himself in the street, recalling Burroughs’s whinnying scream when he’d dropped onto him from the ceiling. What a lark. And then he and Bill had melted together—intricate, esoteric, electric. They’d stumbled outside, divided in two, and regained human form, more or less their same selves, but both of them looking like Bill.
It was a surprise that Driss and Kiki were already skuggers as well. Evidently the preliminary tweaks that Alan had done on the Pratt zombie had brought the thing’s biocomputations into a reversible mode—and thus the new converts hadn’t had their personalities erased. But certainly the boys’ affect had improved once they’d merged with Alan this afternoon. Alan’s intricate feedback techniques had evolved his skugly processes to a high degree of elegance. And there was more to be done, much more. Alan’s body was his laboratory now.
As he strode smiling down the street towards the port, he wondered how it would feel to break into run. But he didn’t want to risk extra attention.
He now forgave Driss’s drive to amass money by any means. But even though Driss was a skugger, it was still conceivable that he might shop Alan to the British agents. All the more reason to leave Tangier right away. This routine was done.
Alan would miss Burroughs, but he was keen indeed to exit this pest hole before some new leering jack-in-the-box popped up. He still had most of the money he’d gotten from Pratt, plus Burroughs’s passport, not to mention a letter of introduction to Burroughs’s father. Perhaps he’d be safe from the Queen’s government in America.
Alan fully realized that both he and Burroughs were something slightly other than human now. The symbiotic skugs had altered them for good. Nearly all of the time he felt preternaturally alert.
Driss and Kiki said there were dozens or even hundreds more skuggers in the Casbah now—radiating out from Pratt. The Pratt skugger had been the only mindless one, and the boys had incinerated him as a matter of good public relations. In any case, Driss had said the local police were impounding whatever skuggers they could capture. Driss and Kiki were being very careful. Everything was in a state of change.
“Far out,” said Alan to himself, drawing on Burroughs’s subcultural vocabulary, and even managing to produce something like the man’s dry Missouri accent. “Wild kicks.”
Some of Burroughs’s memories seemed to have migrated into Alan’s retrofitted frame, perhaps at the cellular level. Sloping through the bustling last few streets by the pier, he even found himself wondering whether he ought to bring along some Eukodal for the trip. But no, no, this was an alien, Burroughsian thought procedure. Terminate it.
Alan took the short ferry ride across the strait that divided North Africa from Spain. As he debarked, he had a bad moment—he thought he saw a severed human hand scurrying down the ferry’s gangplank behind him. It was up on its fingers. Alan looked away, looked back, and the apparition had either vanished or had lost itself in the clamorous crowd.
From the ferry port, Alan rode a smelly omnibus to Gibraltar, tormented by fantasies of something creeping under his seat to grab his ankles. He arrived in the colonial port town after midnight in a state of extreme nervousness and exhaustion. He got the night clerk’s permission to sleep on a bench in the bus station, grateful to have his feet off the floor. Before closing his eyes he privily grew a pouch in his belly, tucked in his cash and papers, then sealed the pouch shut.
All night he dreamed of tunnels—and when he woke it occurred to him that these branching, narrowing passages had been his veins, arteries and capillaries. The skug’s rudimentary mind was familiarizing itself with his flesh. It was as if Alan now had two souls.
Alan worried that he might have lost his shape overnight—that is, he might be looking more like Alan Turing than like William
It was a surprise that Driss and Kiki were already skuggers as well. Evidently the preliminary tweaks that Alan had done on the Pratt zombie had brought the thing’s biocomputations into a reversible mode—and thus the new converts hadn’t had their personalities erased. But certainly the boys’ affect had improved once they’d merged with Alan this afternoon. Alan’s intricate feedback techniques had evolved his skugly processes to a high degree of elegance. And there was more to be done, much more. Alan’s body was his laboratory now.
As he strode smiling down the street towards the port, he wondered how it would feel to break into run. But he didn’t want to risk extra attention.
He now forgave Driss’s drive to amass money by any means. But even though Driss was a skugger, it was still conceivable that he might shop Alan to the British agents. All the more reason to leave Tangier right away. This routine was done.
Alan would miss Burroughs, but he was keen indeed to exit this pest hole before some new leering jack-in-the-box popped up. He still had most of the money he’d gotten from Pratt, plus Burroughs’s passport, not to mention a letter of introduction to Burroughs’s father. Perhaps he’d be safe from the Queen’s government in America.
Alan fully realized that both he and Burroughs were something slightly other than human now. The symbiotic skugs had altered them for good. Nearly all of the time he felt preternaturally alert.
Driss and Kiki said there were dozens or even hundreds more skuggers in the Casbah now—radiating out from Pratt. The Pratt skugger had been the only mindless one, and the boys had incinerated him as a matter of good public relations. In any case, Driss had said the local police were impounding whatever skuggers they could capture. Driss and Kiki were being very careful. Everything was in a state of change.
“Far out,” said Alan to himself, drawing on Burroughs’s subcultural vocabulary, and even managing to produce something like the man’s dry Missouri accent. “Wild kicks.”
Some of Burroughs’s memories seemed to have migrated into Alan’s retrofitted frame, perhaps at the cellular level. Sloping through the bustling last few streets by the pier, he even found himself wondering whether he ought to bring along some Eukodal for the trip. But no, no, this was an alien, Burroughsian thought procedure. Terminate it.
Alan took the short ferry ride across the strait that divided North Africa from Spain. As he debarked, he had a bad moment—he thought he saw a severed human hand scurrying down the ferry’s gangplank behind him. It was up on its fingers. Alan looked away, looked back, and the apparition had either vanished or had lost itself in the clamorous crowd.
From the ferry port, Alan rode a smelly omnibus to Gibraltar, tormented by fantasies of something creeping under his seat to grab his ankles. He arrived in the colonial port town after midnight in a state of extreme nervousness and exhaustion. He got the night clerk’s permission to sleep on a bench in the bus station, grateful to have his feet off the floor. Before closing his eyes he privily grew a pouch in his belly, tucked in his cash and papers, then sealed the pouch shut.
All night he dreamed of tunnels—and when he woke it occurred to him that these branching, narrowing passages had been his veins, arteries and capillaries. The skug’s rudimentary mind was familiarizing itself with his flesh. It was as if Alan now had two souls.
Alan worried that he might have lost his shape overnight—that is, he might be looking more like Alan Turing than like William
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