'Maybe. If we see the right item.'
'You have to lodge a refundable deposit before you can inspect the merchandise.'
Billy looked outraged. 'That's absurd.'
'It keeps out the weirds looking for a cheap thrill.'
'Do we look like weirds?'
The eyes beyond the peephole were impassive. 'Weirds come in all shapes and sizes. If you want to come inside, you pay the deposit. It's as simple as that.'
Billy scowled. 'Okay, okay, we'll pay the deposit.'
The man behind the door was a swarthy individual with gold earrings and a scar down his cheek that told of a past checkered by violence. A pair of pistols, not unlike Reave's, were thrust into a wide studded belt. He indicated a chipped transaction unit set up behind the door. 'You make your deposit here.'
Reave placed his crys in the unit and slowly surveyed the place. 'So where do we find the boss? The headman?'
The swarthy individual shook his head. 'You don't talk to the boss; you talk to me.'
Reave leaned very close to him. 'Listen, sonny boy. I didn't come here to talk to the help.'
The man's hand moved toward his pistol, but Reave was quicker. His fingers locked around the man's wrist. He applied leverage and pressure.
'Do you understand me? I only talk to bosses. I have a rule about that.'
The man's jaws clenched as he tried not to flinch. Reave increased the pressure. Finally the pain was too much.
'Okay, you win. You're breaking my wrist.'
In a few moments Mempha Buzznoose himself arrived, flanked by four burly minders, hard-eyed men wearing pachuco hair nets and lots of gold jewelry. They were slapping power-down electric clubs against their hands.
Buzznoose had a mouthful of gold teeth. 'You wanted to see me?'
The Minstrel Boy was certain that the slaver was the same one they had seen with a string of sad, red-haired duplicate teenagers just after they had arrived in town. Buzznoose was fat and oily, swathed in a blue silk kaftan and carrying a short, gold-topped swagger cane under his right arm.
Billy looked the man up and down, all too conscious that the other two were waiting to see what he would do. It was time to pull himself together and prove that there was still something left of him. He had to create an aura around himself. He pushed the squirreling into one of the side tracks of his mind and took a deep mental breath; then he snapped his cuffs and squared his shoulders. The gesture helped a lot.
'We'd like to inspect your inventory,' he said.
His voice had not quite come out as strong, smooth, and authoritarian as he might have hoped, but Buzznoose's eyes were instantly watchful.
'You would, would you?'
Billy tried for cold and patrician and almost made it. The squirreling was actually quiet. 'Isn't that what you're here for? I mean, you sell slaves, don't you?'
'We don't like to use that word.'
'You can use whatever euphemism pleases you. We are here to make purchases, and we want to see what you've got.'
Buzznoose was still cagey, but he seemed to be buying the act. He was unconsciously rubbing his hands together. His fat fingers were encrusted with turquoise and gold rings.
'What exactly did you have in mind?'
Billy looked down his nose with contemptuous superiority, all the while warning himself not to overdo it. He felt stronger. He was warming into the performance. Damn it, but he could feel his aura growing. He could pull it off if he did not lose his concentration.
'We'll let you know when we see it. We are purchasing agents for a visiting dignitary who intends to avail herself fully of this city's liberal attitudes toward human purchase.'
Buzznoose was really rubbing his hands together. He seemed on the verge of bowing. 'I would be happy to escort you through the stock pens personally.'
There was an almost forgotten excitement growing inside Billy's chest. For too long he had been nothing but the underdog. The other two were ready to follow Buzznoose, but Billy did not move.
'I must warn you. We are only interested in the exceptional.'
The other two shot him glances that warned of the dangers of overacting, but Buzznoose did not appear to notice. He flashed a gleaming gold smile and became a model of obsequiousness.
'Would you please follow me?'
As they followed Buzznoose down a flight of narrow stairs, the doorman looked curiously after them. Billy ignored him. He was over the first hurdle — his own fear of himself. He felt good. He could cope.
Buzznoose's stock in trade was housed in the block-sized basement of the building. It smelled of depression, ammonia, and overcooked vegetables. It reminded Billy of a prison — which, to all effects and in everything but name, it was. The merchandise was penned up in rows of plexiglass cubes some eight feet long on each side. Red track lighting presumably was intended to display the goods as flatteringly as possible; it also made the place look like a zoo in hell. Most of the prisoners were naked except tor wrist and ankle bracelets and control collars. Most looked exceedingly depressed. By some strange irony, an invisible music system was piping chirpy computer music into the cubes. If it was supposed to lift the spirits of the inmates, it was not working.
As Buzznoose led the DNA Cowboys slowly down the aisle between the cubes, they passed a pair of blond, perfect muscleboys and more of the red-haired teenagers. A trio of apparently custom-created, very tall blue albino women regarded them with rigid, rigor mortis smiles that were negated by their sorry mournful eyes. A whole gang of dwarfs snarled and squabbled among themselves, and there were two exquisite miniature butterfly women, no more than eighteen inches tall and perfect in every detail. Buzznoose seemed to indulge heavily in template replicas and template custom rewrites. It was only good business to ensure that each slave, and even the variations of each slave, could be reproduced to the max.
Billy glanced at Buzznoose. 'You do realize that if we make a purchase, we would expect exclusive rights to the creature. Our employer would not like it if you continued to turn out duplicates from the template of what would then be her property.'
Buzznoose smiled ingratiatingly. 'Anything can be arranged if the price is right.'
At each cube they passed Buzznoose would rap sharply on the dirty armored plastic with his swagger cane, bringing those locked inside to their feet. Some jumped up as though they were terrified of Buzznoose and his minders; some, particularly the multiple duplicates, even tried their best to come on to the visitors, as though they really were eager to be purchased and taken out of the place. One of the red-haired teenagers was close to obscene in her efforts to attract their attention. From his own experience with only one duplicate, Billy could imagine how much of a living hell it must have been to be locked in with seven replicas of oneself.
Not all the inmates were quite so enthusiastic. When Buzznoose rapped on some cubes, those inside could only shuffle listlessly to their feet and stare at the visitors with dead eyes that obviously only expected to see their situation go from bad to worse. One thickset, bullheaded man with crazyspasms who looked as though he would be fit only for treadmill work actually charged the clear plastic wall, smashing at it repeatedly with his head. Two of Buzznoose's minders were dispatched to beat the man senseless with their electric clubs. It seemed that discipline, as applied to the merchandise, was instant and brutal. They did not even have to worry about damaging the goods: Blows from an electric club, though painful in the extreme, left no marks or permanent scars.
There were twenty plexiglass cubes to each aisle, and threeaisles ran the length of the basement Almost all the cubes were full. Either Buzznoose liked to maintain an extensive human menagerie, or his stock was not moving too fast. They walked down two aisles and were turning into the third. Buzznoose was starting to become anxious. Nothing appeaired to catch the interest of his supposed potential clients. So when everyone came to a full stop in front of the fifth cube in the third aisle, he looked considerably relieved.
'You like this one?'
Billy slipped out of character and let out a low whistle. 'Holy shit!'
Renatta de Luxe was the sole occupant of the cube. She was hanging by upstretched arms, her manacled wrists chained to a support hook in the roof of the cube. She was naked, and her legs and torso were covered with thin red welts. She had been beaten, and certainly not with anything as subtle as an electric club. It looked like the
