Anthony, Piers - Mute

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MUTE is an original publication of Avon Books. This work has never before appeared in book form.

AVON BOOKS

A division of

The Hearst Corporation

959 Eighth Avenue

New York. New York 10019

Catalog Card Number: 80-69936 ISBN: 0-380-77578-6

form whatsoever. For information address Blassingame, McCauley & Wood. 225 West 34th Street, New

York. New York 10122

First Avon Printing. April, 1981

AVON TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES. MARCA REGISTRADA, HECHO EN U.S.A.

Printed in the U.S.A. WFH 10 9 8 7 6 S

Part I MUTATION

CHAPTER 1

Knot always slept on his left side. Early in life he had tried to vary it, but long ago had given

that up as futile. Normal, symmetrical repose was for normal, symmetrical people.

He put his right foot over the edge of the hammock, ready to get up. He paused, as he always did,

to look at it. It was a fine, big, healthy foot, with six well-formed toes. The foot of a

minimally mutant human being.

He set it on down to the floor, doing a slow barrel-roll emergence from the web. He stood and

stretched. His left foot was smaller, stunted, with only four toes, but it served. His legs

differed in length, but he had learned to compensate, walking with his right knee chronically bent

so that he hardly bumped at all when he traveled. His hands differed from each other similarly,

and his ears; it was as though nature had run out of raw material before completing him. Often he

had wished for a redistribution: •a finger moved from this hand to that one, some muscle and bone

shifted from one side to the other. But he always had to remind himself that as physical mutancy

went, his case was marginal. He could, with proper clothing and effort, pass for normal.

Here at the enclave, he didn't bother; his condition was really an asset that he tried to make

more obvious. The real mutants were better able to accept him that way.

Knot dug out his clothing, which was tailored to his physique. The enclave had excellent

handcraftsmen: a

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source of personal pride to him. It was Knot's job to make the employment assignments, and this

was no casual matter. This enclave had an excellent record, and this was due in large part to

Knot's professional skill.

He set out for the mess hall. The dawning day outside his bunk-cube was lovely; the blue sun of

Planet Nelson was striking through the green morning cloud layer, starting the strong updraft that

would soon clear the sky. In the evening the process would reverse, with a visible down-draft and

closure by vapor. Knot, like most residents, was fascinated by these natural color shows. No two

were quite alike; the patterns and colors shifted with countless minor variables, and the shows

were useful for entertainment, divination, artistic inspiration, and wagering. Holographs of them

were exported commercially.

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But he could not dawdle, this time; bis slot for breakfast was upon him, and the mess-chief became

surly when the normal flow was disrupted.

The mess-guard had four eyes. All of them focused on Knot as the man frowned. "Have you checked in

at the office?" He spoke with a certain awkwardness, for he also had two tongues.

"I have," Knot said, standing so that his suit exaggerated his imbalance. No one could mistake him

for a normal now, "Here is my card."

The guard perused the card. "Very well. Go in and take your ration from the counter and sit down

at a green table. You do have color perception?"

"Yes—in the right eye," Knot said. "Monochrome in the left—"

"Once you get established, you'll be assigned to a compatible group at a red or blue table," the

guard said. "But newcomers have to eat alone, until we get to know them. We have a lot of

variation here, but we're the top enclave in this region of space, and we don't like trouble."

"I understand," Knot said with due humility. "I'll try to conduct myself properly."

He went on in, smiling privately. He had gone through this ritual with this guard for the past

year, every morning—and with the predecessor-guard for two years before that. Knot would be

alarmed if the man ever recognized him.

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Breakfast was a leaf of leanfruit, the succulent foliage that was a meal in itself. An

enterprising mutant had discovered how to detoxify it, at one swoop ameliorating the enclave's

problem of nourishment. Knot felt pride in that, too; he had selected that mutant for that

research. The man had been blind and scrawny, with reverse joints on his fingers, unable to do

much useful work, but had an insatiable appetite. At another enclave he would have been a useless

burden destined for an untimely accident— such accidents were common in such situations—but Knot

had told him he could eat all he. wanted if he could figure out how to avoid being poisoned by

what was most available. The man had proceeded with a will, noting that no native animals died,

though many consumed leanfruit. An enzyme in their saliva did the trick. Now that enzyme was

routinely included in the salad dressing. The mutant had become a hero, while Knot was

forgotten—and that was the way it had to be.

