Part 6 (1/2)
As for keeping Vale alive...
Upon finding his quarry, he would learn what he could, make an evaluation, and act accordingly. Then he would tell his superiors whatever they wanted to hear, just as he always had.
Old pal,his a.s.s. d.a.m.n straight he could handle it by himself.
His throat felt as if it had been rubbed with steel wool. He resolved to revert to his practice of speaking only in monosyllables until he either found Vale or reached Vale's intended destination: Lubbock, Texas.
The final resting place of Buddy Holly.
CATHY AND JEREMY.
Cathy lowered the binoculars and took off the earphones. ”The guy in the Jag is a U.S. government spook,” she said. ”His boss thinks that extraterrestrial aliens are behind the broadcast.”
Jeremy was crawling around on the Congoleum floor, occasionally b.u.mping his head against the refrigerator or a table leg. ”In other words,” he said, ”you goaded Vale into running, and now the feds who have come to look for him are one house away from finding us out.”
Cathy sighed in exasperation. ”Oh, they are not. They don't know thing one about us. Seekers aren't aliens.”
”Technicality,” Jeremy said, snuffling at toast crumbs at the base of the counter. ”We've been gone so long that Earth is hardly our home, now, is it? They could figure that out.”
”If they do, it isn'tmy fault. I didn't generate the broadcast, did I? And I didn't goad Vale into running away. I simply decided not to stop him.”
”That's not what you said this morning. You said you wanted him pressured to act so that we could get this thing over with. You said-”
Cathy stepped past him, kicking his ribs and knocking him over as she did so, and sat down at the table.
”Don't worry about it. The G-man may even kill the poor schlub. How do you think our cousins in El Dorado will react to that?” Jeremy lay on his side, staring under the microwave-oven cart. ”They'll try again.”
”Maybe, but by that time someone besides you and me will be stuck with this mess.”
Jeremy closed his black dog-eye and looked up at her with his blue human-eye. ”You don't really want Vale killed, do you?”
Cathy pursed her lips and looked away. ”If I did, I'd be no better then the fleshbound. But if heis killed, I won't have had anything to do with it.”
”It would be nice to think so,” Jeremy said, getting to his hands and knees. ”But one who knows how to prevent a death is guilty of murder when that death occurs, regardless of the active agent. Wouldn't you say?”
Cathy did not respond.
”Well, then, would you like a status report?”
Cathy nodded.
Jeremy closed his blue eye and opened the black one. ”Vale has left the motel. He isn't in sight, but the scent of the motorcycle indicates that it's only a few miles ahead of Ringo's current position.”
”Is that all?”
Jeremy c.o.c.ked his head. ”No. Ringo's lonely.”
”Lonely?He's a construct!”
”He's also part Doberman pinscher. Just as you and I are part flesh.”
Cathy stood. ”If you're going to get nasty, I'm going to watch TV.” She left the room.
Moments later, she was back. ”I forgot,” she said. ”Buddy Holly's on every channel.”
Jeremy smiled warmly. ”Imagine the ratings he must be getting. Probably beating h.e.l.l out of the last episode ofM*A*S*H.” He resumed snuffling the Congoleum.
RINGO.
He had reached the motel at midmorning and had dozed among the evergreens until awakened by the siren. Now he sniffed around the base of the dumpster, sorting through the odors of rotten vegetables and burning crude oil.
There: The motorcycle had headed back toward the highway. The wailing automobile that had been here briefly was now following it. Ringo began trotting away from the dumpster, tracking the Ariel.
”Hey, ol' dawg!” a voice called behind him. ”Where'd you come from?”
Ringo paused and looked back. Across the fence, among ruined and rusted machines, stood a man with wild red hair. Ringo knew that the hair was red because his new eye gave him images in color.
Sometimes it also gave him a glimpse of the bricklike Congoleum in Cathy and Jeremy's kitchen, but mostly it showed him what he was looking at.
”You hungry, boy?” the man asked, reaching into a pocket on his chest. ”I got some beef jerky.” The man came close to the fence and held a strip of dried meat between the links. ”My name's Boog. What's yours?”
Ringo's implanted chips understood the man's words, and although his modified body did not require food, the dog part of his brain longed to accept a morsel from a human hand. He approached the fence and sniffed the meat. His processors a.n.a.lyzed the odor and concluded that it smelled good.
He took the strip and gulped it down, then pressed his nose against the fence so that Boog could scratch his muzzle.
”You're abig motherf.u.c.ker, ain't you?” Boog said. ”How come I never seen you around here before?”
Ringo grunted. The scratching felt wonderful.
”Man, what's with your eyes?” Boog asked.
Ringo closed his eyes for an instant and saw Cathy looking at him sternly.
He gave the big man's fingers a lick, then pivoted and ran for the highway, his chain collar jingling.
”You come back anytime, now,” Boog called after him.
Ringo wished that he could stay longer. He liked Boog.
He ran to the other side of the building, then slowed as he saw a fat woman coming toward him on a concrete walk. She was carrying a bucket, and she smelled of bacon. Maybe she was bringing him a treat, as Boog had. He trotted toward her to find out.
She screamed and pulled a bottle filled with blue liquid from the bucket. Ringo stopped, realizing his mistake, but he was too late. The fat woman squeezed a lever on the bottle and sprayed him in the face.
Ringo bolted for the highway, sneezing as he went. His artificial eyes had not been hurt, but his Doberman nose was burning. His processors a.n.a.lyzed his olfactory responses and told him that the blue liquid was called Windex, but he didn't care what it was called. All he cared about was sneezing it away.