his hydroponics boys—now taking up an entire level and reaching out for more—had recreated the brew. Actually, coffee had been grown in primitive troughs, under heat lamps and such, even when Rockson had arrived as a tough-as-nails mountain child who had made his way across the state of Colorado on his own. But with Dr. Shecter’s advances over the last few decades, the farming situation had improved dramatically. Now there were five kinds of coffee beans, not to mention ten fresh vegetables and four fruits. The bio-techs were feeding the entire city everything except basic protein needs. And even that—he had heard they were working on some sort of Nutra-paste, a by-product of the cellulose waste of the plants—that could take care of 90 percent of the body’s protein needs.
He would take a pass on that. He had tasted one of the bio boy’s concoctions—grapefruit husk pulp mixed with ground citrus seeds, or some damned thing like that. Had tasted like— Well, he hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings so he hadn’t said. But he hadn’t drunk it, either.
“Ah, Rockson,” a voice said. Rock turned to see Dr. “Shaky” Shecter himself, coming down the aisle between a few of the plasti-tables, heading straight for him. Since his accident of several years before, the doc had had to have his legs amputated. But his medical-prosthetics team had been doing intensive research anyway—to help many of the wounded Freefighters who in their battles with the Reds and the carnivores of the mountains and plains had suffered many lost limbs. Thus, they had been ready. And the top boss himself had volunteered to try the new “smart” breed of prostheses they had come up with. He had artificial bionic legs. Shaky, but effective.
Rockson had to admit the damned things worked pretty good—considering. The tall, lanky doctor, smoking his omnipresent pipe, walked at a good speed. Only the slightest wobbling of the top of the body, as the hips shifted slightly above the fractionally unbalanced joint system, betrayed the fact: Below the thighs, the doctor was all alumni-glass and wires, microprocessors and tiny argonium batteries, which could power all systems for months at a time without a recharge. He had been the guinea pig—now the device was being used on a number of wounded and being shipped out to other parts of the U.S. Dr. Shecter had spoken of his hope that someday it would surpass Liberator rifles as C.C.’s main export.
“Speak of the devil,” Rock said with a lopsided grin, reaching for another cup of steaming brew. “I was just wondering how many of those prosthethes you’ve been selling. Looks like yours works pretty damned good.”
“Good?” Shecter laughed out of one corner of his mouth, keeping the pipe firmly lodged in the other. “Why, I’m the envy of half the teenagers in the place.” He did a little gyration with his hips and then hopped up and down rapidly on alternate feet as if he were skipping. A few of the early morning risers laughed from other tables as they tried to wake up. The head of all scientific operations in the city was a well-known ham—and with the addition of his bionic legs, it took little to get him into a song and dance. He stopped after about fifteen seconds, looking a little pale, and sat down with a thump on the chair opposite Rock, across a synthetic-formica table.
“You okay, Doc?” Rockson asked with concern as he took the coffee cup away from his lips.
“Yeah, yeah,” Shecter waved back, annoyed. “The legs are fine—it’s my damned heart that could use some rewiring. But I’m afraid we’re not equipped for that kind of operation—yet . . .” He had a twinkle in his eye as he reached for the filled and ready autopot.
“So what do you think, Doc?” Rockson asked, looking the aging man in his clear crystal eyes. The man’s eyes never failed to amaze Rockson. Like his own they were impenetrable, filled with a burning power.
“Think about
He would take a pass on that. He had tasted one of the bio boy’s concoctions—grapefruit husk pulp mixed with ground citrus seeds, or some damned thing like that. Had tasted like— Well, he hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings so he hadn’t said. But he hadn’t drunk it, either.
“Ah, Rockson,” a voice said. Rock turned to see Dr. “Shaky” Shecter himself, coming down the aisle between a few of the plasti-tables, heading straight for him. Since his accident of several years before, the doc had had to have his legs amputated. But his medical-prosthetics team had been doing intensive research anyway—to help many of the wounded Freefighters who in their battles with the Reds and the carnivores of the mountains and plains had suffered many lost limbs. Thus, they had been ready. And the top boss himself had volunteered to try the new “smart” breed of prostheses they had come up with. He had artificial bionic legs. Shaky, but effective.
Rockson had to admit the damned things worked pretty good—considering. The tall, lanky doctor, smoking his omnipresent pipe, walked at a good speed. Only the slightest wobbling of the top of the body, as the hips shifted slightly above the fractionally unbalanced joint system, betrayed the fact: Below the thighs, the doctor was all alumni-glass and wires, microprocessors and tiny argonium batteries, which could power all systems for months at a time without a recharge. He had been the guinea pig—now the device was being used on a number of wounded and being shipped out to other parts of the U.S. Dr. Shecter had spoken of his hope that someday it would surpass Liberator rifles as C.C.’s main export.
“Speak of the devil,” Rock said with a lopsided grin, reaching for another cup of steaming brew. “I was just wondering how many of those prosthethes you’ve been selling. Looks like yours works pretty damned good.”
“Good?” Shecter laughed out of one corner of his mouth, keeping the pipe firmly lodged in the other. “Why, I’m the envy of half the teenagers in the place.” He did a little gyration with his hips and then hopped up and down rapidly on alternate feet as if he were skipping. A few of the early morning risers laughed from other tables as they tried to wake up. The head of all scientific operations in the city was a well-known ham—and with the addition of his bionic legs, it took little to get him into a song and dance. He stopped after about fifteen seconds, looking a little pale, and sat down with a thump on the chair opposite Rock, across a synthetic-formica table.
“You okay, Doc?” Rockson asked with concern as he took the coffee cup away from his lips.
“Yeah, yeah,” Shecter waved back, annoyed. “The legs are fine—it’s my damned heart that could use some rewiring. But I’m afraid we’re not equipped for that kind of operation—yet . . .” He had a twinkle in his eye as he reached for the filled and ready autopot.
“So what do you think, Doc?” Rockson asked, looking the aging man in his clear crystal eyes. The man’s eyes never failed to amaze Rockson. Like his own they were impenetrable, filled with a burning power.
“Think about
Similar Books