Actually, the leanfruit breakthrough had not helped everyone. Some mutants could consume grass,

wood shavings, or paper refuse; others were unable to digest any natural food. But the

breakthrough had helped the majority, and enhanced the status of the enclave. The hero had been

awarded a silver medal on a chain—which was typical of the bureaucracy, since he happened to be

allergic to that metal.

Knot glanced around the hall. There were twenty tables, half of them occupied. This was a small

mess, its service extended efficiently by its continudus shifts of operation. There were several

others, to allow reasonable segregation among mutants. These ones were minimal: extra digits, 01

distorted portions of the body, or superfluous appendages of not too gross a nature. Some did not

show, as with the woman who had three livers and an extra lung; she would have been much in demand

among enclave males had she not also had three reasons opposing any friendly approach.

Some of those present looked at Knot with mild curiosity, not recognizing him. He knew them all,

of course, but made no show of familiarity.

After the meal Knot repaired to his office. The outdoor color show was over by this time, as it

generally was. One

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day he was going.to pull a string to get his breakfast slot shifted, so that he could enjoy the

show as most others 4id. But it was hard to pull strings when no one remembered him.

His secretary was already bustling about. Her name was York, and she looked impressively normal.

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It took a second glance for newcomers to realize that her bosom was composed of three breasts.

Knot wondered whether she was any relation to the woman with three livers, but decided against;

there was no physical resemblance, and hi any event mutations were not hereditary. Not in that

sense.

But that superficial normality could be a problem. Once York had been challenged by a surly

arrival who hated normals and refused to deal with her. In a fit of pique York had ripped off her

own blouse and triple halter and silenced him most effectively. There were no normals in this

enclave.

"Two routine and one special," York announced with a smite. She was moderately pretty, and more

than moderately smart. He wondered at times why she didn't apply for cosmetic surgery to enable

her to join the normals without onus. It was permitted. Mutants, on the few occasions they

conceived, gave birth to normal babies; there were no breeding restrictions, and many mutants did

go under the knife so they could pass. Yet the majority did not, and this was not merely a matter

of economics. A person who had been raised a mutant, identified with mutants for the rest of his

life. Probably it was York's pride of the flesh; she did not want to be normal.

Actually, Knot thought, it would be a shame to mastec-tomize such a beautiful breast. She was a

true mutant, not a genetic freak; her extra breast was directly between the other two and of equal

size and configuration, except it was somewhat squeezed. She had quite a double cleavage, when she

cared to show it! When nonmutant females had extra breasts, in contrast, they tended to be below

the regular ones, like the teats on an animal, in parallel lines down the torso.

She caught biro looking. "Did we do something last night?" she inquired brightly. "I have no note

of it—"

"No, no, my mind was drifting," Knot said quickly.

MUTE

*That was evident, as was its direction of drift. Maybe tonight, then—?"

"I'll take the two routines first, then the special," Knot said. "Make notes as usual."

"Of course." She knew exactly what he meant. She would listen in on the intercom and transcribe a

summary of each interview for the file. She was very good at this. Her summaries were complete

almost before each interview ended. If she didn't have a note on a given event, it probably hadn't

happened. Which was the case with their conjectured liaison of the prior night.

The first client was a large man, whitish of skin, with reddish splotches, whose head rose into a

blank and hairless dome. The ears were mere holes, the nose a double slit, and there were no eyes

at all. Only the mouth was normal.

"Salutation," Knot said. "You can hear?" York's preliminary note, on the desk before him,

indicated that the man could perceive sound, but it was better to establish this openly. Mutants

could be sensitive about their handicaps, even among other mutants. The attitudes engendered by

life among callous normals could take tune to abate.

