Patrimony by Alan Dean Foster Read Free Book Online

sanctioned history that the Shell gave him. He allowed himself a small smile as he perused the proffered information. Not everything had worked out exactly as the official records stated. For one thing, a certain Meliorare experiment named Philip Lynx was still at large, harassed and besieged both within and without, but as yet wholly himself and most decidedly unmindwiped. He shifted in the chair, mentally preparing himself. It was time to probe deeper, and differently.
    He started tunneling.
    Some of what he did was legal, some not. Having previously penetrated the Terran Shell itself, he had no difficulty avoiding the internal floating security of the considerably less well-defended Shell on Gestalt. Its secure sections opened for him, if not like a book, at least in a pattern of three-dimensional sybfiles—a flower of information. Despite the cool air within the administration building, perspiration began to bead on his forehead as he dug and drilled and pushed ever deeper into the depths of the local hub.
    He found little that was palpably illicit—this was not Visaria, after all—and a good deal that certain citizens had reason to wish to keep hidden, but nothing whatsoever related in any way, shape, weft, or form to the dead Meliorare Cocarol or to the disturbing proscribed society to which he had belonged. The deeper Flinx wormed, the more discouraged he became. Risking discovery, he entered his own true name, his nickname, and even what he had learned of the personal history of his mother. All to no avail, all for naught. There was nothing. Not a hint in words, not a glimmer in weft space, not a suggestion of anything connected to the Society, to his ancestry, or to him.
    When probing directly yielded nil, he tunneled sideways. He searched in reverse, trying to find the tiniest possible chyp of information that would allow him to work in a different direction, along another node. He promulgated requests that were grounded in fantasy and fancy as much as in fact. Everything he tried came up the same. Empty.
    Physical hunger, as primitive and unsophisticated an intrusion as it was demanding, caused him to glance at his wrist chrono. He was startled to see that he had been in the booth nearly all day. His throat was dry. It had not occurred to him to bring along anything to drink or to take a sip from his jacket’s emergency supply. Contemplating options, he realized reluctantly that even if he wished to stay and continue the investigation, Pip’s active metabolism demanded that she be fed. Why not take a break?
    He wasn’t getting anywhere, anyhow.
    Cramped muscles unlocking, he broke the connection, slipped the neuronic headband off over his head, and replaced it in its holder. A simple tug and twist removed the mazr from the console; he quickly slipped it into a pouch on his belt. The device would leave behind no trace of its masking presence. Seriously disheartened, he exited the booth and then the building. Neither the Tlel nor the few humans who were still working inside gave him so much as a curious glance.
    It was dark outside and, in the absence of Gestalt’s bright sunshine, noticeably colder. The material of his jacket and pants immediately responded to keep him warm. Pip burrowed even deeper beneath his protective attire, a warm muscular cable relaxed against his inner shirt and chest.
    There were only two Shell hubs on Gestalt: one in Tlossene and the other on the far side of the planet in the second city of Tlearandra. There was nothing to be gained by flying halfway around the globe to pose it the same queries. The hubs’ content, operation, and resources would be identical. Law as well as custom demanded it, since one unit would have to be available to refresh the other in the event either suffered a catastrophic failure. Should he go there, only the scenery would change. Nor was Gestalt big or important enough to warrant the existence of a private, access-restricted hub. For example, there was no