“Guy go berserk?” he said. They sometimes did: the effects of the Taste of Eden weren’t always predictable.
“Worse than that,” she said. “Bring Jeb too.”
Raspberry Mousse
The feather room was a cyclone site: a sock here, a shoe there, smears of unidentified substances, bedraggled feathers everywhere. That lump in the corner must’ve been the Rev, covered by the green satin bedspread. Oozing out from under it was a hand-span of red foam that looked like a badly diseased tongue.
“What happened?” Zeb asked innocently. It was hard to look really innocent with shades on – he’d tried in the mirror – so he took them off.
“I’ve sent the girls to take showers,” said Katrina WooWoo. “They were so upset! One minute they were …”
“Peeling the shrimp,” said Zeb. It was the staff slang for getting a dink out of his clothes, the underpants in particular. There was an art to it, as to everything, said the Scalies. Or a craft. A slow unbuttoning, a long, sensuous unzipping. Hold the moment. Pretend he’s a box of candies, lick-a-licious. “Lick-a-licious,” Zeb said out loud. He’s shaken: the effect on the Rev had been far worse than he’d imagined. He hadn’t intended actual death.
“Yes, well, good thing they didn’t get that far, because he, well, he simply dissolved, according to the monitors in the video room. They’ve never seen anything like it. Raspberry mousse, is what they said.”
“Crap,” said Jeb, who’d lifted a corner of the bedspread. “We need a water-vac, it’s like a very sick swimming pool under there. What hit him?”
“The girls say he just started to froth,” said Katrina. “And scream, of course. At first. And tear out feathers – those are ruined, they’ll have to be destroyed, what a waste. Then it was no longer screaming, it was gurgling. I’m so worried!” She was understating: scared was more like it.
“He had a meltdown. Must be something he ate,” said Zeb. He meant it for a joke; or he meant it to be mistaken for a joke.
Katrina didn’t laugh. “Oh, I don’t think so,” she said. “Though you’re right, it might have been in food. Nothing he ate here though, no way! It has to be a new microbe. Looks like a flesh-eater, only so speeded up! What if it’s really contagious?”
“Where could he have caught it?” said Jeb. “Our girls are clean.”
“Off a doorknob?” said Zeb. Another lame joke. Shut up, pinhead, he told himself.
“Lucky our girls had their Biofilm Bodygloves on,” said Katrina. “Those will have to be burned. But none of the – none of what came out of – none of whatever it is touched them.”
Zeb was getting an incoming call on his tooth: it was Adam. Since when does he have tooth broadcasting privileges? thought Zeb.
“I understand there’s been an incident,” said Adam. He was tinny and far away.
“It’s fucking creepy having your voice in my head,” said Zeb. “You sound like a Martian.”
“No doubt,” said Adam. “But that is not your number-one problem right now. The man who died was our mutual parent, I’m told.”
“You were told right,” said Zeb, “but who told you?”
He’d gone into a corner of the room so the conversation would be semi-private, out of consideration for others: it was annoying to have to listen to a person talking to their own tooth. Katrina was in another corner with her intramural cell, calling in the Scales cleanup squad, who were bound to be taken aback. Similar things had been known to occur with older guys during the course of House Specials – the kick-tails could be overly powerful for those of diminished bodily abilities and functions – but nothing very similar. Usually it was a stroke or a heart attack. This kind of frothing was unprecedented.
“Katrina called me. Naturally,” said Adam. “She keeps me informed.”
“She knows he’s our …?”
“Not exactly. She knows I have an interest in anything concerning the Corps bookings – especially the OilCorps – so she notified me of the four-party reservation, and of the special surprise arrangements made by three of the clients as a gift to the fourth. Then she sent me the headshots generated automatically by the doorware at the front, and of course I recognized him at once. I was already on the premises, so I came to the front of the house in case I might be needed. I’m out in the bar area now; I’m right beside the glass shelves, where the novelty corkscrews and the salt shakers are displayed.”
“Oh,” said Zeb. “Good,” he added lamely.
“Which one did you use?”
“Which one of what?” said Zeb.
“Don’t play innocent,” said Adam. “I can count. Six minus three is three. The white, the red, or the black?”
“All of them,” said Zeb. There was a pause.
“Too bad,” said Adam. “That will make it more difficult for us to determine what exactly was in each one. A more controlled approach would have been preferable.”