By Alan Dean Foster
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Additional info for The I Inside
Sample text
As he worked he tried to make sense of his surroundings. Understandable. It was perfectly understandable. A man like Polikartos doubtless worked for disreputable citizens. That someone in his profession should come to a violent end was hardly surprising. The thing to do was get out, now, before he could be involved in any way. Touch nothing, disturb nothing, leave no sign of his visit. Someone else would find the body. Leave them to notify the authorities. He’d touched the terminals and Polikartos’s chair.
It was not very dramatic. A pingun cauterizes as it penetrates. Police. That was Eric’s first thought. Be here any minute. But there was no whirr of copter blades descending from above, no scream of sirens from the street outside. Everything was unnervingly normal. Except for that tiny hole in Polikartos’s head. Both terminals had been battered, and one keyboard lay broken on the floor, as though an enraged child had sought to destroy a toy it could not understand. Someone had been at them. Why?
Hurry and answer, hurry and let’s get on with this and get it over with. “This is Polikartos,” said a voice at the other end. Answers the phone himself, Eric thought. Could be good, could be bad. He wondered suddenly if Polikartos was a first or last name. Not that it mattered. He noted that the video was off. “My name is Eric Abbott, Mr. Polikartos. ” Video opened and Eric found himself staring at an older man seated behind a narrow desk. The man was neat and clean-shaven, though his five-o’clock shadow was heavy even against his dark skin.