"I can hear," the man said clearly. "I am Flas, from Planet Jeen."

"Excellent! I've heard good things of Jeen."

Of course the man challenged this, suspiciously. "What do you know of it?"

Knot was prepared; he had an excellent geographic memory, which he cultivated for just this

reason. Clients were much easier to put at ease when their home worlds were complimented. "The

crystal dunes on the north continent there are among the prettiest sights in the galaxy. If I ever

can afford a vacation, that is where I'd go." Knot paused, artfully. "Um, 1 did not mean to refer

to a sense you lack. My apology."

"Who are you?" the mutant demanded gruffly, satisfied. He was not, as Knot had surmised, sensitive

about his blindness, and now he knew that Knot was indeed familiar with his home planet.

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"I am Knot, the placement officer of Enclave MM58 on Planet Nelson."

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The lofty forehead wrinkled. "If you are not he, why do you address me now?"

"Knot, with a sounded K, one syllable," Knot said patiently. He had been through this, too, many

times before, and rather enjoyed it. "My name."

The mutant smiled. "Knot," he repeated, pronouncing the K. "Apology." He was now fairly well

relaxed.

"Accepted. It is a common misapprehension. Some claim my name has suffered more mutation than my

body. May I shake your hand?"

The mutant put forth his large right hand. Knot met it with his equally large hand. The mutant's

grip was gentle, though he was obviously quite strong.

"You are larger than you sound," Flas said. "And mutant," he added, feeling the sixth finger.

"We are all mutant here," Knot assured him. That was why he had shaken hands; otherwise the blind

mutant could have been in doubt about Knot's status, despite his hint about it. "We don't like to

have normals interfering. We are all like you: min-mutes and mod-mutes, of human-norm intellect or

above, able to function independently. This enclave is self-supporting; we export as much as we

import. We have pride."

"Pride," Flas echoed wistfully. "I have known little of that. Even the lobos have higher social

status than my type, on Jeen."

Which was evidently the major reason Flas had come here. "Lobos are surgically normal people, of

no special significance," Knot said warmly. "Mutants are the catalyst of modern human society."

This message, too, he had repeated many tunes, but it always buoyed him: the justification of his

kind. "Without us, there would be no space travel, no colonization of inclement planets or

habitats. Without us, in fact, the human empire would collapse and the Coordination Computer would

be junk,"

"You speak as if you believe."

"I do believe 1 And you will believe too, or you will not fit in welt here. We have the pride of

the flesh. Normals are largely restricted to the surfaces of Earth-type planets; the future of the

species lies with the mutants."

"The psi-mutes, maybe," Flas said. "Not with our kind."

"The phys-mutes too! Today Enclave MM58 is self-

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supporting; ultimately we may become a creditor entity, with our own representative in the

Galactic Concord. Because of the loyalty and application of specially skilled mutants like you."

"Pep talk," Flas said. "I have heard it before."

"You will perceive new meaning in it. This is not a junkyard enclave; this is a viable economic

society. What are your skills?"

Despite his superficial reserve, Flas smiled, responding to Knot's enthusiasm. "I am good with my

hands. I have made hundreds of baskets in my day,"

"A basket easel" Knot snorted. "Where is the future in baskets?"

The mutant shrugged. "When I asked them that, they sent me here."

"You have a questioning mind and an independent spirit. They don't like that in some places. We do

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like it here." Knot considered. "It is my job to find the ideal situation for you considering your

physical, mental and social propensities. You will not be assigned anywhere against your will; if

you don't like what I suggest, I'll look for something else. Sometimes I get too innovative and

miss the mark embarrassingly. Sometimes something sounds good, but doesn't work out in practice.

If there were, not such problems, there would be no point in my job, would there?"

"You're working up to something awkward," Flas said.

