[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

systems and stimulate the production of antibodies.
He focused the microscope on the delicate tips of the barbs. Enlarged they
looked ugly and threatening and it was normally possible to see the minute
opening of the hypodermic bore. Not this time: the tip of each barb was a mass
of congealed blood. That should not happen! No wonder Beverley had complained,
the barbs were supposed to make punctures in the wearer's skin that were too
Page 82
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
fine for blood to pass through. Carl had taken great care over the body
sensors and had eventually settled on a proven design from the Nano Medical
Corporation in California.
What he liked about the sensors was the ingenious swivel mounting that
permitted a good deal of wearer movement without tearing the skin. Besides,
Beverley had been using the prototype belt continuously for six months without
any problems.
And then he thought he saw something that raised the hackles on the nape of
his neck and sent a cold finger of fear down his spine. The base of one of the
barbs looked as though it had been split open. He repositioned the reading
light and bunked to clear his vision before returning his gaze to the
microscope's eyepiece and refocusing.
It had split open!
Jesus H . . . That was impossible!
No, it wasn't because it had happened: the hypodermic barb, made from the
toughest alloy yet invented, had swollen half a millimetre above the base and
burst along a millimetre of its length. Carl lifted his head and stared at the
wall.
What the hell could have happened?
He looked again. It was obvious what had gone wrong: somehow a flawed barb had
managed to get past Nano Medical's rigorous post-production inspection. Maybe
an impurity in the alloy. There could be any number of causes. Two things were
certain: Beverley was not going to wear the belt again, and its production was
out of the question until the faulty barb had been returned to California for
a report. He took the belt to bis car and locked it in the boot.
It was time for bed. He decided to use the spare bedroom, leaving its door
open and Beverley's door open so that he could hear her if she called out. He
lay on the bed, listening carefully for Beverley's light breathing while
turning over the events of the day.
Very soon he slept.
29
Sleep induced a metamorphic state in Carl that transformed him into a zombie.
A state he remained in for at least thirty minutes after waking until he had
received a life-giving infusion of black coffee.
He shuffled into the kitchen, relying on the smell of coffee to provide a
homing system that enabled him to travel from the bedroom to the kitchen
without mishap.
Beverley was bathed in sunlight streaming through the windows. She looked
bright and breezy, was wearing a housecoat, poaching eggs, reading the morning
paper, listening to the radio, watching television with the sound muted, and
pouring coffee, all at the same time. A normal start to her day.
'Enter one useless lover,' she observed. 'Thought the smell would arouse you.
One of your disgusting, high cholesterol breakfasts coming up. Do you know why
I'd never marry you, Carl?'
'Apart from the fact that I'd never dream of asking you, why won't you marry
me, Beverley?' asked Carl hollowly, sitting at the bar and cupping his hands
gratefully around a mug of coffee that she pushed in front of him.
'Because you always look so dreadful in the morning.' She gave him a plate of
poached eggs on toast.
'I'm glad, Bev. I don't think I could face the awesome responsibility of
looking after an unhinged wife who does damn fool things like you did
yesterday.' 'Oh! And what did I do yesterday?' Carl drained his mug and
started on his eggs. 'You know damn well what you did.'
'Okay, maybe I overdid the running. I fainted. You called out Dr Wyman to have
his usual whinge at me. He gave me a sedative and here I am. No big deal.'
'Overdid!' Carl echoed, trying to sound indignant with a mouth full of egg.
'You damn near killed yourself!' 'Don't exaggerate, Carl. I admit that I got
carried away.' 'Yes, by me. Off the bloody beach. Damned near killed me. You
may look the fragile, demure little lady, but you're all bloody muscle. You're
not wearing that belt any more.'
Page 83
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
'It happens to all serious runners. Belt or no belt. They don't want to accept
that they've reached a peak so they push themselves harder and harder. It's
called achievement.' 'It's called being bloody stupid. Anyway, I took a look
at the
belt last night. The body sensors are damaged. You're not wearing it any
more.'
Beverley flushed angrily. She felt that Carl was being pompous, overbearing
and patronizing. 'It was working fine yesterday, unless you've deliberately
buggered it.'
'For Christ's sake, Bev, there's a damaged barb. You complained last week that
it hurt when you took it off. I saw the marks it's made around your waist when
I looked in on you last night.'
Beverley frowned, untied her housecoat and pulled it back. She was wearing
briefs and a bra underneath. 'What marks?'
'On your right side.'
Beverley tugged down the waistband of her briefs, exposing her waist. 'Where?
Or is this a crude ploy to get me undressed?'
Carl gaped in astonishment. 'They've gone!' He thought fast. He was convinced
that Beverley had been lying on her left side, therefore the rash had to be on
her right side. Maybe he was mistaken.
'Turn around,' he ordered.
Beverley turned slightly. Carl tugged down her briefs a little way and peered
in bewilderment at her unmarked skin. 'You must have treated them with an
enzyme healer,' he accused.
'Treated what!'
'Beverley, I swear there was a nasty rash on your right side last night. There
was even some blood. They weren't the sort of marks that could disappear
overnight without treatment.' He looked very closely and saw a pattern of
almost invisible pinpricks marring her skin. 'That's them! How the hell could
they have healed up like that in a few hours?'
Beverley twisted her head and pulled at her skin to see what Carl was
indicating. 'You're a stupid prat, Carl, you know what? Those are sandfly
bites.'
Carl snorted. 'Sandflies don't cause marks like those I saw last night.'
For an answer Beverley put her right foot on the stool beside Carl and pointed
out a number of reddish pinpricks around her calf and shin. 'Sandflies,' she
said curtly. 'The little bastards have been particularly bad this year. One
must have got caught
under the belt and decided to pay me out, and I had probably scratched the
bites in my sleep and made them worse. Satisfied?'
Carl had been about to ask Beverley about Marshall Tate but decided that
having to explain that he had not been prying was too risky in her present
mood. He started eating in silence, blaming himself for the switches in her
temperament.
Beverley suddenly moved behind him, slid her arms around his neck and kissed
him on the cheek. 'Sorry I'm being so boorish, Carl. Thanks for looking after
me. The trouble with me is that I can be such an ungrateful little bitch at
times.'
'No,' said Carl, patting her hands solemnly. 'You can be an ungrateful bitch
all the time.'
They both laughed. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]