than ever; yet for that very reason she refrained from causing harm, suppressing her reflexes.
He examined her carapace, her tough coiled-spring legs; and knew that he was examining Meh’Lindi intimately, yet at the same time he wasn’t. He was hardly aware of his audience. Meh’Lindi hissed cacophonously.
‘She needs to eat, boss,’ said Grimm. ‘For energy, before changing back.’
‘Can you understand her?’ Googol asked incredulously.
‘Understand her? Understand? Huh! Who can plumb and penetrate such a person? Her mouth makes noises and I interpret. I have, after all,’ and Grimm grinned raffishly, ‘enjoyed rather longer in her company than either of you two. Just recently.’
‘Shall I call room service for something special?’ Googol enquired coolly. ‘Such as a whole genuine roast sheep? Supposing that chefs and scullery lads are still alive, haven’t fled, or aren’t all pressed into service to boil up synthdiet for all those refugees. Our lady needs a banquet. Or would that be too flamboyant? Would we draw attention to ourselves?’
‘As you know full well,’ said Jaq, ‘she can make free with our own food stocks.’
Which, presently, Meh’Lindi did, ravenously consuming fish, flesh and fowl from out of the stasis-boxes which they had brought to the suite from Jaq’s ship, the Tormentum Malorum , which went by the alias of Sapphire Eagle while they were visiting Stalinvast. Rich planet though Stalinvast was, real food couldn’t necessarily be guaranteed in a hive city, even in a wealthy hotel, not least in a time of strife.
Jaq noted how wistfully Grimm regarded what he rated as gourmet ambrosia disappearing into the monster’s maw remorselessly. Did Meh’Lindi relish exotic veals, smoked fillets of sunfish, sirloins of succulent grox? Or was she trained, and her body geared, to subsist on any available fodder whatever, algae, cockroaches, rats, who cares? Could she taste the difference?
Grimm could.
Which wasn’t wholly surprising. The race of squats had evolved away from the human norm inside the caves and cramped, carved-out seams of bleak mining worlds which were barren save for minerals. Squats had become stocky, tough and self-reliant. During the millennia of genetic divergence, while warp storms cut their worlds off from the rest of the galaxy, they were forced to manufacture their own food and air. They knew famine – and still commemorated those hard times. Squats thrived in adversity. Often they preferred a harsh world to a sweeter one.
Yet they did like to eat, and handsomely, if they could.
Their artificial hydroponics gardens were famous for nutritious output; and after recontact by the Imperium they spent a fair tithe of their mineral wealth on importing exotic foods. If their staple diet still consisted of hydroponically grown vegetables, these were deliciously spiced and sauced – a far more piquant diet than the recycled synthfood that was the lot of the majority of most populations on crowded worlds. Given the slightest encouragement, a squat’s appetite was – to judge by Grimm – that of a keen connoisseur.
Oh yes, Jaq noted the hungry glint in the squat’s eyes. It wasn’t greed. In his bluff, homespun way Grimm was courteous, even chivalric. It was plain to the little man that the assassin, who had exerted herself hugely, must eat first. Yet he too was also at least a little famished; and he did appreciate cuisine.
‘Eat something yourself, Grimm,’ invited Jaq. ‘Go ahead: that’s virtually an order.’
Gratefully, the little man chose from stasis the smoked drumstick of some bulky flightless avian. He nodded appreciatively. Plenty more such finger-licking, lip-licking food on board Tormentum Malorum . An inquisitor could commandeer whatsoever he wished and Jaq had provisioned his own ship exquisitely. For Jaq by no means equated iron duty with iron rations. That was a false and sanctimonious puritanism, such as had dogged the inquisitor’s
He examined her carapace, her tough coiled-spring legs; and knew that he was examining Meh’Lindi intimately, yet at the same time he wasn’t. He was hardly aware of his audience. Meh’Lindi hissed cacophonously.
‘She needs to eat, boss,’ said Grimm. ‘For energy, before changing back.’
‘Can you understand her?’ Googol asked incredulously.
‘Understand her? Understand? Huh! Who can plumb and penetrate such a person? Her mouth makes noises and I interpret. I have, after all,’ and Grimm grinned raffishly, ‘enjoyed rather longer in her company than either of you two. Just recently.’
‘Shall I call room service for something special?’ Googol enquired coolly. ‘Such as a whole genuine roast sheep? Supposing that chefs and scullery lads are still alive, haven’t fled, or aren’t all pressed into service to boil up synthdiet for all those refugees. Our lady needs a banquet. Or would that be too flamboyant? Would we draw attention to ourselves?’
‘As you know full well,’ said Jaq, ‘she can make free with our own food stocks.’
Which, presently, Meh’Lindi did, ravenously consuming fish, flesh and fowl from out of the stasis-boxes which they had brought to the suite from Jaq’s ship, the Tormentum Malorum , which went by the alias of Sapphire Eagle while they were visiting Stalinvast. Rich planet though Stalinvast was, real food couldn’t necessarily be guaranteed in a hive city, even in a wealthy hotel, not least in a time of strife.
Jaq noted how wistfully Grimm regarded what he rated as gourmet ambrosia disappearing into the monster’s maw remorselessly. Did Meh’Lindi relish exotic veals, smoked fillets of sunfish, sirloins of succulent grox? Or was she trained, and her body geared, to subsist on any available fodder whatever, algae, cockroaches, rats, who cares? Could she taste the difference?
Grimm could.
Which wasn’t wholly surprising. The race of squats had evolved away from the human norm inside the caves and cramped, carved-out seams of bleak mining worlds which were barren save for minerals. Squats had become stocky, tough and self-reliant. During the millennia of genetic divergence, while warp storms cut their worlds off from the rest of the galaxy, they were forced to manufacture their own food and air. They knew famine – and still commemorated those hard times. Squats thrived in adversity. Often they preferred a harsh world to a sweeter one.
Yet they did like to eat, and handsomely, if they could.
Their artificial hydroponics gardens were famous for nutritious output; and after recontact by the Imperium they spent a fair tithe of their mineral wealth on importing exotic foods. If their staple diet still consisted of hydroponically grown vegetables, these were deliciously spiced and sauced – a far more piquant diet than the recycled synthfood that was the lot of the majority of most populations on crowded worlds. Given the slightest encouragement, a squat’s appetite was – to judge by Grimm – that of a keen connoisseur.
Oh yes, Jaq noted the hungry glint in the squat’s eyes. It wasn’t greed. In his bluff, homespun way Grimm was courteous, even chivalric. It was plain to the little man that the assassin, who had exerted herself hugely, must eat first. Yet he too was also at least a little famished; and he did appreciate cuisine.
‘Eat something yourself, Grimm,’ invited Jaq. ‘Go ahead: that’s virtually an order.’
Gratefully, the little man chose from stasis the smoked drumstick of some bulky flightless avian. He nodded appreciatively. Plenty more such finger-licking, lip-licking food on board Tormentum Malorum . An inquisitor could commandeer whatsoever he wished and Jaq had provisioned his own ship exquisitely. For Jaq by no means equated iron duty with iron rations. That was a false and sanctimonious puritanism, such as had dogged the inquisitor’s
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