Bloodhype by Alan Dean Foster Read Free Book Online Page B

people, both of which were considerably softer than bomb-proof plating. The metal glowed, began to drip lazily down the side of the door. Much too slow. Tridee stars smashed in such doors with the same ease that they dispatched assassins via clever verbiage. Hammurabi was considerably stronger than any tridee star and valued the bones in his shoulder. Doors were usually as unyielding as certain women.
    He wasn’t going to cut through in time.
    As a last resort, he would put the pistol to the open case and threaten to melt its inexplicably valuable contents to an aromatic puddle.
    They continued to fire wildly and often, behind him. Maybe he’d gotten them so confused that they thought he’d slipped behind them and had started shooting at each other. That thought gave him enough respite to relax slightly.
    Three men appeared in the shadow of a towering processing tank, newly arrived from Wolophon III. The lock was barely a quarter burnt through. He pressed his back to the door and shoved the muzzle of the warm pistol into the case, thumbing the beam to wide fan. The gun was hot from continuous use.
    The men came closer, stopped. One detached himself from the group and walked up to Hammurabi.
    “The locals won’t like it if you go around burning holes in their government-issue buildings, Cap’n, you shouldn’t mind my saying so.”
    Hammurabi flicked the pistol to Safety, stuck it in his pants pocket.
    “You’re a fine First Mate, Maijib Takaharu, but how the Devil did you happen to come looking for me?”
    Takaharu made a gesture to his two companions. They moved off silently among the stacked crates, presumably to insure that if any of the intruders remained, they would not be in shape to offer argument.
    The First Mate looked up from his full meter and two thirds. He carried a slim Hornet-VI needle thrower.
    “Why, don’t you remember, Cap’n? Since that night four months ago on Foran III, when you put six of the local finest into the native version of a hospital with assorted contusions, broken limbs and other souvenirs, defamed the statue of a local hero, and otherwise did not endear yourself to the local populace, you gave me a standard order to follow. The local magistrate fined you—”
    “Don’t remind me.” Hammurabi winced. His rare drunks were difficult times for him. He couldn’t understand why the crew persisted in bragging about them at every planetfall. It was getting so he couldn’t walk into a bar before the owner or tender called frantically for the cops. Doc Japurovac, with fine insect logic (also, she was a little romantic), labeled them heroic. Mal thought they were merely embarrassing.
    “You told me that if you didn’t check in with Ben or myself by midnight local time, I was to grab a few of the boys and come hunting for you. Knowing your habits, it wasn’t hard to trace you, sir. Also, strangers find you easy to remember. A number of them recalled seeing you enter the port grounds.”
    “I think I’d have preferred to have gone bar-hopping, this time. One more question, First.”
    “Sir?”
    Hammurabi rubbed the side of his jaw where a flying splinter of molten plastic had struck him. He held out the open spice case.
    “What do you know about cooking, Maijib?”
     
    Circuits were enclosed in metal which was embedded in ceramic which was enclosed by the metal-that-was-not-cold which floated near something at the edge of emptiness.
    The Machine was old, but purpose was retained. For the first time in eons it had cause to shift electrons with reason. The computer, which was so far in advance of what then were called computers that it deserved another name (but we will call it computer), began making decisions as though today were yesterday’s yesterday. It was designed and equipped to handle only one Problem. To that end it was capable of making several billions of individual decisions in order to arrive at one solution.
    None of them covered the present difficulties.
    The