about the world and anything I could tell him was a major new discovery. B.B. looked on me as a font of learning. Thought I was the greatest guy walking this earth. Didn't know anyone else who saw me that way. Kind of nice. Made me want to live up to his expectations.

  He also kept me distracted enough with the treatments and his incessant talk that I didn't miss the buttons too much. Not yet, at least. Wasn't sure how I'd have made it through those first few days without him.

  "Never did tell me how you knew somebody'd used molly wire on me," I said on my third day home as he ran the bone stimulator against my neck. The hum traveled up the back of my head and buzzed in my ears.

  "We use alla time un'ground."

  "So you told me, but you didn't tell me what for."

  "Rats."

  "Explain."

  "We tie across runs and over hidey-holes, sort like..." His voice trailed off.

  Sort of like what happened to me.

  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?"