"Astute observation. We have a local animal we call the snird, a kind of cross between a snake and

a bird in the Earth-book listing. It lays eggs in the dark, and these eggs contain a chemical of

value in stellar photography. The elevated radiation of space interferes with conventional

processes, as we mutants well know, but this chemical is resistant. The problem is that in the raw

state it is hypersensitive to light. Even an instant's exposure ruins it. So we must collect the

eggs in complete darkness. Unfortunately the snirds are protective of their eggs, and their bite

is poisonous."

"Take the eggs with pincers, or wearing gauntlets," Flas suggested, interested.

"The eggs are extremely delicate, and of odd shapes ana sizes. Careless or mechanical handling

breaks them. They

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must be kept warm and intact until brought to the laboratory. In addition, they must be harvested

at the right moment; only a 'ripe' egg, distinguished by a slightly hardened surface, possesses

the necessary quality. A green one is useless. Only an expert human touch suffices to distinguish

between them—but for some reason most of our sighted people are reluctant."

The mutant laughed. "I can well believe!" "We have elevated the incentive bonus, to no avail. A

good snird-egg harvester can arrange his own hours of work, has a 20 percent extra food ration,

and a generous personal-expense allowance. It Is possible to develop a comfortable savings account

that permits early retirement."

"If he survives that long!"

"Yet the snird gives fair warning. A faint buzz before striking—" Knot paused. "How good is your

hearing?" "Excellent. And my courage. How bad is a snird strike?" "Not fatal, if treated in time.

We do have excellent treatment facilities, and an alert, attractive and solicitous nurse. But it

is better to avoid it—which an experienced harvester can normally do."

"You figure I'll rise to the challenge?" "You do strike me as that sort of man." "You play me like

a violin," Flas said. Then he decided. "I'll give it a try."

"Excellent." Knot activated the intercom. This was a redundant gesture, as it was already on, but

he preferred not to advertise that fact. "Have a courier conduct Mutant Flas to the Foraging Unit,

and notify them that he will essay the egg harvesting, snird division." "He's got nerve," York

remarked.

"The women of MM58 appreciate nerve," Knot told Flas. "I believe you will like it here. The

Foraging foreman will brief you thoroughly, of course."

The courier entered the office. She was a young lady whose arms were linked together by fused

hands; she could move them only as a unit. They couid not be surgically separated because the

bones were merged, palm to palm; she would have to have both hands on one arm, and nothing on the

other, and the hand would not have functioned well enough to be worthwhile,

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Flas stood, tracking her by the sound. "This way, Mutant," the girl said. Her voice was dulcet,

and her pronunciation of "mutant" made it sound like a badge of honor.

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Knot relaxed. He had put together a good crew here, trained to make clients respond positively and

feel welcome. Nevertheless, there was always a certain tension, and the first interview of the day

was the worst. This one had gone very well. The Foraging Unit had been bugging him for another

harvester for some time.

The next client entered. This was an older woman. She had large bright eyes, but instead of ears

her head sprouted a stout pair of horns. The lower part of her face projected forward, like the

muzzle of a sheep, and her mouth was obviously unsuitable for human speech. She wore a rather

voluminous robe that concealed any other mutations she might have, except for hands that were

callused and hooflike.

Knot held up his right fist in the clubfoot signal of greeting. A number of mutants had problems

with their extremities, so this sublanguage was useful. Knot was familiar with a great many forms

of communication.

The woman perked up when she recognized the gesture. She brought up her own fist.

Knot introduced himself, speaking aloud at the same time as he signaled, so York could transcribe

it. "I am Knot, the placement officer of MM58." There was no problem with the pronunciation of the

name in sign language. "You are"—he read the -signals she returned— "Greta, transferred here at

your request because"—he smiled warmly—"because you received news of our stature and wanted to

participate." He made an expansive gesture. "That is a very positive attitude, Greta. What do you

have in mind to do here?"

Now Greta was doubtful. She had been employed before as a water carrier, but had not been very

efficient because it was hard for her to pick up the buckets. Also, there had been no need for the

service, since water was pumped in to central locations of that enclave. Thus it had been mere

make-work, useless. She preferred to find better employment before she met with a UA—Untimely

Accident—but did not know what that might be. Yet she

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had heard that MM58 seemed to be charmed that way, with everyone there finding good jobs.

