The Officer pushed open the door of PIastiplasm Plus ("Addendums, Superscripts, and Footnotes to the Beautiful Body").
"You know I always meant to ask someone in authority; do you think there's anything psychologically off about wanting something like this?"
"Not at all."
A young lady with blue eyes, lips, hair, and wings said, "You can go right in. Unless you want to check our catalogue first."
"Oh, I know exactly what I want," the Customs Officer assured her. "This way?"
"That's right."
"Actually," Dr. T'mwarba went on, "it's psychologically important to feel in control of your body, that you can change it, shape it. Going on a six month diet or a successful muscle building program can give quite a sense of satisfaction. So can a new nose, chin, or set of scales and feathers."
They were in a room with white operating tables. "Can I help you?" asked a smiling, Polynesian cosmetisurgeon in a blue smock. "Why don't you lie down here?"
"I'm just watching," Dr. T'mwarba said.
"It's listed in your catalogue as 5463," the Customs Officer declared. "I want it there." He clapped his left hand to his right shoulder.
"Oh yes. I rather like that one myself. Just a moment." He opened the top of a stand by the table. Instruments glittered.
The surgeon was off to the glass-faced refrigeration unit at the far wall where behind the glass doors intricate plastiplasm shapes were blurred by frost. He returned with a tray full of various fragments. The only recognizable one was the front half of a miniature dragon with jeweled eyes, glittering scales, and opalescent wings: it was less than two inches long.
"When he's connected up to your nervous system, you'll be able to make him whistle, hiss, roar, flap his wings and spit sparks, though it may take a few days to assimilate him into your body picture. Don't be surprised if at first he just burps and looks seasick. Take your shirt off, please."
The Officer opened his collar.
"We'll just block off all sensation from your shoulder on . . . there, that didn't really hurt. This? Oh, it's a local venial and arterial constrictant; we want to keep things clean. Now, we'll just cut you along the—well, if it upsets you, don't look. Talk to your friend there. It'll just take a few minutes. Oh, that must have tickled all down in your tummy! Never mind. Just once more. Fine. That's your shoulder joint. I know; your arm does look sort of funny hanging there without it. We'll just stick in this transparent platisplasm cage now. Exact same articulation as your shoulder joint, and it holds your muscles out of the way. See, it's got grooves for your arteries. Move your chin, please. If you want to watch, look in the mirror. Now we'll just crimp it around the edges. Keep this vivatape around the rim of the cage for a couple of days until things grow together. There's not much chance of its pulling apart unless you strain your arm suddenly but you ought to be safe. Now I'll just connect the little fellow in there to the nerve. This will hurt—"
"Gnnnnn!" The Customs Officer half rose.
"—Sit! Sit! All right, the little catch here—look in the mirror—is to open the cage. You'll leam how to make him come out and do tricks, but don't be impatient. It takes a bit of time. Let me turn the feeling back on in your arm."
The surgeon removed the electrodes and the Officer whistled.
“Stings a little. It will for about an hour. If there's any redness or inflammation, please don't hesitate to come back. Everything that comes through that doorway gets perfectly sterilized, but every five or six years somebody comes down with an infection. You can put your shirt on now."
As they walked into the street, the Customs Officer flexed his shoulder. "You know they claim it should make absolutely no difference." He made a face. "My fingers feel funny. Do you think he might have bruised a nerve?"
"I doubt it," Dr. T'mwarba said, "but you will if you keep twisting like that. You'll pull the vivatape loose. Let's go eat."
The Officer fingered his shoulder. "It feels odd to have a three inch hole there and your arm still working."
"So," Dr. Tmwarba said over his mug, "Rydra first brought you to Transport Town."
"Yes. Actually—well, I only met her that once. She was getting a crew together for a government sponsored trip. I was just along to approve indices. But something happened that evening."
"What was it?"
“I saw a bunch of the weirdest, oddest people I have ever met in my life, who thought different, and acted different, and even made love different. And they made me laugh, and get angry, and be happy, and be sad, and excited, and even fall in love a little." He glanced up at the sphere of the wrestling arena aloft in the bar. "And they didn't seem to be so weird or strange anymore."
"Communication was working that night?"
“I guess so. It's presumptuous my calling her by her first name. But I feel like she's my . . . friend. I'm a lonely man, in a city of lonely men. And when you find some place where . . . communications are working, you come back to see if it will happen again."
"Has it?"
Danil D. Appteby looked down from the ceiling and began to unbutton his shirt. "Let's have dinner." He shrugged his shirt over the back of the chair and glanced down at the dragon caged in his shoulder. "You come back anyway." Turning in his seat, he picked his shirt up, folded it neatly, and put it down again. "Dr. T'mwarba, have you any idea why they want you to come to Administrative Alliance Headquarters?"
"I assume it concerns Rydra and this tape."
“Because you said you were her doctor I just hope it isn't a medical reason. If anything happened to her, it would be terrible— For me, I mean. She managed to say so much to me in that one evening, so very simply." He laughed and ran his finger around the rim of the cage.
The beast inside gurgled. "And half the time she wasn't even looking in my direction when she said it.”
"I hope she's all right," Dr. T'mwarba said. "She'd better be."
II
BEFORE THE Midnight Falcon landed, he inveigled the captain into letting him speak with Flight Control. “I want to know when the Rimbaud came in."
"Just a moment, sir. I don't believe it has. Certainly not within the past six months. It would take a little time to check back further than—"
"No. It would be more like the past few days. Are you sure the Rimbaud did not land here recently under Captain Rydra Wong?"
"Wong? I believe she did land yesterday, but not in the Rimbaud. It was an unmarked fighter ship. There was some mix-up because the serial numbers had been filed off the tubes and there was a possibility it might have been stolen."
"Was Captain Wong all right when she disembarked?"
"She'd apparently relinquished command to her—" The voice stopped.
"Well?"
"Excuse me, sir. This has been all marked classified. I didn't see the sticker, and it was accidentally put back in the regular file. I can't give you any more information. It's only cleared to authorized persons."
"I'm Dr. Markus T'mwarba," the doctor said, with authority and no idea whether it would do any good.
"Oh, there is a notation concerning you, sir. But you're not on the cleared list."
"Then what the hell does it say, young lady?"
“Just that if you requested information, to refer you directly to General Forester."
An hour later he walked into General Forester's office. "All right, what's the matter with Rydra?"
"Where's the tape?"
"If Rydra wanted me to have it, she had good reason. If she'd wanted you to have it, she would have given it to you. Believe me, you won't get your hands on it unless I give it to you."
"I'd expected more cooperation. Doctor."