Read Online The Sum of Her Parts by Alan Dean Foster - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alan Dean Foster
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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 demurshe 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 flutteredshut 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.
“ ’Evening,
ou man
.” Despite his youth the much younger man spoke with the practiced control and timbre of experience, as if his voice had been tuned like a piano. “I wish you a short day and a long night. What will you have?”
“Water.” Molé was scanning the crowd that had washed up at the back of the room, human flotsam that had been left behind as the tide of
The leer she wore like a carnivale mask widened. “So drinking’s your thing? Want to know what mine is?” Before he could demurshe 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 flutteredshut 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.
“ ’Evening,
ou man
.” Despite his youth the much younger man spoke with the practiced control and timbre of experience, as if his voice had been tuned like a piano. “I wish you a short day and a long night. What will you have?”
“Water.” Molé was scanning the crowd that had washed up at the back of the room, human flotsam that had been left behind as the tide of
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