Knot pondered briefly. She had paid him a considerable compliment, unknowingly—but it also showed

the challenge. He had a high level to maintain, and not every mutant could be made useful. His

chief skill was the ability to align mutants with employments no one else would have thought of,

but a certain amount of luck was important

"Most of our tasks are menial, but they are necessary to'our best functioning as an enclave," Knot

said/signaled. "You don't object to routine physical labor, so long as you know it is productive?"

Greta agreed with a forceful motion of her hoofed fist

"Let me see your foot," Knot said.

Surprised, she showed her feet. Her legs were human, and fairly good ones at that, but the

extremities were indeed like hooves. They were cloven in three or four places, marking where the

toes should be, but the nails were so gross as to dominate the entire digits.

"We have a local winery," Knot said/signaled. "We don't like the tax burden on imported beverages,

but we have to process all our water anyway, and we do like our relaxation. So we do for

ourselves. Perhaps some year MM58 vintage will be renowned in the galaxy. But since at the moment

the authorities governing the good planet of Nelson frown on such activity, we operate quietly. We

use no power equipmept, no foreign additives. We just press the grapes—they're not really grapes,

but we like to call them that—we press them in ancient and time-honored fashion. We—"

"Trample out the vintage?" she asked, catching on.

"Your feet would seem to be admirably suited to the labor. Our grapes have small spines that make

it difficult for ordinary human feet to press them properly, and of course we don't use footwear

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for this. So if you don't find it offensive or morally objectionable—"

"I'm thrilled!" she signaled. "It's much better than carrying buckets of water nowhere!"

Knot tapped the intercom. He had made another good placement. "After a day's hard work, our men

grow

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lusty and thirsty," he concluded. "They like anything associated with their drink."

Greta, obviously starved for male companionship, seemed to be considering the prospects as she

left. Knot never neglected the social angle; here where every person was mutant, deformities and

differences that were prohibitive elsewhere became negligible. In general, the more closely a

person approached human norm, the more attractive he or she was considered to be—but there was an

extremely broad middle ground, and almost anyone could find a partner if he or she really wanted

to.

"CC Knot scores again," York murmured over the intercom hi the moment Knot was alone. It was a

standing joke between them. CC was the abbreviation of the Coordination Computer, which fitted

mutants to specialized positions on a galactic scale. Knot did it only for this enclave. But there

was a similarity between their jobs. York teased him because she knew he did not like the

Coordination Computer.

The third client was indeed special. She was young and pretty and so completely normal in

appearance that he was startled. But there were many nonapparent forms of mutation. She could have

an exotic chemical imbalance that prevented her from functioning normally. She might have eyeballs

in her belly, concealed by her clothing. She might have brain tissue in her chest and a spleen in

her head. York had no note on any such thing, but York was not infallible. He would simply have to

fathom her mutancy for himself, by observation and careful questioning, and proceed from there.

Knot started his routine introduction, but the girl leaned forward and turned off his intercom. In

the process her blouse separated from her torso in the fashion blouses had been designed to do for

thousands of years, showing that there were certainly no eyeballs or brain tissue in that portion

of her anatomy. Her breasts were fully as firm and shapely as York's, and there were only two, so

that there was no undue crowding.

Knot forced his attention back to business. He started to protest her action, though he really

would not have minded if she had leaned forward similarly ten more times.

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But before he spoke, she brought out a printed card. It said AUDITOR.

Oh no! A surprise audit of the enclave!-And he had just placed a client in a quasilegal position,

making moonshine wine. Also, more insidious: This meant this woman was in fact a normal, so that

all of her visible and suggested attributes were genuine. That provided a retroactive luster to

his recent glimpse, exciting him and embarrassing him simultaneously.

