Levels: The Host by Peter Emshwiller Page B

going on here, Tavis?” The voice was deep and resonant. It was the voice of a superior— a commander.
    The one with the knife spoke up. “Nothing, Ragman. Just a cuffer with a wad.”
    The Ragman looked at Watly and then down at the pile of money. He turned back to the other. “You were gonna knife him, huh, Tavis? Gonna knife him up good?”
    “I was thinking that. Ragman.” He/she held up the blade. “Yes.” This Tavis creature appeared to have the shadow of facial stubble under the thick makeup, as well as an obvious swell of large breasts under the dirty rags. The voice sounded too deep for a woman, yet too high for a man.
    The Ragman knelt next to Watly. “You a donor, mister?”
    Watly heard his own voice respond. “Yes, I’m a donor.” The accent that came out was definitely Second Level.
    The Ragman looked Watly’s body up and down. “You realize we’re gonna take your money?”
    “I realize that.”
    The Ragman glanced at the hosting-cuff. “You a fade-out?”
    There was a pause. Watly thought he’d die. Answer the man! Tell the truth! “No, I’m not a fade-out.” Thank you for that response, my friend.
    “You a pain-freak?”
    Again a pause. Please , thought Watly.
    “Not really, no.”
    The Ragman turned to the others. And to the one he had called Tavis. “You were gonna hurt him. Kill him, maybe. Look at his shoes, children. Look at them. Never forget the host. Never forget. Somewhere in there”—Ragman gestured to Watly’s head—“is another person. Watching us right now. You’ve got to judge the host as well as the donor. This host is one of us. You can tell by the shoes. Those are class-one poor man’s shoes. The pocket-jacket’s used. The hands are working hands. You don’t hurt a cuffer till you judge the host. The host could be you. Look at the face, children. It’s the donor’s expression but the host’s face. The face is one of us.”
    Watly felt his donor prepare to speak again. “Then you’re not going to hurt me?”
    The Ragman stood and turned away. There was a pause and then he spun, reared back, and kicked Watly full force in the thigh. He threw his whole weight into it and it tumbled Watly’s body over on its side. The crowd roared with approval. There was laughter. Watly’s donor grabbed the leg and grimaced with a pain Watly shared. The whole leg felt like fire. Searing pain. The Ragman leaned in and the donor cringed with fear.
    “I’m sorry to the host,” the Ragman said, breath close. “I’m sorry to the one inside. It was for you, donor. It was a lesson to you. The pain is real. The pain hurts. Tomorrow the host will have a bruise and you will not, but you will still have the memory of the pain. Do not take the idea of pain so lightly. I see in your eyes you don’t like it. You’re no pain-freak. Next time don’t be foolish.”
    The Ragman straightened. Suddenly he seemed the tallest one there. “Again, my apologies to the host, but you are not beyond lessons yourself. There is a softness to your features that tells me you were not made for this. A good host is hard. Reconsider your occupation, child.” The Ragman reached down and touched Watly’s forehead with a warm palm. His voice grew soft and Watly was mesmerized by the beauty of it. There was compassion and lightness to it. “Some say I have the sight. I do. The sight is mine. It is how I’ve survived this long. The sight tells me things. Of you, the host, it tells me pain. More pain than this. Much. A thousandfold. And death. Death all around. Blood will come. Be apprised, child.”
    The Ragman swiveled dramatically on one foot and left the alley. His strides were long and fluid. They seemed out of place on such a small figure. The money was gathered up by Tavis and the crowd quickly dispersed.
    Host and donor, Watly and the Stranger, slowly rose and limped out of the alley. Two blocks later there was a tingle in the jaw, a click of metal shifting, and a loud clatter as the