He says they were stymied at General Hospital.'
`They haven't had my experience, dear. Hmm. I seem to remember reading something once . . . somewhere . . . Now where did I -'
'Wait a minute.' Baker stood up and disappeared with a faint pop. Jisbella paced the veranda furiously until he reappeared twenty minutes later with a tattered book in his hands and a triumphant expression on his face.
`Got it,' Baker said. ` Saw it in the Caltech stacks three years ago. You may admire my memory.'
`To hell with your memory. What about his face?'
'It can be done.' Baker flipped the fragile pages and meditated. `Yes, it can be done. Indigotin disulphonic acid. I may have to synthesize the acid but . . . .' Baker closed the test and nodded emphatically. `I can do it. Only it seems a pity to tamper with that face if it's as unique as you describe.'
`Will you get off your hobby,' Jisbella exclaimed in exasperation. `We're hot, understand? The first that ever broke out of Gouffre Martel. The cops won't rest until they've got us back. This is extra-special for them.'
'But-'
`How long d'you think we can stay out of Gouffre Martel with Foyle running around with that tattooed face?'
`What are you so angry about?'
'I'm not angry. I'm explaining.'
`He'd be happy in the zoo,' Baker said persuasively. `And he'd be under cover there. I'd put him in the room next to the Cyclops girl -'
'The zoo is out. That's definite.'
`All right, dear. But why are you worried about Foyle being recaptured? It won't have anything to do with you.'
`Why should you worry about me worrying? I'm asking you to do a job. I'm paying for the job.'
`It'll be expensive, dear, and I'm fond of you. I'm trying to save you money.' `No you're not.'
`Then I'm curious.'
`Then let's say I'm grateful. He helped me; now I'm helping him.'
Baker smiled cynically. `Then let's help him by giving him a brand new face.'
`No.'
`I thought so. You want his face cleaned up because you're interested in his face.'
`Damn you, Baker, will you do the job or not?'
`It'll cost five thousand.'
`Break that down.'
'A thousand to synthesize the acid. Three thousand for the surgery. And one thousand for -'
`Your curiosity?'
`No, dear.' he smiled again.
`A thousand for the anaesthetist.'
`Why anaesthesia?' Baker reopened the ancient text.
`It looks like a painful operation. You know how they tattoo? They take a needle, dip it in dye, and hammer it into the skin. To bleach that dye out I'll have to go over his face with a needle, pore by pore, and hammer in the Indigotin disulphonic. It'll hurt.'
Jisbella's eyes flashed. `Can you do it without the dope?'
`I can, dear, but Foyle -'
`To hell with Foyle. I'm paying four thousand. No dope, Baker. Let Foyle suffer.'
`Jiz! You don't know what you're letting him in for.'
`I know. Let him suffer.' She laughed so furiously that she startled Baker. `Let his face make him suffer too.'
Baker's Freak Factory occupied a five-story plant behind the Trenton Rocket pits that had once been an A.C.W. manufactory of subway cars before jaunting ended the need for urban subways. The rear windows looked out on the circular mouths of the pits thrusting their anti-grav beams upward, and Baker's patients could amuse themselves watching the spaceships riding silently up and down the beams, their portholes blazing, recognition signals blinking, their hulls rippling with St Elmo's fire as the atmosphere carried off the electrostatic charges built up in outer space.
The basement floor of the factory contained Baker's zoo of anatomical curiosities, natural freaks and monsters bought, hired, kidnapped, abducted. Baker, like the rest of his world, was passionately devoted to these unfortunate creatures and spent long hours with them, drinking in the spectacle of their distortions the way other men saturated themselves
`They haven't had my experience, dear. Hmm. I seem to remember reading something once . . . somewhere . . . Now where did I -'
'Wait a minute.' Baker stood up and disappeared with a faint pop. Jisbella paced the veranda furiously until he reappeared twenty minutes later with a tattered book in his hands and a triumphant expression on his face.
`Got it,' Baker said. ` Saw it in the Caltech stacks three years ago. You may admire my memory.'
`To hell with your memory. What about his face?'
'It can be done.' Baker flipped the fragile pages and meditated. `Yes, it can be done. Indigotin disulphonic acid. I may have to synthesize the acid but . . . .' Baker closed the test and nodded emphatically. `I can do it. Only it seems a pity to tamper with that face if it's as unique as you describe.'
`Will you get off your hobby,' Jisbella exclaimed in exasperation. `We're hot, understand? The first that ever broke out of Gouffre Martel. The cops won't rest until they've got us back. This is extra-special for them.'
'But-'
`How long d'you think we can stay out of Gouffre Martel with Foyle running around with that tattooed face?'
`What are you so angry about?'
'I'm not angry. I'm explaining.'
`He'd be happy in the zoo,' Baker said persuasively. `And he'd be under cover there. I'd put him in the room next to the Cyclops girl -'
'The zoo is out. That's definite.'
`All right, dear. But why are you worried about Foyle being recaptured? It won't have anything to do with you.'
`Why should you worry about me worrying? I'm asking you to do a job. I'm paying for the job.'
`It'll be expensive, dear, and I'm fond of you. I'm trying to save you money.' `No you're not.'
`Then I'm curious.'
`Then let's say I'm grateful. He helped me; now I'm helping him.'
Baker smiled cynically. `Then let's help him by giving him a brand new face.'
`No.'
`I thought so. You want his face cleaned up because you're interested in his face.'
`Damn you, Baker, will you do the job or not?'
`It'll cost five thousand.'
`Break that down.'
'A thousand to synthesize the acid. Three thousand for the surgery. And one thousand for -'
`Your curiosity?'
`No, dear.' he smiled again.
`A thousand for the anaesthetist.'
`Why anaesthesia?' Baker reopened the ancient text.
`It looks like a painful operation. You know how they tattoo? They take a needle, dip it in dye, and hammer it into the skin. To bleach that dye out I'll have to go over his face with a needle, pore by pore, and hammer in the Indigotin disulphonic. It'll hurt.'
Jisbella's eyes flashed. `Can you do it without the dope?'
`I can, dear, but Foyle -'
`To hell with Foyle. I'm paying four thousand. No dope, Baker. Let Foyle suffer.'
`Jiz! You don't know what you're letting him in for.'
`I know. Let him suffer.' She laughed so furiously that she startled Baker. `Let his face make him suffer too.'
Baker's Freak Factory occupied a five-story plant behind the Trenton Rocket pits that had once been an A.C.W. manufactory of subway cars before jaunting ended the need for urban subways. The rear windows looked out on the circular mouths of the pits thrusting their anti-grav beams upward, and Baker's patients could amuse themselves watching the spaceships riding silently up and down the beams, their portholes blazing, recognition signals blinking, their hulls rippling with St Elmo's fire as the atmosphere carried off the electrostatic charges built up in outer space.
The basement floor of the factory contained Baker's zoo of anatomical curiosities, natural freaks and monsters bought, hired, kidnapped, abducted. Baker, like the rest of his world, was passionately devoted to these unfortunate creatures and spent long hours with them, drinking in the spectacle of their distortions the way other men saturated themselves
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