Deadly Pedigree - By Jimmy Fox Page 0,22

the documents of the Escudo, the slave ship. I did an article for the school magazine.”

“There was a revolt during the voyage, right?”

“That’s the one! 1839.” She beamed with admiration at the breadth of Nick’s knowledge.

“I’d like to read your article one day,” he said. “I fancy myself something of a writer, too.”

“I know. Professor Kern has told me all about you.”

Just as Nick had suspected. Una had recruited Hawty as a spy and had briefed her accordingly.

“Has she really?” Nick said, amused and not a little perturbed by all the hidden stratagems he sensed at play. “Well, before we talk about the job, Hawty, I’m curious. How in the world did you get up here?” As far as he knew, his building was innocent of an elevator.

“It wasn’t easy,” she replied. “I’m going to write your landlord and request a ramp the first thing. The LIFT-bus driver helped me up the front steps–that’s the city handicap bus. Then, after a while, I found the freight elevator at the end of the hall. This place is awfully lonely; hardly any tenants. Anyway, if you want to know what I did for an hour and a quarter, I read as many articles on genealogy as I could access on my computer. I was just about to call the bus back when you showed up.”

She wasn’t chastising Nick, he realized; hers was the tone of a determined person who often confronted doubts. She had obviously seen other people’s hang-ups become self-fulfilling prophecies for her. She seemed accustomed to defending herself.

The marvelous machine she rode moved with humming precision around Nick’s modest daylight quarters. She directed her chair with a joystick, using her arms with the wheels for subtler movements. As much as he disdained technology, this seamless union of human being and machine fascinated him.

Her chair brushed a pile of books, manuscripts, and journals leaning against a wall; the pile collapsed, setting off a domino effect that took a few moments to run its course.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t worry about that, Hawty. Happens all the time to me.”

“How long have you been here, Mr. Herald?” she asked, continuing her excursion around the room. Nick got the distinct feeling that she was sizing him up. He heard a hint of disapproval, maybe even derision.

“Well, I, uh…I’m sort of still in the transitional stage. Used to work out of my apartment in the Quarter, but things got a little tight there. Been about a year, I guess.”

“A whole year! And the place still looks like this?”

Nick was soaked; his briefcase weighed a ton; he was tired. He invited Hawty to roll over to his desk, where he dropped his cargo, causing another minor avalanche. But she wasn’t quite ready and drove around the cramped office a bit more. She even checked out the bathroom.

Gutsy, if a little too blunt, he thought, beginning to like her. He’d come from a long line of smart-asses himself; sarcasm was a second language to him. Hawty seemed to be a member of the same club. She talked fast, and obviously thought faster. As she joined him at his desk, he looked at the putty-colored computer, about the size of a thick magazine, mounted on a pivoting metal arm, like a tray table on an airliner seat.

Unbidden, she bombarded Nick with technical terms, explaining that a cellular modem hookup allowed her access to the entire world and even some other planets. At least that’s what Nick thought she said. He was lost in jargon. She also said that her actual given name was Harrieta, but that she kept it secret because she hated it; she asked him not to tell anyone because her friends would probably start using it to tease her.

Guilt ambushed him as he listened. He should have been here to help her. No, he corrected himself, that wasn’t the right attitude. He’d taught many handicapped students, some in wheelchairs, some in much worse shape than Hawty. He knew that pity usually enraged them. But he’d always found it difficult to hide the pity he felt for them. Or was it really fear of one day losing some vital capacity himself? He tried to make his face blank of expression as Hawty chattered on about her wheelchair.

Nick hadn’t much bothered to keep up with the current politics of vocabulary. How was he supposed to refer to her condition? Was she “differently abled,” “physically challenged,” “motor-skills impaired,” “special-needs,” or simply “disabled”? He would have to do his best