The woman watched him with calm amusement. She had certainly turned the tables on him! Knot nodded

with rueful resignation. He activated his intercom. "York, this client poses special problems. Ill

have to take her on a tour of the premises before I can make a placement."

"Understood," the secretary answered. Her tone was disapproving; she was evidently suspicious that

he wanted to get an especially attractive min-mute into a truly private nook for a seduction. His

office made such things feasible, for those mutants who did not get suitably placed were not

permitted to remain in the enclave beyond a reasonable grace period. Knot wished York's suspicion

were true; he did have an eye for the woman. He knew that York felt that if he wanted to seduce

anyone today, she should be first in line. But now, not only did he have no chance with this

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luscious client, he would incur York's wrath anyway. It would be hard to convince her of the

truth.

"We can't be overheard outside," Knot murmured as they emerged from ttie office. The sky was now

completely clear; day was well established. "Do you want the full tour, or shall I fill you in on

the enclave indiscretions at the outset and save us both tune?"

She smiled. Knot, accustomed to the efforts of mutants who often had strange faces, was surprised

again; she was beautiful. Even after allowing for the fact of her normalcy, the humanoid ideal.

Normals differed from each other less than mutants did, but this one had to be close to the

positive extreme. "Show me the leadmuter."

Knot grimaced, surprised a third tune. "You have a better source of information than we thought."

"Much better," she agreed with a smugness that would

MUTE

have been objectionable in anyone else. She held out her petite, five-digited hand. "My name is

Finesse."

He shrugged and took the hand in his huge right. She drew him in toward her, leaning forward to

plant a light kiss on his cheek. She smelled refreshingly of pine needles.

"Finesse," he said. "Is that literal or allegorical?"

"Yes." She shifted to his small left hand, neatly interlocking her four fingers with his three and

capturing his thumb with her own, and walked beside him. The mutants that they passed glanced

enviously, not recognizing either of them but wishing they did.

"I presume this is a friendly audit," Knot said. "Or are you merely making sure I cannot slip

away?" He gave his hand a token shake, as though hefting shackles. He did not care to admit how

exciting it was to have a lovely normal turn on to him as if he were attractive to her. She had an

ulterior motive, of course—but what was it? She could have required the leadmuter information of

him without ever touching his hand.

"Never trust an auditor," she said, squeezing his hand. She had to have noticed his disparity of

fingers, but gave no sign of aversion. "Every one of them will deceive you."

Fair warning! But she really hadn't provided any information yet, straight or deceiving. It seemed

he would have to wait on her convenience.

"The leadmuter is separate from the main enclave," he said. "In an isolated region, with a

difficult approach. Not suitable for clothing like yours."

"You wish me to remove it?"

Yes! he thought. And said aloud: "I was hinting that you might prefer to come back at another

time, dressed for the occasion. Boots, leather breeches, outdoor gloves—"

"During which period of delay the exhibit would disappear?" she asked, smiling to disarm the

charge.

Knot essayed a gesture of denial—and found he could not, for she stili held his hand captive. The

enclave had been audited before, many times, for the powers that existed on the planetary level

were suspicious of success.

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But never an audit like this! Knot became reluctantly more suspicious. "May I see your

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credentials?"

"You perused them pretty well in your office." But she finally let go his hand and fished in her

bosom, bringing out an ID disk on a neck chain. She faced him so as to bring the disk close to

him, and held it up beside her face. The illumination came on, showing the holograph of her head,

with her name, code and position. She was a legitimate Coordination Computer auditor.

"CC?" he exclaimed, distracted from the physical credentials that were again in view below the

legal ones. "You're from offworld?"

"Naturally. Did you think I was a backplane! girl?"

This was a new dimension. He had assumed she was a Planet Nelson representative. Yet it was hardly

possible to counterfeit such IDs; only the Computer staff commanded the authority and technology.

In addition, he noticed now, she had the forearm tattoo pattern of a space traveler. This was a

galactic audit!

"Satisfied?" Finesse inquired with another sunny smile.

"No. Since when does a galactic auditor hold hands with the auditee?"

