ARM by Larry Niven Read Free Book Online

afflicted mainly asteroidal mining operations. “Why don't you move to the Belt?” I asked. “They'd honor you for your work, and they don't have Fertility Laws.”
    “I get sick off Earth. It's biorhythms; it has nothing to do with diabetes. Half of humanity suffers from biorhythm upset.”
    I felt sorry for the guy. “You could still get the exemption. For your work on the inertialess drive. Wouldn't that get you your wife back?”
    “I ... don't know. I doubt it. It's been two years. In any case, there's no telling which way the board will jump. I thought I'd have the exemption last time.”
    “Do you mind if I examine your arms?”
    He looked at me. “What?”
    “I'd like to examine your arms.”
    “That seems a most curious request. Why?”
    “There seems a good chance that Sinclair's killer damaged his arm last night. Now, I'll remind you that I'm acting in the name of the UN Police. If you've been hurt by the side effects of a possible space drive, one that might be used by human colonists, then you're concealing evidence in a—” I stopped, because Peterfi had stood up and was taking off his tunic.
    He wasn't happy, but he stood still for it. His arms looked all right. I ran my hands along each arm, bent the joints, massaged the knuckles. Inside the flesh I ran my imaginary fingertips along the bones.
    Three inches below the shoulder joint the bone was knotted. I probed the muscles and tendons...
    “Your right arm is a transplant,” I said. “It must have happened about six months ago.”
    He bridled. “You may not be aware of it, but surgery to reattach my own arm would show the same scars.”
    “Is that what happened?”
    Anger made his speech more precise. “Yes. I was performing an experiment, and there was an explosion. The arm was nearly severed. I tied a tourniquet and got to a ’doc before I collapsed.”
    “Any proof of this?”
    “I doubt it. I never told anyone of this accident, and the ’doc wouldn't keep records. In any case, I think the burden of proof would be on you.”
    “Uh huh.”
    Peterfi was putting his tunic back on. “Are you quite finished here? I'm deeply sorry for Ray Sinclair's death, but I don't see what it could possibly have to do with my stupidity of six months ago.”
    I didn't, either. We left.
    Back in the car. It was seventeen-twenty; we could pick up a snack on the way to Pauline Urthiel's place. I told Valpredo, “I think it was a transplant. And he didn't want to admit it. He must have gone to an organlegger.”
    “Why would he do that? It's not that tough to get an arm from the public organ banks.”
    I chewed that. “You're right. But if it was a normal transplant, there'll be a record. Well, it could have happened the way he said it did.”
    “Uh huh.”
    “How about this? He was doing an experiment, and it was illegal. Something that might cause pollution in a city or even something to do with radiation. He picked up radiation burns in his arm. If he'd gone to the public organ banks, he'd have been arrested.”
    “That would fit too. Can we prove it on him?”
    “I don't know. I'd like to. He might tell us how to find whoever he dealt with. Let's do some digging: maybe we can find out what he was working on six months ago.”
* * * *
    Pauline Urthiel opened the door the instant we rang. “Hi! I just got in myself. Can I make you drinks?”
    We refused. She ushered us into a smallish apartment with a lot of fold-into-the-ceiling furniture. A sofa and coffee table were showing now; the rest existed as outlines on the ceiling. The view through the picture window was breathtaking. She lived near the top of Lindstetter's Needle, some three hundred stories up from her husband.
    She was tall and slender, with a facial structure that would have been effeminate on a man. On a woman it was a touch masculine. The well-formed breasts might be flesh or plastic but were surgically implanted in either case.
    She finished making a large drink and joined us on