"Was I holding hands with the whole enclave?" she asked with mock alarm.

"The enclave is innocent of this particular crime. I represent the enclave administration, and

that is what you are auditing, I presume. But you hardly need to play up to me; you can have me

fired if I do not cooperate with you in every way."

"True," she agreed sweetly, taking his hand again. "Why do you resist?"

Why, indeed? he thought. You are begging for seduction, and unless you are a nymphomaniac, this is

too suspicious to be accepted. And he almost imagined he heard an answer: Smart man!

"I am not so naive,as to believe that an attractive normal woman representing CC itself prefers to

dally with a mutant."

"Some normals have perverse tastes."

She said it lightly, but the remark chilled him. Some normals did indeed have abnormal

inclinations. They had a twisted fascination for deformity. The strange aspects of

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mutants turned these normal people on sexually. Yet many

',. mutants were so eager for the attention of normals that

they would put up with the most extreme indignities for

• it. If Finesse were a person of power with the taste

;, for perversion, she could make things extremely difficult

for him. He did not like perversion—but bis enclave

was hostage for his behavior, and he would have to do

whatever she demanded.

This was, of course, exactly the sort of leverage he exerted against incoming mutant females who

attracted him. Knot could appreciate the irony of it, that a woman he had at first taken for a

mutant was now putting him hi this position. No doubt he deserved it. Fortunately, he had a

special resource. He could manage.

file:///F|/rah/Piers%20Anthony/Anthony,%20Piers%20-%20Mutaion.txt (9 of 281) [7/2/03 2:01:47 PM]

file:///F|/rah/Piers%20Anthony/Anthony,%20Piers%20-%20Mutaion.txt

"A penny for your thoughts," she said.

"A genuine Earth-type ancient bronze coin?"

"Of course not. They're collector's items. Rarity has made them appreciate so inordinately in

value that they are now actually worth their face amount. Would you accept another kiss instead?"

.What was this? "Do I have a choice?"

"You're avoiding the issue."

"You play with fire. How do you know I won't take you into the wilderness, rape you, and drop your

body in a bog, never to be found again?"

"What, never?"

"Once a body is mired, it can remain for millennia. Old Earthly fossils, dinosaurs, were found—"

"No decent bogs here, according to the geography I checked."

"There are things here that the geography does not dream of." All too true, as she must know.

"Then I suppose I should answer your question." She brought out another disk. "I have an alarm

bleeper. You would not be too thrilled if I set it off before you were through."

Knot nodded soberly. Actually, any threat to an auditor would create enormous mischief. His

question had been an expression of petulance rather than any real threat, and she knew it. She

could play with him as she wished, with virtual impunity. That was exactly what she seemed

inclined to do.

Piers Anthony

"You can have it," she said, handing him the disk.

Yes, she was playing with him. She was cocksure. Bye and bye, in his own fashion, he would play

with her. She was not dealing with an ordinary patsy, this time. Her experience on other worlds

gave her confidence that was not necessarily warranted.

The route, as he had warned, was devious and difficult. The leadmuter was supposed to be an

enclave secret, and was hidden well out of the way. They had to climb a rocky escarpment, wedge

through a thick tangle of brush, and wade through a cold stream.

"You're right,"-Finesse said. "I would have been better off without clothes."

"Except for the brambles," he agreed. "It grows easier once we pass the brushland. Then you may

take off your clothes if you wish to."

"I may. la this terrain comfortable for the leadmuter?"

"No. Fortunately he doesn't have to experience it. He works in a cave."

"I didn't know this was cave country."

"It isn't, according to your geography,"

"You rather fascinate me."

"Mutual, I'm sure."

She turned her sweetly tousled face toward him, brushing a tress out of her eyes. "I have given

you every opportunity, but you haven't taken advantage of me yet. Are you normally this slow, or

are you unconscionably shy?"

file:///F|/rah/Piers%20Anthony/Anthony,%20Piers%20-%20Mutaion.txt (10 of 281) [7/2/03 2:01:47 PM]

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